Hot Pursuit (4 page)

Shane frowned. “Listen, your heart's in the right place, but do you think that's smart? We like Blake, but, truthfully, we don't really know him that well.”

“He's a good kid,” Taylor said in his defense. “He's assisted the police plenty, stuck his neck out when the risk was greater than the reward, and he deserves better than what he's been dealt.”

“And you're going to fix that.”

“That's right.”

Shane sighed, then lifted his beer and saluted. “Good. I'll help any way I can. Don't hesitate to ask.”

“Thanks, partner.”

Just then, the lights dimmed and remained that way, signaling showtime. The crowd cheered as Blake stepped up to the microphone to get the party truly started.

“How's everyone doing tonight?” A raucous yell went up at his greeting. Playing them, he called out again.

“Are you ready to
rock
?”

A louder roar met his challenge, beers and shot glasses raised high.

“That's awesome, because we've got a hell of a show for ya'll tonight!” Taking a deep breath, he shouted, “Please help me give a big welcome to a smokin'-hot band we're damned lucky to have stolen from Los Angeles—Cara Evans and the Ten Inch Boys!”

Around Blake, several cops snickered at her backup band's name, and the crowd roared in approval. The words
Los Angeles
bounced around in Taylor's head as the drummer, a bassist, lead guitarist, and keyboardist—all twentysomething guys—jogged onto the stage and took their places. Seemed he couldn't get away from references to that city no matter how far he fled.

The other side of the world wouldn't be far enough.

Then the drummer clicked off the song and they launched into the rousing, fast-paced intro of a current song Taylor heard on the radio all the time but couldn't place. Something with an attitude. He was still trying to name it in his head when the lead singer sprinted out, took the microphone, and belted out the first notes with a husky, whiskey-laced Ann Wilson voice.

Taylor felt like he'd been smacked upside the head with a brick.

As Cara Evans injected a healthy dose of raw sarcasm, singing of a woman missing the man who'd shit on her time and again, Taylor was transfixed.

Oh yes, Blake owed him an introduction.

And he wasn't leaving here without it.

Cara's tight little body should be registered as a lethal weapon.

Taylor's eyes were glued to the slim hips swiveling to the beat, low-rise skinny jeans clinging valiantly to slight curves. A cropped tank top rode well above her exposed navel, showing off creamy skin and a flat, toned tummy. Definitely no muffin top there.

She was a short, petite thing, probably no more than five-foot-nothing and one hundred ten pounds soaking wet. And, boy, would he love to get her wet, all right.

Her face was delicate, her nose slim. She had large kohl-lined eyes, though he couldn't tell their color from where he sat. Jet-black hair framed her face and fell just to her shoulders and was streaked with purple. If she had been wearing all black instead of jeans and a tank top, she'd appear to be on the Goth side. Despite her porcelain features, she looked wild, a bit dangerous. Nothing like the women he usually pursued, women like Laura Eden—sleek, professional, and coolly untouchable.

Suddenly, wild and dangerous was exactly his type.

Around him, his buddies alternated between watching the show, talking about work, laughing, and drinking. For his part, everyone faded into the background. Everyone except the sexy little rocker strutting around, owning the stage. Song after song, he devoured her every move. Not only how damned hot she was, but her talent. She was a natural performer, her voice like liquid gold.

A hard thump on his back nearly sent a swig of his beer down his windpipe.

“Hey, earth to Kayne!” Cunningham, one of the night-shift officers, bellowed in his ear. “Whatcha starin' at, huh? Think you're getting some of that? Think again, hound dog!”

“No way would that sweet thing let your ugly ass get too close!” another one called.

A few of the others laughed, and he received a couple of good-natured nudges at being caught completely enamored of the singer. He laughed along with them, but inside he cringed. He knew they were just kidding, but their words stung, given his pitiful lack of success lately.

He went back to ignoring them, nursing his beer and then another.
Working up some liquid courage, old boy?
Maybe. The girl was young. Not jailbait, if he was any judge, but early twenties as opposed to his thirty-two. Just a big enough gap to make him
really
start feeling his age. He didn't even want to
think
about how old she was when he graduated from high school.

Jesus.

Somehow he made it through the set without taking too much more crap from his friends. It seemed they sensed a change in his mood and left him alone. Which left him free to plan what he might say when he met the cutie. Too bad he couldn't come up with anything that didn't sound stupid.

The second the band's first set was done, Taylor jumped to his feet and began to make his way toward the stage. The band members were milling around, mopping their faces and necks with hand towels and drinking a variety of stuff, from bottled water to whiskey shots. As he neared, he was relieved to see that the singer was drinking water, though why he should care was a mystery. Other than the obvious—his being a cop, that is. He hated to imagine her driving home after this, tipsy, and having a wreck.

