Primal Instinct

by Tara Wyatt

  Sometimes, he and Roman worked a job together if it called for two guys, and other times they each worked alone. Occasionally, they’d toss work to each other, depending on schedules and skill sets. Roman preferred the more laid-back gigs, while Colt liked the higher-risk stuff. They complimented each other well, and for the most part the partnership was working out.

  He still missed the guys, though. Being part of a team.

  Roman licked his lips and leaned forward again, his eyes flicking between the table of pretty women and Colt. “You give any more thought to what Lacey said?”

  Colt set his beer bottle back down on the table, spinning it between his thumb and forefinger, and he shook his head. “No. That door’s closed for me. If Lacey wants to reconnect with Mom, that’s her call, but I’m out. She’s upset about it though, so of course, I feel like an asshole.” He clenched his jaw and stared at his beer bottle.

  “I’m sorry, man. Rough.”

  “Yeah.” Colt’s chest tightened as he thought of his sister and what she wanted to do: reconnect with their alcoholic mess of a mother, who’d blamed Colt every time a man left her. He’d simply been trying to protect his mom and his sister from creep after creep, but his mom hadn’t wanted his protection. When he was seventeen, she’d kicked Colt out of the house after he’d put the biggest of the creeps in the hospital for trying to sexually assault Lacey, who’d been fifteen at the time. He was lucky he hadn’t been charged, but at the time, he hadn’t cared. All he cared about was protecting his sister and getting her the hell out of there. So they’d both left. Colt had dropped out of high school and gotten a job at a garage, finishing his diploma by correspondence. He’d waited for Lacey to finish high school, and then he’d enlisted in the United States Army. It had been the perfect solution for him. He could serve his country, protect others, get the fuck out of Los Angeles, and make a little money while doing it. Enough money to ensure Lacey had options.

  And it had worked out, for the most part. He’d served his country for twelve years, and he never regretted enlisting. He’d helped Lacey through college, and now she was married with two young sons. The nightmares, the guilt, the knowledge that he’d come back from each deployment to the Sandpit a little more broken, a little more fucked-up, was worth it. For Lacey. For his country. To help and protect others.

  Why she’d want to try and reconnect with their mother was beyond him, but he knew he couldn’t stop her if she’d set her mind to it. He watched Roman ogle the blonde some more and swallowed against the hard knot in his chest.

  “You ever get sick of it?”

  “Of what?” asked Roman, taking a sip of his beer and not taking his eyes away from the blonde.

  “All the different women. The lack of anything permanent. Don’t you ever just want to find…I don’t know. That one woman who makes you want to stop looking? Stop fucking around?”

  Roman turned his head slowly from the blonde, his eyebrows raised. “Uh…no.” He frowned. “God. One woman? Forever? I don’t even want to think about how boring that would be.” Roman shuddered before tipping his beer bottle to his lips.

  “I don’t know. With the right woman, I don’t think it would be boring.” Taylor sure as fuck hadn’t been boring.

  Roman looked at him, holding perfectly still. “I don’t know if you’re drunk or not drunk enough. Either way, you’re talking crazy. How could you ever be satisfied with one woman? Why would you want to shackle yourself that way?”

  “I’m not saying I want to. I’m saying with the right one, maybe it would all make sense.” Meeting Roman’s skeptical gaze, he waved a hand, brushing the topic away. “Never mind.” It didn’t matter. There was no right woman for him. Not in any kind of long-term sense. He would never do that to someone else. Would never expect a woman—especially one that he loved—to put up with him and his metric ton of baggage. Never ask her to. He just wouldn’t. It didn’t matter if he wanted a future with someone. A family. He couldn’t have it. He couldn’t have a family and protect those he loved, because there was only one way to protect people from himself.

  Stay the fuck away.

  And to numb the pain of wanting but not having, he used sex, drinking, and occasional bouts of cathartic violence. Yep. Super healthy. What woman wouldn’t want that?

