by Tara Wyatt
“Have dinner with me. Tonight.”
She smiled up at him, loving the way his green eyes lit up. “Okay. It’s a date.”
* * *
Frank stared at the white lines in front of him, perfectly parallel. Each was slightly different from its neighbor, but beautiful in its own way. A Creedence Clearwater Revival song rumbled through the speakers, and he traced a pinky through the white lines, blurring them together only for the pleasure of using his AmEx card to separate them out again. Sorting and organizing them exactly the way he wanted. Simple and clean and pure.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then brought the rolled-up Benjamin to his nose and bent forward, bumping one of the rails. Immediately, the rush hit him, and he snorted a second line, the buzz fueling his hunger and only making him want more. A calming power flowed through him and he sat back in his chair, the anxiety of the previous moment gone.
Fucking Jonathan Fairfax. Fucking Golden Brotherhood. They’d picked the wrong biker gang to piss off, because he wasn’t going to take their threats lying down like some kind of beaten dog. No way in hell. He’d figure out something with the money, but until then, they’d just have to wait. Those fuckers were used to getting their way, but they hadn’t dealt with the Grim Weavers before.
The song playing just outside the office door changed, and an intense pang of nostalgia hit Frank like a kick in the gut. Iron Maiden’s “Charlotte the Harlot” was now playing over the bar’s sound system. It had been Susie’s favorite song. It was where they’d gotten Taylor’s middle name.
God, Susie. He hadn’t thought about her in so long, and the memory of her—her golden waves, her lightly freckled skin, her low, husky laugh—took the edge off his high. He pulled his phone from his pocket and searched for Taylor, bringing up pictures of her. He hated how much she looked like Susie. Hated that Taylor was still here and Susie wasn’t.
A series of shouts erupted from the front of the bar, and he hastily dumped the remaining lines of cocaine into a small glass vial and jammed a rubber stopper on the top, then tossed it into his desk. He picked up his Beretta from the desk and made his way out of the office, his skin dancing and his mind buzzing. He fucking hoped someone had come in looking for a fight.
He stepped into the main area of the bar, wincing at the pain in his left foot, and froze at the press of metal against his neck. He’d felt the barrel of a gun enough times to recognize its kiss against his skin.
“We want our money, Ross,” hissed a voice from behind him. Frank stiffened, and the gun pressed firmer against his neck, a strong hand circling his arm. “We figured out who your daughter is. And we’ve been watching her. So what’s it gonna be, Ross? You gonna pay up, or do we need to ask your daughter to pay off your debts?”
Gritting his teeth, Frank spun, knocking the gun away from his neck and pushing the goon up against the wall, the mention of Taylor sending anger and frustration crashing through him. “You think I didn’t already try that? She won’t give me a fucking cent. And she sure as fuck isn’t going to pay you.”
“We have ways of making people cooperate.”
Everyone else in the bar watched warily, hands hovering inches above weapons, ready to pull them free should a single bullet fly. Frank raised his gun, his thumb poised over the safety. For several seconds, Frank stared the man down, and the atmosphere in the bar shifted from one of intimidation to one of power and authority. “Get the fuck out of my bar. Now.”
The goon chuckled, seemingly unconcerned about the gun in his face. “The money. You or her. You have forty-eight hours.”
Chapter 16
Colt leaned forward and checked himself out in the mirror in Taylor’s guest bathroom, fussing with his hair, brushing at it with the tips of his fingers. Standing up straight, he smoothed his hands down the front of his light gray button-down, which was tucked into black dress pants. Even though they were ordering in—in the interest of safety—he’d dressed up for his date with Taylor. A wave of hot, nervous anticipation washed over him, his pulse pounding in his throat.
He’d gathered several more days’ worth of essentials from his place, and once he’d showered and cleaned himself up, he had driven Taylor back to her house. Roman would still be his backup, but no way was Colt leaving Taylor’s now. Not after the way she’d curled into him, telling him she was scared, telling him she was glad he was with her.