Being arrested.

God, give it a rest! Be a normal guy, for Christ's sake!

As he stepped up, Blake gave him a knowing smirk. “I'm guessing you're here for that introduction.”

“You guessed right.”

“You've got a lot of competition, man. Just sayin'.”

Indeed he did. Another glance in Cara's direction proved just how much. The woman was holding court over a crowd of fans, the vast majority of whom were men. Particularly irritating was the way her lead guitarist hovered real close, practically draped over her like a damned blanket. He was contemplating how to get through the throng to speak to her when Blake shouted in her direction.

“Cara!” Turning, she smiled, a question in her eyes. “Come over here! There's someone I want you to meet.”

Waving at Blake, she returned her attention to the folks pressing in and, after a few moments, managed to break away tactfully. Like liquid sex, she moved, slim legs eating the distance, toward where he stood with Blake. Riveted, he admired her loose-limbed walk, the confidence edged with a bit of attitude. He wondered what it might be like to have all of that intense focus on
him
. Then her gaze slowly slid from the younger man to Taylor.

And the welcoming smile slid from her face and fell to the floor like a stone. For a second, he could have sworn he saw a flash of something dark and poisonous in her eyes, but then it vanished just as fast. Surely he was mistaken. Either way, it was not exactly the type of intensity he was going for.

His stomach immediately plummeted to his toes and he stared at her in confusion. What on earth could he have done already to warrant a negative reaction? They hadn't even met yet! Suddenly he wished he'd stayed at his table with the guys.

“Cara,” Blake said, waving at him. “This is my friend, Taylor Kayne. Taylor, this is my new boss, Cara Evans.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Taylor stuck out his hand, feeling foolish even as he did so. But she took it, giving it a firm shake, lips turning up.

“Same here.”

Not precisely a warm welcome, but he'd take it. “You and your band sounded fantastic. There aren't too many females doing rock justice these days, but I have to say I'm a fan. I don't understand why you aren't signed with a big label.”

Another troublesome flash in those eyes—he could see now that they were blue—and she gave him a wry smile. “Thanks. There was a time when that dream wasn't so far out of reach. But life has a way of taking a sharp left when you'd planned to go right.”

“Doesn't it?”

“Been there, have you?” She gave him the oddest look. Almost calculating.

“Once or twice.”

“What do you do for a living, Taylor?”

He hesitated. Some people weren't comfortable around cops, especially those who worked in or hung around clubs. He'd never lied about his job when he wasn't undercover, though, and he wouldn't start now. “I'm a police officer with the Sugarland PD. Detective, actually.”

“Hmm.” Reaching out, she trailed a black polished fingernail down his neck, into the V of his shirt. Playfully, she ran the tip of her tongue over her lips. “And are you very, very good at . . . detecting?”

With that, Blake made a rude snorting noise and made himself scarce, heading in the direction of the restrooms.

“I like to think so.” He leveled her with his best, most charming lopsided grin. Inside, though, he was a quivering mess. His brain screamed at him that he'd finally gotten hold of more woman than he was prepared to handle.

His little head, however, was totally on board with the idea.

Warmth pooled in his groin, gradually spreading to envelop his stiffening cock. He liked her fingernail scratching lightly over his skin, making every nerve ending sing with pleasure. Her warmth and spicy scent teased his nose even through the less pleasant club odors of smoke and beer, and he wanted to get closer. Pull her into his body and find out whether that lush mouth was as good at kissing as it appeared.

“I don't think you are.”

He blinked, trying to recall what they'd been talking about. Oh yeah—his detecting skills. “What makes you say that?”

“If you were that good, you'd have figured out that I'm not interested.” With that, she placed both palms on his chest and pushed. As he took a couple of steps backward, she turned to walk away.

“Wait!”

Pausing, she turned and looked over her shoulder. “Why should I?”

“Don't I get a chance to change your mind? Let me buy you a cup of coffee after you're done.”

“I hate coffee.”

Damn.
“Hot chocolate? A Coke?”

Eyes glittering, expression unreadable, she studied him for a long moment. He resisted the urge to squirm like a bug under a magnifying glass. Finally, she gave a barely perceptible nod.

“A drink here at the bar,” she said. “We play until closing at two, and it'll take Blake and the band about half an hour to break down. You have until they're finished to impress me and not one second more.”

A challenge. Why in the hell that haughty declaration, along with the cool fire in her gaze, should make him harder than a frigging rock, he didn't have a clue. Except that he'd always found self-confidence damned attractive and this lady had that in spades.

