Page 25 of Jackrabbit

“I don’t want to step on your toes, but—”

“Yeah, I know I’m poor,” Colt snapped, and Beau felt his own lips briefly part. The kid crossed his arms and looked at a point over Beau’s shoulder. “I’m a big boy. I’ll figure it out. I already owe you enough, Mr. Moore. Don’t make it worse.”

Not one single time since that first night had Beau seen Colt prickly like this. Defensive, spitting like an angry cat with its back up. He stepped away from the desk and held out his hands. “I didn’t mean—”

“You should start posting about your progress,” Camila said softly from the lobby.

She was standing with her hands tucked into the pockets of her jean shorts. She offered Colt a smile. “You know. Gym pics and videos, fitness progress, show what it takes to go from street racer to NASCAR. You’re already famous. Ride that wave. People fund their dreams through social media income all the time.”

Colt was silent again, and he reached up to run a hand over the top of his hair. He nodded. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. I could post videos of my sim runs. The crashes, then the progress. People will eat that up.”

“And maybe you’ll catch the eye of a sponsor, or Liberty will see and decide to help with the cars or race fees or…” She pulled her hair over her shoulder and twisted it between her hands. “I don’t know. I know nothing about racing, but the point is that people already love you. They’re going to love watching this journey, too.”

Nodding, Colt tucked his hands in his pockets. “You’re right, like always. Thanks, Mila. I’ll start tonight, actually.” He turned to Beau and offered him a half smile. “Promise I’ll keep you one hundred percent out of it. I know you value your privacy. No one will see you, or hear your name associated with mine. You’ll just be The Coach.”

“Alright,” Beau agreed. Something twisted in his chest at Colt’s consideration. But it wasn’t new, was it? The boy acted like a wrecking ball, but he was always careful not to topple anything. Pushing, but never too far.

“I was going to take off, since we don’t have training tonight,” Colt said after a moment. He hooked his thumb over his shoulder toward the door. “Everything’s done. You okay if I go?”

No, was the honest answer. No, he wasn’t okay with Colt leaving when he was like this, when Beau hadn’t had a chance to figure out how to fix it, when he didn’t have a clue where to start. But what was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do?

“Yeah.” He nodded and watched as Colt immediately looked away. “See you in the morning.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Moore,” Colt called over his shoulder.

Camila caught his arm as he passed and leaned in. “Hey. Want a ride? We could go somewhere, maybe? Get a drink.”

“I can’t drink right now. Not part of the meal plan.” Colt shrugged her off, but reached out and pulled her head in to give her a kiss in her hair right after. He let her go. “Thanks, though. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Love you,” Camila said as he walked off.

“You too,” Colt called back over his shoulder.

They watched as he walked outside and put his hands in his pockets before turning toward his apartments and setting off into the dimming sun.

“What happened?” Beau asked.

Camila ran both hands through her hair and stopped at her neck, pulled on it and tipped her head back. “I said something I shouldn’t have, and he…dammit. My big fucking mouth.”

“What did you say?” Beau asked, and maybe he was sharper than he’d meant to be, but he couldn’t help it. Everything feltwrong.

For a long moment, Camila kept looking at the ceiling. Then she dropped her arms and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll fix it.”

“Camila.” Beau stepped forward and ducked his head to catch her eye. “I feel like this’s got something do with me somehow. Tell me what happened.”

But she didn’t give. Camila shook her head and turned away. “It’s fine, boss. Thanks for your concern though. I’m gonna take off, too.”

“Alright,” Beau said, because there really wasn’t anything else he could do.

***

Two days after the party, Colt was quietly cleaning the counters and Beau was trying not to crawl out of his damn skin. Colt was quiet in training, quiet in the truck on the way home, quiet when he showed up to work, quiet when he went to Joyce’s, and quiet when he came back.

Beau fucking hated it.

And he was damn well on his way to hating his own last name now, too.

Good morning, Mr. Moore.