by Tara Wyatt
“What’s his name?”
“Frank Ross.”
“I have a buddy who’s an investigator. I want to see what we can dig up on him, find out why he’s suddenly popping back up.”
She nodded and stood from the bed, and he couldn’t take it anymore. He slowly crossed the room and pulled her into his arms again, slipping his arms around her waist. “I’m glad I’m here, Taylor, regardless of the circumstances.”
“Me too.” She laid her head on his shoulder and sighed softly.
“I’m not going to let anything happen to you, gorgeous. You’re safe with me.”
She trembled slightly and then lifted her head from his shoulder, her lips parted slightly and only inches from his. A tension hung between them, shimmering in the air like heat. He inched his face closer to hers, waiting for her to pull away. Her eyes flicked down to his mouth and she dipped her head slightly, grazing her nose against his cheek.
Steeling himself against the excitement shooting through him and stiffening his dick, he took a steadying breath—which was a mistake, because that deep inhale brought with it the sweet, warm scent of her skin. It made him want to bury his face in her neck and taste the skin where her pulse beat.
She pressed her hips against him, and he knew she could feel how hard he was. She leaned forward until her lips were millimeters from his ear. “Thank you.”
His hands splayed across her back as he pulled her tighter against him; her nipples were tight little buds under the thin cotton of her T-shirt. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, tracing her delicate jaw with the tips of his fingers.
“You’re welcome.” He pressed a kiss to the center of her throat, and her eyes fluttered closed.
“Fuck,” she breathed, as he trailed his mouth over her collarbone, leaving goose bumps in his wake.
His hands skated up her back and into her hair, and he gave the locks tangled around his fingers a gentle tug, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I want you so fucking much, Taylor.”
“Colt.” His name was a strangled sigh on her lips, and he dipped his head, his lips teasing the shell of her ear as he spoke.
“Tell me that night didn’t mean anything to you.”
She pulled back and met his gaze, not saying anything. She didn’t need to, because everything he needed was right there in those beautiful blue eyes. Every single cell in his body roared to life as he closed his mouth over hers in a tender, gentle kiss. She moaned, and then pulled back almost immediately. Shaking her head, she pressed her fingers to her mouth.
“I’m going to bed. Alone.” She turned and left without a backward glance.
* * *
The limo ride from the Staples Center to the Standard Bar after the awards show took nearly twenty minutes, despite the fact that the two locations were less than a mile and a half apart. Colt shifted in his seat next to the driver and stared at the rows of red taillights on either side of the street. It didn’t matter that it was well past rush hour; shitty traffic was a fact of life in Los Angeles.
Taylor’s laugh echoed from the back, even though the divider was up. She was back there with some suits from Walker’s label, and Walker, who, Colt had noticed, had been eyeing Taylor all night the way a starving man eyes a steak. It sent tension radiating up his neck, into his jaw and over his scalp.
But Colt had been the one to kiss her last night. He shifted in his seat, trying to ignore the tightening pull low in his stomach as he replayed that night again, remembering how she’d felt underneath him, her mouth on his, her legs wound around his eager hips. He lost himself in the memory of all the different ways he’d made her moan and beg. Of how good it had felt to hear his name in that raspy voice as he’d discovered exactly how she liked to be touched, where she liked to be kissed.
Pushing it aside, he gave his head a subtle shake, knowing he was in over his head with this woman. He shouldn’t be chasing her the way he was. She was running, and he should let her. He knew he was fucked up because of the terrible shit he’d seen. The truth was, he cared about Taylor, and if he wasn’t a selfish asshole, he’d want something better for her than anything he could offer. And yet he wanted Taylor. Wanted to protect her, and comfort her, and feel the slide of her skin against his again.