  Roman ran a hand through his long hair, twisting it into a knot at the base of his skull before letting it fall around his shoulders. “So listen, I might have a job for us.”

  “Oh yeah? What is it?”

  “You know I’ve worked with a few different clients from Pacific Records before, right?”

  Colt nodded, picking at the label on his beer bottle. “Yeah.”

  “They called me this morning. They need two guys to start right away. Like, tomorrow. You in?”

  Fuck, a job was just the distraction he needed to stop thinking about Taylor. “Yeah, I think so. Who’s the client?” He raised his beer bottle to his lips.

  “Taylor Ross.”

  Colt began choking on the mouthful of beer he’d just swallowed, coughing and sputtering as he hastily set the bottle down.

  Roman stared at him, one eyebrow raised. “There a problem?”

  Colt thumped himself on the chest, still coughing as he tried to pull air into his lungs. “Fuck. Wrong pipe,” he managed to wheeze out. He wiped a hand over his watering eyes and kept coughing until his airway cleared. His throat burned as his lungs filled with air. Meanwhile, his brain, heart, and dick were engaged in a three-way battle over whether or not to take the job.

  Swallowing with effort, he stared at Roman, trying to figure out if he somehow knew who’d been in Colt’s bed last night and was playing a joke on him. Roman just stared right back, one eyebrow still raised.

  If Roman wasn’t playing a joke on him, maybe the universe was. He knew, given the way he’d responded to her, that he probably shouldn’t see Taylor again. One night with her, and he’d started wanting things—with her, from her—that he had no right to want. Not to mention that she’d bailed before he’d even woken up.

  And yet he had a hard time believing she’d been running from him, given that she’d stolen his T-shirt. He smiled, letting himself imagine—just for a second—Taylor wearing it, smelling it, sleeping in it. She’d taken it for a reason, and while he knew he should let it go, his mind kept circling back to the T-shirt.

  Matter of fact, he wouldn’t mind asking for that T-shirt back.

  And this wouldn’t just be seeing her again. It’d be spending hours and hours with her every single day. It would be protecting her. For a brief second, he contemplated not taking the job and leaving her protection up to someone else.

  Yeah. Fuck that. Not gonna happen.

  At the idea of protecting Taylor, of keeping her safe from anything and everything, his skin tightened, a possessive, excited energy vibrating through him. Heart and dick won out over brain, and he nodded. “Yeah. Let’s take it.”

  Roman stared at him for another second before nodding slowly. “Great. It should be a pretty straightforward gig. I already did a preliminary background check, and there were no red flags. The way the guy from the label put it, we just need to make sure she stays out of trouble, and that trouble stays away from her while she works on her album.”

  “Sounds good.” He rubbed a hand over his chest, an ache spreading like gnarled roots over his sternum. Whether it was a warning or anticipation, he had no fucking clue. For a brief second, he debated whether or not to tell Roman about his recent history with Taylor, but before he could make up his mind either way, Roman bit out a curse.

  Colt followed Roman’s gaze, tracking the movements of a pair of tatted-up bikers moving in their direction.

  His muscles tensed, and Colt glanced at Roman. “What did you do?”

  Before Roman could answer, the bikers were at their table, one of them leaning down, his hands splayed on the wood, his long, curly blond hair falling forward. “You must be Kekoa.”

  Roman pushed to his f
eet, pulling his shoulders back and standing to his full six-four height. Colt stood, too, his arms crossed in front of his chest. Excitement crackled over his skin. If these guys were angling for a fight, they’d come to the right table.

  “I am.” Roman met the blond dude’s eyes, staring him down from a vantage point several inches above him.

  He didn’t seem deterred. “You fucked my girlfriend.”

  Colt quickly weighed the pros and cons of reaching for his beer, but decided against it, standing stock still next to Roman, who was a fucking idiot who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants to save his life, but was a loyal friend. Colt couldn’t even count the number of times Roman had had his back. No way would Colt bail on him now.

  “Oh, yeah? Who’s that?” Roman crossed his arms in front of his chest, a cocky smirk on his lips.