He’d called Clay to find out if he’d been able to track down any additional information on Taylor’s stalker, or any helpful information on her father. Clay had come up blank on both counts, but he was working a few angles and thought he’d have something soon.
Before heading up to her room to get ready for their date, Taylor had spent most of the day in the living room, guitar in hand, notebook open beside her, her gorgeously husky voice echoing through the house. Colt had sat on the bed in the guest room, his laptop in front of him, trying to distract himself with work, but he’d found himself falling into her music, his heart thumping a steady rhythm against his ribs as snatches of lyrics from different songs she was working on floated up to him.
…you look so good in those worn blue jeans, hottest damn thing I’ve ever seen….
…I like my music like my men, hard, dirty and rough…
…I’m living my life, not giving a fuck, I don’t play nice, make my own damn luck…
Giving up on getting any work done, he’d opened a new browser window, clicking through takeout menus from different places. Even though he’d spent several nights in her house, tonight would be the first time that they were actually spending time together. He couldn’t seem to get enough of her. That smile. That laugh. Her sense of humor. And now that they were finally letting their respective guards down, he wanted the chance to just…talk. He wanted to spend the evening really getting to know her before hopefully spending the night fucking her brains out.
He dragged himself back to the present, checking his appearance in the mirror one final time before heading down the stairs. He felt like a kid on prom night: nervous and fucking horny. Eager to please. Hopeful and…happy, he realized. God, it had been so long since he’d let himself be happy that he almost hadn’t recognized it at first.
The doorbell rang, and he froze on the stairs. He hadn’t ordered the food yet. “You expecting someone?” he called up over his shoulder, and Taylor poked her head around the corner, her long blond hair falling over her bare shoulder.
“No.” She frowned and the doorbell rang again, followed by a series of loud, crashing knocks on the front door. Colt strode to the front of the house and looked out, his eyes landing on the gleaming Harley parked in the driveway, and anger beat through him. He pulled his SIG free of his waistband and opened the front door.
“Who the fuck are you?” A sneer turned up Frank’s lips as he spat the question at Colt. His leather vest was covered in patches, including ones marking him as a one percenter and as the Grim Weavers’ president. His bald head gleamed in the late-afternoon light, the only hair on his face his bushy eyebrows and overgrown light brown goatee. He spit on Taylor’s front step and pushed his sunglasses up on his head, then crossed his beefy, tattooed arms in front of him. “Let me guess. Booty call?”
Colt glanced behind him to see that Taylor had followed him into the front hall, and was dressed for their date in a simple, flowing black halter dress that hit just above the knee. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in loose, golden waves, and she’d done her eye makeup in that way he liked, with the dark, shimmery shadow. Seeing her dressed up for their date, for him, sent a wave of possession crashing into him, so intense that he felt it like a punch to the gut. He could feel the anger and fear radiating off of Taylor as he tucked her safely behind him, slipping his SIG back into his waistband and crossing his arms over his chest.
“You need to leave.” Colt struggled to keep his voice even, struggled to keep his rising temper at bay.
“I need to talk to my daughter. Fuck off.” Frank levele
d his blue eyes, so like Taylor’s, at Colt in a cold stare before smiling. Frank’s eyes, while the same shade of blue, held none of her spark or her warmth, but instead shone with a cruelty that Colt recognized instantly, having seen it in some of his mother’s boyfriends. The idea that Taylor had grown up with this man as her father stoked every single one of Colt’s protective instincts.
“You look slutty, Taylor.” Frank spit again and crossed his arms over his chest, sighing heavily.
Clearly Colt and Frank had different definitions of slutty, because as far as Colt was concerned, she looked so beautiful it made his chest hurt a little. Before Colt could answer, Frank nodded. “She always was a little whore.” He leaned forward, as if sharing a secret with a friend. “Between you and me, I’d double-bag it with this one.” He tipped his chin in Taylor’s direction.