The limo pulled to a stop in front of the Standard, where a red carpet and a black-and-gold backdrop featuring the logo of Metro Music Nashville—Walker’s label and the sponsors of the post-awards party—lined the walkway in front of the entrance. In a cordoned-off area behind velvet ropes, rows of photographers waited, cameras poised. Walker and Taylor hit the carpet together, Colt following a few feet behind, his eyes scanning the crowd for any potential threats. Walker slid his arm around Taylor, his fingers curling over her slender waist. She smiled at him and then leaned in and whispered something in his ear, which earned her a smoldering look from Walker. Swallowing, Colt worked his jaw loose, fearing he’d crack a tooth with the pressure he was putting on his back molars. Tamping down the jealousy churning his gut, he returned his attention to the crowd and tried to focus on simply doing his job.
Inside, the party was already in full swing, rowdy country music thumping from the speakers. The walls were awash in gold and red lights that served to illuminate the space while casting the buttery-yellow leather booths lining the walls into shadow. Waitresses in tight red cocktail dresses circulated through the crowd carrying trays laden with beer, shots of tequila, shakers of salt, and bowls of lime wedges. The far wall glittered with lights that were flashing and pulsing in time with the music. At one of the booths, a tray with several lines of white powder was being passed around, along with a rolled up hundred-dollar bill. Dread dropped into Colt’s stomach like a weight. He must’ve been wearing his apprehension plain as day, because Taylor turned toward him and touched his arm.
“Relax. I don’t do drugs.” She shot him a reassuring smile, walking past the booth with the cocaine.
“I’m glad to hear it.” And he meant it.
She shook her head and snorted out a laugh. “Yeah, well, hold the parade. I’m just scared I’d like them too much.” Something angry and raw flashed in her eyes. “God knows my mom did.” She stilled and the light in her eyes changed. “She OD’d when I was fourteen.”
“I’m sorry.” He’d known from the background report that her mother had died over fifteen years ago. Out of respect for her privacy, given the nature of the job, he hadn’t dug any further than that. But now an empathetic ache bloomed in his chest, along with a sudden, intense, almost overwhelming need to comfort her. He wanted to know more, to take some of that pain he’d glimpsed and carry it for her. Before he could open his mouth, one of the waitresses circled close by, making eye contact with Colt and smiling, winking and tossing her hair over her shoulder as she sashayed away.
“Go on and get you some, cowboy,” said Taylor in his ear before giving him a smack on the ass, grabbing Walker’s hand and leading him toward the bar. Following several feet behind, Colt watched as Taylor laughed at something Walker said and then lifted his cowboy hat off his head and plunked it down on her own, tilting it at a flirty angle. Sidling up to the bar, Walker grabbed two shots of tequila and slid one to Taylor, who downed hers like a champ.
A commotion near the door caught his attention before he could find an inconspicuous spot along the wall, and he set himself between Taylor, who was several feet away at the bar, and the disturbance, his shoulders tensed, bracing himself for whatever was coming.
“Y’all gonna let me in, or what?” A tiny blonde emerged from the crowd, and Colt recognized her instantly. Monroe Bell had just walked in.
Chapter 12
Is it working?” Taylor asked, leaning in to shout in Walker’s ear over the loud music. Lifting his head, he looked in Colt’s direction before trailing a hand up her arm.
“Oh, yeah. Dude’s jealous as hell.”
She smiled, satisfaction shooting through her. “Thanks for helping me with this, Walk.”
He
glanced at Colt again, smiling skeptically. “I get punched, you owe me.”
“I owe you regardless.” She laid a hand on his thick forearm and gave him a friendly squeeze.
He took a sip of his beer, his tongue swiping away a stray drop that clung to his full lower lip. Taylor watched, and she found herself wondering if kissing Walker would be going too far in her mission to piss Colt off and push him away. Before she’d made up her mind, Walker leaned in and shouted a question in her ear.
“So why you doing this, sweetheart? If you want him, just go get him. You’re torturing the guy.”
Taylor brought her beer to her lips, trying to find a way to explain. She wasn’t torturing Colt because she was pissed at him, but pissed at herself. She’d come so close to letting him back into her bed last night—twice—and it was such a terrible idea. And yet…she’d been so relieved he was there last night. She’d felt safe, just knowing that he was in the house.
She couldn’t help but wonder if she was letting what had happened with Zack scare her away from something potentially awesome. Which would be a terrible waste, now wouldn’t it?