“You got it.” He met her eyes, not allowing his own doubts to show even a bit. That would be the kiss of death with this woman, he sensed. “But maybe you have half an hour to impress
me
, not the other way around.” He punctuated the statement with a wink.

She huffed a laugh and shook her head. Then she sauntered away, tight little ass swaying in those sinful jeans. He was just about to head back to his table when he noticed that Cara had stopped to speak with the lead guitarist, who had those pesky boundary issues. Of more importance at the moment, however, was the question Taylor overheard her ask the man.

“Have you seen Blake?”

“Saw him head toward the restroom,” the man replied, nodding in the general direction. “He's got two minutes.”

Come to think of it, hitting the men's room wasn't such a bad idea. He could take care of business and let the kid know his break was almost up. Making his way down the dim corridor away from the main room, he was knocked aside by a big, burly asshole with enough grizzle on his face to use as sandpaper. On his heels was a slightly shorter man, dressed similarly in biker boots and motorcycle leathers.

The Waterin' Hole was somewhat rough around the edges, but it wasn't a biker bar. This place typically catered to a blue-collar crowd, but they didn't get many bikers here. They were making tracks, too. A ball of dread settled in his gut.

Hurrying, Taylor pushed through the restroom doors. “Blake?”

A groan was his answer and he followed the sound to the last stall, where he found Blake crumpled in a heap on the dirty tile. “Shit,” he hissed. “Are you all right?”

Another pain-filled moan was his answer as the young man struggled to sit up. Crouching at his side, Taylor saw the boy's bloodied face and a slow burn of anger flared in his chest.

“Who did this?” He already guessed, but wanted to see if the boy would tell the truth.

“Two big motherfuckers,” Blake wheezed. “Looked like Hells Angels.”

“Ever see them here before?”

A pause. “No.”

“Don't lie to me, kid,” he said in a low voice, tearing off a wad of toilet tissue. He helped Blake press it to his nose. “What did they want?”

“To remind me what happens to police informants. Guess they didn't quite believe I'm retired.”

“So it wasn't a bashing?”

“Not really,” he said quietly. “They weren't here to beat me up for being gay. That was just a bonus.”

Taylor wanted to crack both of their skulls. Over the past few months he'd become protective of Blake and worried about him plenty. Maybe it was because he'd never had kids of his own, but this one got to him. Blake reminded Taylor of himself at that age. Alone and vulnerable. Smaller than the average kid and a perfect target. He had nobody around who cared.

Until one day someone did. And made all the difference.

“Come on. Let's get you washed off,” he said gruffly, hauling the boy to his feet. Blake was holding his side. “They hurt your ribs?”

“I took a shot or two. But I'm tougher than I look.”

Taylor almost smiled at the younger man's fierce scowl, but refrained. As he helped Blake to the sink, the boy shook him off and insisted he could handle washing his own face. Taylor stood by, lost in thought, and jumped when someone pounded on the bathroom door.

“Blake? Honey, are you in there?”

“Cara,” Blake said, groaning. “I've already fucked up on my first night. She'll probably fire me.”

“No, she won't.” Crossing to the door, Taylor opened it and took in her surprised face. “Blake had a mishap. He'll be right out.”

If he thought that was going to put her off, he was mistaken.

“Get out of my way,” she growled and marched right past him. “What happ— Oh, my God! Who did this?”

The boy turned and gave her a wan smile as he used wet paper towels to wipe the last of the blood from his swelling nose. “My face ran into some dude's fist. I'm good.”

“You are not
good
. Not even a little bit.” She rounded on Taylor. “Did you do this? Because if you did—”

“Whoa there, boss lady,” Blake said, intervening. “Taylor's cool. He came in after those big assholes left. The cop here always helps me, even when I don't want him to.”

As she glared at Taylor, he could see her working that out in her head. He also detected a faint look of disbelief, quickly masked, before she spoke.

“You're Tate!”

“Say what?”

“Jess told me some detective had taken an interest in Blake's well-being, but he thought his name was Tate or something. But he meant
Taylor
,” she said almost to herself. She was staring at him in shock. “That's you.”

“Um, yeah . . .” He exchanged a puzzled look with Blake, who shrugged as if to say he had no idea, either, why she was so hung up on that fact. Almost amazed. “Am I missing something here?”

She recovered quickly. “No. I'm just surprised to meet the guy Blake speaks so highly of—that's all.”

The young man blushed. Not meeting Taylor's gaze, he tossed his paper towels in the trash. “We need to get going or you're gonna be late for your set.”

“The band can wait. I think you should get to the hospital, get checked out,” she said, frowning in concern. “And you need to file a police report.”