Page 131 of Jackrabbit

“Well.” Walters hiked her purse higher on her shoulder and eyed Beau like she was seeing him for the first time. “Good morning, gentlemen. I see wehave things to discuss.” She glanced down at her watch. “But we are on a tight schedule. So, if you’ll follow me, Marcus. Mr. Moore, please accompany us to the track this morning. You can sit on the War Wagon with Marcus.”

Navarro smirked and ruffled Colt’s hair before sauntering up to the door. She slipped the tablet out of Beau’s hands as she passed, turned to walk backward long enough to salute him, and kept going.

Hoyt looked like he was about to implode.

Colt walked past with his head ducked, shoulders hunched forward. Defeated. Guilty. All in his head in a way that made Beau want to get him out. He didn’t have the right now. Couldn’t put his hand on Colt’s neck or talk him down or—something else. But he could do this. He could fight for him this way.

Colt deserved every goddamn chance.

***

Standing on top of the War Wagon—behind Hoyt, who was sitting with stiff shoulders—Beau crossed his arms and leaned his back against one of the poles holding up the shade. Navarro was inside the wagon today. Reviewing Beau’s findings, with any luck. Theo was below them talking to the rep from Overthrow, a woman with one half of her head shaved to show off the phoenix tattoo from her temple to her throat. The rest of the Overthrow people were manning cameras around the track, and Walters was up in the Press Box.

That charcoal car zipped around the track, Colt’s breaths huffing in Beau’s ear as he tried again to muscle it into submission. Failing again, but this time on camera. This was going to haunt Colt.

Beau gave it three laps before he did something stupid that could get him thrown out. On the second, Colt tried again to follow whatever directions Hoyt was barking at him and spun out in a screech of tires and smoke.

Heart in his throat, Beau stepped up to the edge of the Wagon and pulled the binoculars off his neck. “Bring it in, Colt.”

Hoyt whirled on him. “Excuse me?”

“Be—Coach? I’m not supposed to—”Colt was breathless.

“Boy, you box it right now, y’hear me?” Beau kept his voice steady as he watched Colt’s car, listening to the silence.

“Yes, sir.”

Good boy.

The binoculars swayed when he slipped the strap over a monitor and started climbing down. He had his hands in a toolbox before Hoyt had moved from his seat, drawers clanging as the pit crew stood around watching him like they didn’t know what the hell to do. He stuffed a T-handle wrench in his back pocket and palmed a tire gauge as Colt’s car limped into the stall. The tires were thumping, smoke curling out from the wheel wells.

Beau didn’t wait. He caught the Jackman’s eye and held up four fingers, made a rapid circular motion with his hand. Then he pointed toward the rear of the car and made a cranking motion. He tapped his temple and pointed again. I’ve got the adjustment.Just get the rubber on.

For one single second, the crew stared and did nothing. Then the Jackman moved, and everyone else followed. A flurry of activity, a wall of sound as compression tools zip-zip-zipped and the engine rumbled. It smelled like a burning house from the tires.

He strode up to the window netting like he belonged there and flipped it down so he could lean in. Colt was red-faced and dripping sweat, his eyes wild, and Beau tapped his helmet twice before pulling back and seeking out the Gas Man. Who was a woman. He made a gesture like he was drinking from an invisible bottle, then pointed two fingers at his own eyes before making a fanning motion at the car’s window.

Like the Jackman, the Gas Man watched him for just a split second before nodding her head and scrambling to obey.

Trusting that she’d get Colt water and air, Beau pulled the wrench out of his pocket and leaned into the rear window himself.

“Coach, what’s going on?”

Beau fit his wrench through a small hole in the rear glass, and listened for the click as the socket seated onto the jack bolt.

“I’m giving you the rotation, boy. Hoyt had the car too tight for you.” He huffed as he turned the wrench. “The back end is gonna be on the moon for the first two laps. Don’t fight it, alright? If you spin this time, it’s ‘cause you weren’t fast enough to catch it.”

Another turn, and one more, the car groaning as the massive coil spring relaxed. By the time he was done, the right-rear corner of the car had settled about a quarter inch lower. It would be looser in a way that would probably scare the pants off someone like Hoyt, but to Colt that looseness was freedom.

Then he adjusted the right tires. Lowered the pressure in the front so more rubber touched the road, and raised the pressure in the back so it could slide easier.

He reached into the window and squeezed Colt’s shoulder once before he put the netting back up and moved back to safety. Made sure Colt could see him as he held his hands out flat. Colt revved, that grin sneaking onto his face despite the heat, the past two days. For that heartbeat, it felt like just the two of them again.

Beau slashed his hand down toward the pit exit. Colt dumped the clutch, and the loose rear end kicked out a few inches while the tires searched for grip. Then Colt was gone, screaming out of the stall in a cloud of scorched rubber.

***

The vibrations under his seat buzzed up his spine and into his jaw, and for the first time in days, Colt didn't feel the heat. The moisture, sucking the life out of him every other lap, didn't matter. The engine had been droning at him, but now it screamed along with his pulse as he zipped across the track like he had wings.