Page 141 of Jackrabbit

The blue paint gleamed under the shop lights, the original red seeping through in the spots where the paint had chipped.

‘You don't change the original color, Sutt, you lose thousands in value.’

Sutton had laughed, that wild bark of laughter. ‘Well, it's a damn good thing I ain't gonna sell it then, huh?’

‘You're eighteen, jackass. You might.’

‘Then I'll be too rich to give a rat’s ass about a few thousand bucks.’Sutton wrapped his arm around Beau’s shoulders and shook him. ‘Me and my best friend living that high life, trophies out our assholes.’

The blue was nicer than the red. It matched the color of Sutton's race cars, too, that sparkly kind of night-sky blue. Beau ran his hand along the hood and to the door, popped it open and thumbed the cigarette burn Sutton had put in it when they were twenty. Showing off for some girl with Beau and the guy he was dating sitting in the back. He'd burned his leg, and Beau had laughed until he'd cried.

Thousands of memories. Road trips, fights, beers by the cliffs, heartbreaks—they would have lived in this car if Ma would have let them.

Alive. They'd been so goddamn alive together, full of breath and laughter and thrill.

God.

Colt was right.

Sutton would have beat his ass if he'd seen the way Beau was living. Or not living.

Not until Colt.

Beau shut the door to the Camaro and dug out the tarp, army green and frayed at the edges. He pulled it over the car, the long, quiet hiss offabric echoing back at him. Then he flipped off the lights and walked to the bay doors, stood for just a moment and looked from one covered car to the other before nodding his head, shutting the garage door, and walking off.

Chapter 59

Fucking Phoenix.

Colt hated Phoenix. Hated how much hotter it was, hated the people, the dumbass drivers who didn't believe in turn signals, the endlessinterstates.

And the goddamn airport, apparently. As he yanked his sneakers back on next to a pile of stuff he'd had to pull out of his bag, he cursed Mateo for the extra two shots of Tito's before they'd all left. He wasn't dying, but he had a low-grade headache behind his eyes, and he kind of wanted to murder the yappy dog being dragged through the airport by a gleeful little girl.

He stuffed all his crap back in his bag and hauled it over his shoulder. They'd given him a townhouse near the Liberty facilities. Two bedroom, for whatever the fuck reason, and this bag was all he’d brought to put in it. The rest of his clothes and some keepsakes were being shipped via movers. He’d left his ratty couch and lumpy mattress to Xavier when he’d taken over Colt’s lease.

“Hey, nice shirt.” A guy with wild 80s curls gave Colt the finger guns. “Alice Cooper lives here, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

About two miles down from Colt’s parents, actually.

“Right on.” The guy smiled at him and walked off.

Stupid to be wearing Beau's stupid shirt still. It didn't even smell like him anymore.

He joined the hustle toward the gates, following the crowd toward one of the farthest terminals because the world was out to get him today. There wasnowhere to sit in the waiting area, so Colt propped his bag next to a pillar and stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows. His plane wasn't here yet, but it should be arriving in the next ten minutes.

A sound like an animal dying echoed down the hall, and Colt winced. Jesus. Was that a kid? Or a dog that needed to be put out of its misery?

Whatever it was, it was on his flight, apparently, drawing closer, people turning to look. Whoever that poor sucker was that was trying to bring his animal on this flight was going to have along fucking day.

When it sounded like the animal was right next to Colt’s ear, he finally turned.

And forgot how to breathe.

Toast.

The screaming animal was Toast.