She swallowed thickly and looked over her shoulder at where Colt stood several feet away, but his attention was focused on the bar’s entrance, where a five-foot-two blond hurricane was pushing her way in.
“Uh-oh,” she said, turning back to Walker, who’d also just noticed Monroe’s presence.
“Shi-it,” he said, drawing it out into two syllables.
“You stupid, two-timing motherfucker!” yelled Monroe, spotting Taylor and Walker and making a beeline for them. “And you! You dumb bitch! I’m gonna kick your a—” The last word turned into a shriek as Colt scooped her up and tossed her over his wide shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Everyone in the party was now watching. The DJ cut the music, giving everyone the opportunity to listen to the confrontation.
Taylor pressed a fist to her mouth, hiding her laughter. One second, Monroe had been hell on high heels, steamrolling her way toward them, and the next, Colt was there, calm and sure. Sturdy, as always. She never would’ve thought she’d be so turned on by sturdy, but damn, was his dependability appealing.
Monroe struggled against Colt, who held her in place as though she were made of feathers. He didn’t even look like he was trying. “Put me down! You have no right to touch me. I’ll—”
“It’s for your own safety, sweetheart. Because if I put you down, I’m pretty sure someone’s gonna get her ass kicked, and my money’s on that someone being you.” He met Taylor’s eyes and winked and something inside her softened. The situation with Monroe could’ve been very bad if Colt hadn’t stepped in, because anything between her and Monroe wouldn’t have ended well, especially given all the shit Monroe had talked about Taylor in the tabloids.
“Roe, settle down. Let’s go talk somewhere. All right?” Walker bent over to meet her eyes, her blond hair fanning out around her in a platinum curtain. “Taylor’s got nothing to do with this. She and I are just friends. Honest.”
“Y’all were all over each other. I saw. You been fucking her, Walk?”
Colt glanced over his shoulder at Walker, clearly interested in the answer to Monroe’s question.
“No. Taylor and I have only ever been friends.”
“Yeah, y’all sure looked friendly.” But Monroe had lost some steam and was calming down. Being helplessly pinned halfway upside down could have that effect on a girl.
“We were just joking around. Roe, she asked me to flirt with her, to…” Walker glanced up at Colt and shrugged.
Colt met Taylor’s eyes and smiled that cocky smile, the one that crinkled the skin around his eyes and had her toes curling and thighs clenching.
“I put you down, you gonna behave?” Colt asked over his shoulder.
She waited a second before nodding, which looked more like head-banging since she was still suspended upside down. Bending his knees, Colt gently lowered her to the ground, watching her warily. Walker took her by the arm and led her out, everyone watching as they left.
Taylor turned back to the bar and picked up her beer, taking a long sip. What a mess. And yet based on the heat and intensity arcing between Walker and Monroe as they left the bar, Taylor would’ve bet good money that they’d be tearing each other’s clothes off at the first opportunity.
“You know, if you’d told me I’d be picking up women tonight, that’s not what I would’ve had in mind.” Colt leaned against the bar beside her, humor dancing in his eyes. He rubbed a hand over his hair.
Unable to help herself, she bit her lip and laughed. God, it felt good just to be around him. And not just because he was so gorgeous she sometimes didn’t feel like she could think straight when she looked at him. It was his sense of humor, his intelligence, his ability to keep her safe. Just him. Colt.
“Thanks for stepping in. I appreciate it.”
“That’s what I’m here for. I’ve got your back.” He tapped the brim of her hat and leaned in closer. “I like this on you. It’s cute.”
She felt her cheeks heat, his deep voice rumbling down her spine and making her want to arch into him. Laughing, she pulled the hat off and settled it on Colt’s head. He adjusted it before giving her a fake-model-type stare, intense eyes and pursed lips, like Derek Zoolander’s patented “blue steel” look. She laughed so hard she snorted and he broke, laughing along with her.
“I should get back to my post. Ma’am.” He touched the brim of his hat before stepping away from the bar.
Her heart thumped happily in her chest as she watched him.
