Page 130 of Jackrabbit

Go home.

He didn’t mean it.

Didn’t take it back either, let it linger between them and suck out all the air in the room.

Beau didn’t move. He stood by Colt’s table like he was made of stone, something raw and cracked open in his expression.

“I won’t leave you like this.”

“This is what we agreed to, right?” Colt’s voice cracked, and he hated it. “Clean break. So consider it—”

Colt saw the hit land before he threw it.

“—broken.”

Beau’s expression flickered—Loss? Hurt? Something young and soft that Colt wasn’t meant to see—before his jaw tightened and he tried to pull it back. Tried and failed, but he stepped out of the door anyway.

He paused before Colt could close it on him and said over his shoulder: “I’m in room 412. If you need me.”

‘I won’t’was on the tip of Colt’s tongue, loaded and ready, but the look on Beau’s face when he’d ended things lingered like an afterimage from looking at the sun. He blinked and stayed silent, and when Beau left he shut the door softly behind him and leaned his forehead against it.

He stayed like that until he had his breathing under control before stripping off his shirt and tossing it to the floor. Then he dug the Alice Cooper shirt out and put it on before crawling into bed and dropping one of the pillows over his ear.

Chapter 55

Beau rested his back against the front doors of the Liberty complex and rubbed his eyes as he watched the sun rise. He hadn’t slept a goddamn wink. Had called Vic Navarro at ass o’clock at night and asked for the data from Colt’s first testing day, and then spent the entire night poring over it until he couldn’t see straight anymore.

Tires crunched on gravel, and Beau sipped his coffee.

“Mr. Moore,” Hoyt greeted as he approached in his yellow polo with the Liberty logo across the right breast. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“You’re drivin’ him into the ground, Hoyt.” Beau’s fingers flexed on his tablet, and he pulled away from the wall. “You’re lookin’ at the Lap Time and sayin’ he’s slow. I spent all night lookin’ at the Throttle-to-Apex Time. He’s getting back to 100% throttle sooner than Navarro does—he’s just doin’ it from a dead stop because the car won’t turn.”

“All due respect—”

Beau barreled over him and held out his tablet. “Just look, will ya? You’re chokin’ him down with wedge. Makin’ him drive a dump truck and gettin’ mad he’s not a goddamn ballerina.”

“I see where Rourke gets his colorful language.” Hoyt shook his head and stepped past Beau’s outstretched tablet, not looking at him as he opened the door. “I’ll be frank, Mr. Moore. I’ve seen the footage. I’ve watched his races from WKA and Legend. He has talent.”

“‘Course he does. If you’djust—”

Hoyt turned then, door open on its hinges. “But he drives it like he stole it. He always has, even when he was a kid. And you’ve encouraged it.”

This fucking—

Beau tucked his tablet under his arm. “You done condescendin’ to me, or you got some other bullshit to spout?”

“I’m not condescending to you,” Hoyt said, voice laced with enough condescension to choke a giraffe. “I’m simply stating facts. You handled him well, given what you had to work with. Now it’s my turn. Liberty wants a show pony? Fine. But he’s going to drive my way. I won’t watch him make a fool of me because he can’t control himself on the track.”

It had been a long time since Beau had wanted to deck someone as badly as he wanted to deck Hoyt right now. He worked his jaw and forced himself to keep his feet planted. He’d kept Colt safe from his own temper. Now he had to keep Colt safe from Beau’s.

“It’s not about you,” he said instead. “It’s about the driver. I get it. Racin’ got taken from you early. But this isn’t your show. It’s Colt’s. And if you’d just pull your head out of your ass for five seconds, maybe you’d see that.”

A low whistle sounded from behind them, and Beau turned to see Navarro standing at the edge of the parking lot with Walters on one side and Colt on the other. She clapped, slow and dramatic, and Hoyt’s shoulders stiffened. Beau hadn’t even heard their cars.

“I like him,” Navarro stage-whispered to Colt, standing next to him in black basketball shorts and a big t-shirt with the arms cut off.

Colt didn’t say a word, but his face was saying a lot. His wide eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep, maybe crying. What was he thinking? He’d told Beau to go home, that they were through, and here Beau was at six in the morning fighting with his Crew Chief. About to throw hands, probably, if he’d kept hitting that sanctimonious brick wall.