Page 12 of Jackrabbit

Carefully, he set the part back in its place and sat down on his stool. Every one of his employees had been accounted for the entire day, except—

Except one.

Colt had done this. Had come out here, probably after he’d worked the lunch rush for Joyce, and picked up every part. Cleaned them shiny and left them neatly ordered on his workbench like he’d noticed Beau’s meticulous process the night before.

Beau’s hand shook as he covered his mustache and dragged his palm down to his chin.

Chapter 8

Every morning for the next week, Colt showed up at Merc’s Motorworks at five. Some days he went next door to help Joyce with the morning rush, and some days he stayed at the front to answer phones. Always back to Joyce for the lunch rush, and she’d put him on the payroll with back pay for his first two days. She paid him way too much for throwing some dirty dishes into a bucket and dropping them in the kitchen sink, too, but arguing with Joyce was an exercise in futility. Colt hadn’t had a paycheck since his first year on his own at eighteen.

On day eight, Colt was leaning against the bricks facing the employee parking lot and blowing smoke into the cool morning. Tires rolled up, a diesel engine rumbling as Beau pulled into his parking spot. Colt took another long drag and puffed smoke rings up toward the sky as Beau walked toward him with those measured, heavy steps.

“Morning, bossman,” Colt greeted. “How’s—”

A hand slapped him in the chest, and Colt grunted, dropping his own to the spot and finding a flat cardboard box. He fumbled it, nearly dropping it to the ground. Nicotine gum. Colt raised his eyebrows at Beau’s back as Beau unlocked the door.

“Quit that shit.” Beau’s voice was low and deep. “Unless you wanna pass out trying to hold your breath through a smoke cloud going two hundred miles an hour.”

Colt stared at the box, then turned back to Beau, who was stepping into the shop.

Two hundred miles per hour.

Smoke clouds.

Holding your breath through—

The cigarette fell from his mouth and hit his hand on the way down. He hissed as the cherry burned his finger, already moving toward the door. “Wait. Hold on. Does that mean—are you—”

Full sentences wouldn’t come. He followed Beau into the shop, and Beau stopped at the front desk like he did every morning. But unlike every other morning, Colt couldn’t even pretend to sit still. His feet took him sideways three steps, then back. He ran his hands through his hair. “Holy shit. Holy shit, you’re—”

“Get your coveralls on and clean the bathroom, Colt.” Beau’s voice was even as it ever was, all deep southern drawl as he turned the computers on and took out his clipboard.

Maybe Colt was imagining shit he wanted to see, but he swore he saw a soft quirk to Beau’s lips under his mustache. The teeniest smile, but Colt’s heart slammed against his ribcage anyway.

“You just called me Colt,” Colt pointed out, grinning like a moron.

“Get to work before I change my mind, boy.”

“Yessir!” Colt scrambled past the desk and fumbled with the lock to the garage.

The day dragged in that special hell kind of way that days tended to drag when Colt started them ready for them to be over. Every minute pulled through hot taffy before it could pass onto the next one. Colt wasn’t a big enough dumbass to press his luck and ask Beau when they could start, or why he’d changed his mind, or if he was being for real. But, fuck, he really wanted to. Every time Beau passed through to his office, filed a paper, sipped his coffee in the lobby, Colt bit his tongue to keep the hundreds of questions he had at bay.

He was patient.

Mostly.

The sun begun to dip at five thirty, and everyone in the shop was gone by seven fifteen. Colt popped his third piece of gum for the day into his mouth as he walked out the front. It was totally cool that he didn’t know what was going on yet. He could wait. He could be good. He could not know without losing his whole goddamn mind, okay, because—

“Get in the truck.”

Colt spun, catching Beau locking up the back door. He’d changed into thick, gray sweatpants and a dark green compression shirt. There was a gym bag slung over his shoulder.

Before his brain caught up with his feet, Colt was halfway across the parking lot. “Where are we going? A track? Wait, no. Ankle monitor. No cars. Are we—”

“Get in,” Beau repeated, hand on the driver’s door handle.

“Yep. Right. Got it.” Colt scrambled around the side of the truck and hopped into the passenger seat.