Page 129 of Jackrabbit

He considered calling her, but couldn’t face the shame. She’d be at home, probably, sitting at the dinner table with her parents, and there was no way he could admit how horribly he’d just failed in front of all three of them.

A knock sounded at his door, sure and hard, and Colt didn’t have to look through the peephole to know who it was.

Beau, of course.

Colt dropped his bag on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed instead of answering.

Beau knocked again, and Colt didn’t move.

Again.

“Colt. Open the door.”

With a growl, Colt yanked the door open to find Beau standing outside with wet hair and holding a fast-food bag. Fried chicken. Bastard.

“What?” Colt snapped, and Beau raised both eyebrows at him before pushing past and walking in.

“I wanted to talk,” Beau said as he set the bag down on the table next to the gray couch and turned to catch Colt’s eye. “Today was—”

“Shit,” Colt finished. “It was shit. I was shit. I know it. You don’t have to tell me.”

“Wasn’t gonna.” Beau watched Colt with steady eyes. “I came to check on you.”

Colt ground his teeth and crossed his arms. “I’m fine.”

Bullshit. He knew it was, Beau knew it was, but neither of them were going to say it.

Beau stepped closer, and he smelled like his soap and cologne—it ached. “Colt, let me—”

When Beau reached out like he was going to touch Colt’s shoulder, his neck, Colt did something he’d never done before—he backed away. Quickly, clumsily, hitting the backs of his legs on the coffee table.

Beau flinched. Actually winced like he’d been struck, let his hand fall to his side.

“Don’t.” Colt dug his nails into his side, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“I just want to help,” Beau assured him, though he didn’t step closer again. Kept his voice soothing.

“You can’t.” Shaking his head, Colt stepped around the coffee table and moved back further. “I need to figure this out on my own, Beau. You—I can’t rely on you anymore.”

“Yes, you can.” Beau closed some of the distance between them, his shoulders rounded forward like he was trying to make himself smaller. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“For, what, two more days?” Colt threw up his hands, his voice rising quicker than he’d meant it to. “And here for what? You just—you sat there! All fucking day, you sat behind that wall and watched me drowning and didn’t say a single word. You—why are you even here?”

Fuck, that wasn’t fair. He knew Beau’s hands were tied, that he didn’t have a choice, and he was trying to respect Colt’s career. But it didn’t matter. The wound was open and hemorrhaging and Colt couldn’t stop.

Beau would have been well within his rights to get mad, to lash out, to tell Colt he was being an asshole and leave. He didn’t. Instead, he watched Colt with a look so full of understanding it was nearly painful. Like he saw right through Colt’s anger to the writhing, ugly core of the wound.

And that pissed Colt the fuck off.

“Darlin’, listen—”

“Don’t! Don’t youdarecall me that right now, are you kidding me?” Colt ran both hands through his hair and tugged, angry tears springing to his eyes. He should stop. This sucked, and he was spiraling. But he couldn’t. “Just—just get out.”

“Colt—”

“Get the fuck out of my room, Beau.” Colt stormed to the door and threw it open, pointing into the hallway. “Go. Go home.”

Not go back to your room.