Page 116 of Jackrabbit

“But not the trophies? The Legend Cars?” Colt ran his finger up Beau's happy trail to his stomach, which he might be developing a kink for. He pressed his palm into the hard muscle under the layer of fat. “I'm sorry. I just—”

“Don't need to be sorry. And you don't need to tell me either.” Beau kissed his hair. “But I'd like to know, if you're willing.”

Considering Colt had thrown Beau’s past in his face multiple times by now, Colt figured he owed him. Even if he didn't, there was something about Beau’s steady presence that made Colt want to tell him everything.

“My parents, Charlotte and Tobias, own the Rourke Foundation for Theoretical Physics and Global Sustainability.” He let that land for a minute, remembering the way Camila had nearly imploded when he'd told her a couple years into their friendship.

“Sounds fancy,” Beau murmured. “They rich then?”

Colt laughed and kissed Beau’s sternum. “Yeah. Filthy rich. Got a whole building dedicated to them at ASU.”

“And yet here you are,” Beau ventured, all gentle and steady.

“Here I am.” His breath fanned across Beau’s chest as he sighed. “The disappointment who couldn't sit still like his brother, who spent his time in the garage instead of racking up volunteer hours for a future Ivy League application.”

Beau hummed, still touching, not pushing.

“Anyway. Connor was the golden child. They knew he'd get into MIT before he was twelve.” His heart twisted, but it wasn’t the soul-sucking pain that talking about Connor had brought up two months ago. “And they smothered him to death over it. When he was fifteen, he started street racing in the Corvette my grandad left him. Wiped the floor with everyone.”

Beau snorted. “Genetic, probably.”

“Yeah.” Colt's hand drifted to Toast's head, and he scratched behind those fluffy ears. “Great Granddad raced. Cormac Rourke. Dad hated him for it.”

Beau went still. "Cormac Rourke." Not a question. Recognition.

"You know him?"

"Know OF him. He was—Christ, Colt. He was a legend. Three-time Indy champion in the sixties. They called him the Red Comet." Beau shifted to look down at Colt. "You're his great-grandson?”

“Yup.” Toast batted at Colt’s fingers, and Colt poked his nose. “Great Granddad died when my grandpa was fifteen. Con and I thought maybe that was why everyone hated racing so much. Great Granddad chose it over his family again and again. Then he died and it left a scar on everyone else.”

Beau was quiet, processing maybe. That stillness was one of the things Colt liked best about Beau. Everything about Colt was so loud. The contrast calmed him.

“I went to some kid's birthday party when I was, like, seven. Connor brought me because our parents had a charity event or some shit, you know, but they'd rented this go-kart place where the karts go a lot faster than they should.” Coltlaughed. “I wiped the floor with every one of them, and Connor said he'd never seen me so happy in my life. Used his street racing winnings to put me in a kart, and I dominated there too.”

“You're looking at the Cup Series.” Fingers traced Colt’s shoulder blade. “You kart because your great-granddaddy did?”

Heat flushed up Colt’s cheeks, and he cleared his throat. “No. Um. I watched NASCAR races with my friend's family and—uh.”

“And?”

Colt sat up and rubbed the back of his neck. “And there was this driver I really looked up to. A rookie who raced like he was a veteran.”

His eyes flicked to Beau, who had pulled himself up on his elbow and was watching him like he knew exactly what he was about to say.

“The Reeve. I know that's—I know it's weird, okay? I didn't—I mean I was just a kid, right? And I know I still have your poster, but—wait, fuck. No, forget I said that. Shit, that's—you know that's not why I—”

Beau’s hand cupped the back of his neck, and Colt stilled. Fuck. Goddamn. This was embarrassing. What if Beau thought that was the only reason he wanted him? Like a goddamn groupie, or—

“Deep breath, boy.” Beau sat up too and bracketed Colt with his long legs. “I knew you watched me race, remember? Wasn't exactly a secret considering the way you talked when we first met.”

When Colt had laid out Beau's past like a moron. Jesus fuck. Colt leaned back against Beau’s chest despite the way he'd just lost it like a freak. “Sorry.”

Beau wrapped both arms around Colt and pulled him closer, hooked his chin over Colt’s shoulder. “Why'd you go to Legend Cars instead of USF2000? Three-time WKA champion—you should have been well up on the ladder to Indy.”

“Ah, well.” Colt shrugged. “I stole Con's street car when I was eleven. Nearly outraced his best friend before Connor chased me down in the ‘Vet. I liked the power, the dirt, the weight. Besides, Connor was good, but a season of USF2000is, like, two hundred and fifty grand. Legend Cars cost fifteen k and a willingness to fight dirty.”

“You know what?” Beau shook his head, his stubble rubbing roughly against Colt’s shoulder. “Couldn't picture your feral ass in an IndyCar, now that I'm thinking about it.”