Well, shit.
* * *
The scent of smoke filled Colt’s nostrils, and he blinked rapidly against the harsh sunlight, his eyelids gritty with sand. The metallic rattle and pop of gunfire echoed around him, spraying up sand around his feet. Chunks of mortar rained down on him and knocked against his thick helmet. A bright flash in the distance cut the air and he ran forward, sweat pouring down his back, his rifle clutched in his hands.
“Benson, Gomez, get down!” He dived on the two soldiers just as a large blast rocked the ground underneath them. Colt set his M4 in front of him and reloaded it, then crouched on the ground, surrounded by men, sand and rock. He took aim and opened fire; the staccato burst of gunfire vibrated through him as he braced and squeezed the trigger again. “You get them in your sights, you fucking fire!” he shouted over his shoulder to his men.
For several long, tense minutes, the Third Ranger Battalion traded gunfire with the Taliban militia. They’d managed to push the militia out of the valley, finally, but they’d been fighting over the area for weeks.
The bullets suddenly stopped, and Benson looked over his shoulder at Colt. “Where they at, Sarge?” he asked, his voice loud in the sudden quiet.
A flash of something shiny caught Colt’s eye. “East!” Bullets rained down like hail, followed by a deep, booming explosion that knocked him flat on his back, crushing the breath out of him. Sweat ran into his eyes as he struggled to get up and check on his men. His pulse pounded like a drum in his temples, and his vision swam. His ears rang, high-pitched and discordant, as he pushed to his feet. He spat out equal parts saliva, blood, and sand. Staggering forward, his feet tangled in something, and he fell. Glancing back, he saw what he’d tripped on and ground his teeth against the nausea rising up. It was a nausea he’d felt many times over the past ten years, but he’d never given into it. Not once.
Pushing the bloody, severed leg to the side, he wiped the sweat out of his eyes and moved forward on shaky legs, taking stock of the soldiers lying on the ground, some moving, some not. Heat pressed down on him, heavy and oppressive, and bullets began flying anew. He tripped again, and when he landed facedown in the dirt, his eyes came level with Benson’s glassy, vacant stare. Another blast rocked the ground, and a searing pain bit into his shoulder. He struggled to push himself up, gritting his teeth against the pain, surrounded by the lifeless bodies of the men he’d led into this valley and—
Colt bolted upright in bed, his heart pounding and sweat pouring down his face and chest in narrow streams. He sucked in several deep breaths and pressed his hands to his face as he tried to slow his racing pulse.
“Fuck,” he whispered aloud, bringing his legs toward his chest under the sweat-drenched sheet and resting his elbows on his knees. He rubbed his hands over his face, concentrating on his breathing. His temples throbbed, the familiar adrenaline-hangover headache setting in. Reaching his right arm across his body, he ran his fingers over his left shoulder, tracing the puckered scar left by the shrapnel, trying to feel lucky instead of guilty that he’d made it through. He took several deep breaths before swinging his legs over the side of the bed and clicking on the bedside light. He picked up his phone and checked the time: 3:13 A.M. Fucking great.
Bracing his hands on his thighs, he pushed off the bed and padded to Taylor’s kitchen in his bare feet and boxers. Opening the cabinet where he knew she kept her liquor, he pulled down the half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker. Its amber liquid gleamed with the promise of numbing the guilt, the anxiety, and the anger squeezing the air out of his lungs and making him want to hit something. He’d gone weeks without a nightmare, but this one had been bad. When they happened, they felt so real, so fucking visceral, that he might as well have been back in the Sandpit, staring into the dead eyes of a soldier whose death was Colt’s fault.
Pouring a healthy amount of scotch into a tumbler, he put the bottle back into the cabinet before shuffling into the dark living room. The hardwood floor creaked softly under his feet as he settled into the black leather armchair looking out onto the terrace. The not-so-distant lights of Hollywood shone in the night, glimmering against the darkness. As he stared at the lights, white and yellow against the velvet purple of the sky, he raised his glass to his lips, closing his eyes against the welcome burn.