“Hell of a way to talk about your daughter,” said Colt, beating back the temper rising up in him. He could feel it pushing at his insides, rising higher and higher like licking flames. He wanted to shove Frank, this piece-of-shit excuse for a human being, against the wall, knock his teeth out, and make him sorry he’d shown up at Taylor’s. But he knew that wouldn’t help the situation. All that mattered was protecting Taylor, and to do that, he had to stay calm and professional.
He had a feeling Frank was going to make that a challenge.
“What do you want?” Taylor met her father’s eyes, not flinching under his cruel glare.
“You need to give me money, or we’re both fucked.”
Colt once again tucked Taylor behind him, deliberately putting himself between her and Frank.
“What did you do?” Taylor asked, resting one hand on Colt’s back. Her fingers curled slightly into his shirt and he clenched his jaw, praying for Frank to give him a reason to hurt him.
“I owe some people some money. They figured out you’re my daughter. If they can’t get it from me, they’re gonna get it from you.”
Colt’s spine snapped straight as realization crashed into him. The van that had been following them yesterday made a hell of a lot more sense now.
“Dad, would you just go? I’m not giving you any money. Figure out your own problems.” Her voice was quiet, but he could hear the determination in her tone until the last couple of syllables, when her voice wavered.
“I’m not going anywhere until I get what I came for. Don’t you get it? You don’t give me the money, they’re gonna come after you. I’m trying to help you, for fuck’s sake.”
“I don’t believe you. Who’s going to come after me?”
“Does it matter?”
“You’re lying.”
“Jesus, you really are a dumb bitch.”
Something snapped inside Colt, like a rubber band stretched too tight, and he knew his control was slipping. “If you want to keep all your teeth, I suggest you shut the fuck up,” he growled, stepping into Frank’s personal space. He could feel a muscle ticcing in his jaw.
Frank snorted out a laugh, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, I get it. Boyfriend, not booty call.”
“Actually, I’m her bodyguard. And you’re leaving.” He jabbed a finger into Frank’s chest, sending him backward a few inches.
“Not until I get my money.”
Smiling, Colt took another step toward Frank, who took a half step backward. “You’re leaving. Now.”
“Not without my money!” he snarled from between clenched teeth. “That fucking slut owes me. This isn’t your fight, buddy. And any fun you might have between this whore’s legs isn’t worth it.”
Colt took another step toward Frank. “Listen up. This is going to end one of two ways. Option one: You turn around, get on your bike, and never come here again. You leave nice and quiet and I won’t beat the shit out of you. That sounds like a pretty good option to me, but you might be wondering what’s behind door number two, which, by the way, opens in about nine and a half seconds.” He closed any remaining distance between them, so that the two men were nose to nose, and Colt chuckled. “Door number two involves me calling the cops and beating the living fuck out of you in the fifteen minutes it’ll take them to get here. Personally, I’m really hoping you go for option two, but it’s your call.” It took everything he had in him to step back, and he made a show of checking his watch. “Clock’s ticking. What’s it gonna be?”
Frank shoved Colt, who didn’t move.
“Seriously?” Colt said. “That’s all you got?”
Letting out a frustrated grunt, Frank shoved him again, and once again, Colt didn’t move, simply absorbing the impact.
“You’re gonna have to do better than that. And, oh, look at that. Time’s up.” Grabbing fistfuls of Frank’s vest, he shoved him back against the wall of the porch. “I don’t think you know who you’re messing with, because I will fuck you up. I don’t care who you are. No one talks to her like that.”
“Dad. Just go.” Taylor’s voice was firmer, steadier than before.
“Shut up, bitch!” he ground out. “I’m trying to warn you.”
“Warn us about who?” Colt shook him, the leather of Frank’s vest creaking in his fists. When he didn’t answer, he shook him again, harder. “Who?”