  Tension coiled through Colt’s muscles and a familiar tingle of anticipation worked its way down his spine.

  “Lucy Han.”

  Roman frowned and looked up at the ceiling for a second before his eyes widened slightly and he smiled. “Oh, yeah. I remember her. Funny, she never mentioned you.” Roman took a step toward him. “Then again, her mouth was otherwise occupied.”

  Colt’s eyes darted between Roman and the Vince Neil wannabe, who lunged forward and shoved Roman hard. Roman kept his balance but stepped back into the table, tipping over a beer bottle and sending it crashing to the floor. Every head in the place swiveled in their direction.

  Before he could right himself, the blond biker was already taking a swing at Roman. Colt locked eyes with the guy standing in front of him, tall and bald and built like Mr. Clean, and the second he made a move to jump on Roman—who was already making the jealous boyfriend sorry for picking a fight—Colt took a swing with his right fist, connecting with the guy’s jaw, and quickly followed it up with a second punch, his knuckles cracking against cheekbone. He shoved him into his buddy, sending them both off balance and giving Roman a chance to get his knee into the blond guy’s stomach. Colt’s blood pumped hot and fast through his veins, and he felt alive. Alive and worth something.

  Wiping blood from his mouth with his thumb, Baldy lunged for him, and Colt took another swing but missed this time. He swung again, only to have his punch blocked. Baldy shoved him and used the bit of space between them to connect his fist with Colt’s face. Pain shot across his cheekbone and then exploded against his nose as Baldy landed a second punch. Blood trickled into Colt’s mouth as adrenaline surged through him, numbing the pain. Numbing everything. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Roman slam his biker into the table, a grim smile on his face. The bar’s bouncers were now swarming toward them, and Colt seized the opportunity to crunch his fist against Mr. Clean’s nose, landing one final punch.

  “That’s enough!” roared the head bouncer, a vein throbbing ominously on his forehead as the others surged forward to separate Colt, Roman, and the bikers. “Get the hell out, all of you, before I call the cops.”

  Colt held his hands up in front of his chest, fingers pointing to the ceiling in a placating gesture. “We’re leaving, Donny. For the record, we didn’t start it.”

  “Sure as fuck finished it, though,” said Roman, his split upper lip his only injury. With blood trickling from noses, lips, and other cuts, the two bikers were in much worse shape.

  Colt started to smile, but it quickly turned into a wince. Raising his fingers to his cheek, they came away smeared with blood. Already, he could feel his eye swelling.

  He reached into his pocket for his wallet, tossed a few bills down on the table, and clapped Roman on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  His heart still beat furiously against his ribs, the high from the fight giving everything a euphoric tint. The physical release, the satisfaction of having his friend’s back, the pride at holding his own and taking a few punches, all of it swirled together inside him, cresting in a wave he was more than happy to ride. Right before they reached the door, Roman spun around, facing the bikers who were being restrained by the bouncers.

  “You see Lucy, you tell her to give me a call. Now that she’s had a taste of a real man, I doubt she’ll want anything to do with you.” Shooting them a cocky grin, he pushed the door open and Colt followed him outside, ready to spend the rest of the night savoring this high.

  And tomorrow he’d see Taylor again.

  Chapter 5

  Taylor turned her Corvette into the parking lot of what she affectionately referred to as the Sanctuary. It was an old church on the edge of the trendy Silver Lake neighborhood that she’d bought a few years ago. She’d spent months renovating it, turning it into exactly what she wanted. The high ceilings were fitted with sound panels in between the exposed wood beams, and large windows filled the space with natural light. The hardwood floors were draped with Oriental rugs, and comfy, broken-in leather furniture, all in shades of brown and tan, was spaced throughout. Stocked with top-end gear, including her ever-growing collection of guitars, it was definitely one of her happy places. Usually. When the specter of unwritten songs wasn’t following her around.

  She hadn’t actually been to the space in months, too afraid to face the physical representation of everything she used to be able to do—sing, jam, perform, write—while in the biggest writing funk of her career. But this morning, she’d woken up with chords running through her head for the first time in ages. Chords and lyrics, too, and so she’d called Jeremy to let him know she’d be spending the day actually working on music. He’d been overjoyed.

  He’d also told her that her new shadows had been hired, two freelance bodyguards. The first one on duty would be meeting her at the Sanctuary, and then he and his partner would trade off, keeping tabs on her round the clock. They’d be in her space—the Sanctuary, her house—babysitting her.

  She blew out an angry breath and rolled her shoulders, trying to work out some of the tension gathered there. Fine. Whatever. She’d just ignore them and do her thing. They could treat her like a prisoner, but she would try to focus on the music, on trying to find the joy in creating something. Of pulling sounds from her brain and translating them into music with her hands on a guitar or a piano, and her voice. When the writing went well, there was a high that came with it, a creative buzz that only seemed to feed more creativity. But when it wasn’t? Her brain didn’t know what to do with itself.

  She put the car in Park and switched off the ignition, gathering up her purse and iPad before making her way toward the solid oak double doors at the front of the Sanctuary. She paused midstep, let out a low whistle, and made a beeline for the car parked on the other side of the small lot. If she wasn’t mistaken, the car drawing her like a bee to a flower was a 1968 Dodge Charger in beautiful condition. Shiny and black, it sat gleaming in the sun, calling to her like a beacon. Unable to resist, she ducked down and peered inside, trying not to drool over the custom leather interior and the upgraded chrome finishes shining in the morning light. The Charger’s interior was pristine, the only disturbance an empty water bottle on the passenger seat. She walked around the car in a slow, appreciative circle. God, would she love to wrap her hands around that steering wheel.

  Then she stood up straight when she realized that it must be the bodyguard’s car. It didn’t belong to any of the studio’s staff or musicians, whose cars were parked throughout the lot, and she could see Jeremy’s Bentley SUV parked several spaces away. So unless someone had illegally parked on private property, process of elimination pointed to him. And she had a feeling that whoever drove this car would never risk parking it illegally.

  “Huh,” she said out loud, tearing herself away from the car and heading into the studio, a rush of cool, quiet air greeting her, and it hit her just how much she’d missed this place. Maybe avoiding it during her dry spell had been a mistake, because as she pulled the scent of it into her, she was suddenly eager to have a guitar in her hands. She pulled her sunglasses off and dropped them into her purse. Her black boots clicked against the floor as she
entered the main rehearsal space, and a tension she’d been carrying for months now began to lift.

  “Taylor?” Jeremy poked his head around the corner, a relieved smile turning up the corners of his lips.

  “What? You thought I wouldn’t come?” She quirked her mouth up in a teasing smile.

  “It crossed my mind, yes. Can’t imagine why.”

  Rolling her eyes, she strode forward into the large, open space and dropped her purse on one of the leather couches, peeled off her jacket and tossed it down beside her bag. Reaching over the couch to the guitar rack nestled against its back, she pulled out her Gibson Western Classic, a large acoustic guitar that she loved for its rich, full sound. She hadn’t held it in months, and the feel of the polished wood against her fingers was like coming home. Something inside her was waking up after a long hibernation. Finally.

  She turned, and her heart dropped into her stomach at the sight of Colt, sitting on a stool at the back and chatting with Mike, her studio manager. Totally relaxed and at home. Drinking a cup of fucking coffee. Looking sexy as hell.

  Looking as if he had every right to be here.

  “Taylor, this is Colt Priestley.” Jeremy waved a hand in Colt’s direction, who stood from his perch on the stool and strode toward her. A flash of metal at his hip caught her attention, a holster peeking out from under the hem of his T-shirt.

  Oh God. Colt was a bodyguard. He was her bodyguard. Everything clicked into place—his protectiveness at the bar the other night, the military tattoo she’d seen in the dark, the scars she’d noticed on his body, but hadn’t asked him about.