“I can’t tell you!”
“Because it’s all a lie,” said Taylor. “He’s not in trouble. He’s trying to scare me into giving him money, trying to make me think someone will come get me if I don’t pay him. Bullshit! Did you have that van follow us yesterday just to set this whole thing up?”
“You’re the dumbest fucking cunt I’ve ever met.”
Frank’s words shredded the last remaining scrap of Colt’s restraint, and he pulled back just enough to slam his fist into Frank’s face. Adrenaline surged through him, and he shoved Frank against the porch wall. Blood tricked from his nose.
“Don’t you fucking talk to her that way. Get the hell out of here. If I see you again, I’ll break every bone in your goddamn body. You got that?”
Cold blue eyes bore into his before Frank slumped slightly, the fight gone out of him. Colt uncurled his fists and let him go, even though what he really wanted was to pummel him into a bloody pulp.
“This isn’t over,” Frank spat out before scurrying down the steps and then walking backward to his bike, his arms outstretched. “We’re blood. You’ll see. I’ll get what I deserve.”
Taylor laughed, the sound harsh and cold. “I sure hope so. Don’t come here again, Frank. Ever.” She stood tall, her body stiff, her chin up, as her dad got onto his Harley and pulled out of the driveway, engine growling as he gunned it down the street, leaving a trail of smoke behind him.
Before he could reach for her, Taylor spun and stormed into the house, the delicate fabric of her dress swirling around her long legs. He followed her inside, closing and locking the door behind him. The sounds of her stomping feet and slamming cabinet doors echoed through the house.
He took a few steps inside, sucking in deep breaths and fighting back his temper and the surge of hormone-spiked adrenaline racing through his system. All he wanted was to throw her over his shoulder and find a bed so he could fuck her until neither of them could walk, and as appealing as that idea was, he needed instead to make sure that Taylor was okay.
She leaned against the stainless steel island in the center of the kitchen, two tumblers of amber liquid and a bottle of Jack Daniels in front of her. As he walked into the kitchen, her head rose and she pushed one of the tumblers toward him. Without waiting, she picked hers up and drained it, breathing deeply several times.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” she said finally, pouring herself another drink. She paced restlessly around the kitchen, her hands trembling slightly. Those trembling hands made him want to pull her into his arms, to kiss her, to use his body to make her forget about everything.
He picked up his glass and took a small sip, breaking his “no drinking on the job” rule. He needed something to take the edge off the emotions slicing through him. The protectiveness, and the lust, and
the anger, all blending together almost painfully.
“Don’t be,” he said. “That wasn’t your fault. You have nothing to be sorry about.” He sliced his hand through the air for emphasis.
She nodded, once, still pacing, lips pursed. After several moments, she stilled. “Thank you. For scaring him off.”
“You’re welcome. I’m glad I was here to help.” He took another sip of his drink and forced himself to sit down on one of the leather-and-chrome stools tucked under the island. If he didn’t sit down and keep his hands wrapped around the cool glass of the tumbler, he’d leap over the island, pull her into his arms, and kiss her until she forgot there was anything to be upset about. But instead he sat, and sipped, and waited. He only wanted to shelter her, from everything. Her dad, the stalker, the threats, the fear. Shelter her and protect her from all of it. “So you really think all of that was an empty threat?”
She nodded, her lower lip caught between her teeth. “He wants money, and he knows I won’t give it to him, so he’s trying to scare me. He’s a lying, manipulating son of a bitch.”
“But someone did follow us yesterday. Someone was watching from that van.” Thankfully, the van hadn’t made a reappearance today, although if whoever had been driving it knew he’d been made, he likely would’ve swapped out the van for another vehicle.
“It was probably him, trying to scare me. Or hell, maybe it was just a photographer.” She dragged the tip of her finger around the rim of her glass. “Although they seem to have lost interest in me lately. Guess I’m only interesting when I’m getting kicked off planes.”
