Page 42 of Jackrabbit

They walked arm in arm to her car, and Colt tried not to think about how he might very well be ruined for anyone other than Beau right now.

Chapter 25

“You got too much energy for eleven at night,” Beau mumbled as Colt bounced around him. “Jackrabbit.”

“So long as I'm not a coyote.” Grinning, Colt tried to undo one of the ratchet straps securing a tire to the trailer. Beau slapped his hand, and Colt danced away, unbothered. “I'd be scared of flying breakfast food.”

“Get your ass down there and gear up.” There was no heat behind the words, and he could tell Colt knew it.

“Yessir.”

He bounded off the side of the trailer and opened the passenger door to grab his duffel. There was rarely quiet with Colt. While he dressed, he hummed. But Beau was used to it now—liked it even, though he'd keep that to himself on pain of death.

When the ugly ass yellow car was unstrapped, Beau walked down the ramp like a normal human. His leg ached, a deep sort of pain that meant there was rain incoming.

“What do you think?”

Colt was standing by the trailer in his new suit. Black with vivid, electric blue capped shoulders and one stripe down each side, the suit fit Colt beautifully. The black was sharp against the white of his skin, and the blue made him look just as vibrant as he actually was.

“Looks like it fits,” Beau said, just so that he didn't say what he was really thinking. Which was, unfortunately, something a lot less PG. He stepped up and adjusted the hems so they sat right.

Colt shifted on his feet—hadn’t stopped since Beau had told him they had the track for practice. “I think I look pretty.”

The collar was undone at the throat, unzipped partway down Colt’s chest. The wasp gleamed under the floodlights. “Mhmm. Pretty stupid, maybe.”

“Rude.”

Beau's jaw ticked. His knuckles brushed the hollow of Colt's throat as he fastened the collar, and he felt Colt swallow under his hand. He pulled the zipper up slowly and deliberately, his other hand steadying the fabric at Colt's sternum. When it was closed all the way to his neck, Beau tugged at the shoulders to check the fit.

"Arms up."

Colt obeyed, and Beau watched the range of motion. He adjusted where the suit sat across Colt's back, telling himself that he was being thorough, not looking for excuses to touch.

"Good," he said, stepping back before he did something stupid. "Gloves and helmet, then we'll go over the car.”

“Beau.” Colt grabbed Beau's forearm. “If I have to go over the car one more time, I might literally explode. I know. You've drilled it into my brain to the point where I can name every part. In your accent.”

“Better not try,” Beau warned, but he took the point and tossed Colt the keys, who beamed at Beau with both dimples at full force. “Get in and back her up. I'll make sure you're strapped in right. And don't you give me that look. You'll let me check, or I’ll take the wheel off.”

Colt hauled himself into the cockpit and clipped the six-point harness like they’d practiced. Beau leaned in through the window to check the straps, running his hands along them to make sure there were no twists. He yanked thema little tighter before humming in satisfaction, and thunder rumbled in the distance.

Once he was done checking him over, Beau put his hand on top of Colt’s helmet. “Alright, boy. You show me what you got.”

The engine roared to life, and Beau patted Colt’s helmet twice. He jogged off the track, and Colt waited exactly three seconds after Beau was safe to peel out. Too fast on the start, but Beau had expected that. Everything Colt did was fast. It was gonna take hard work to convince him to slow down.

***

Nothing could have prepared Colt for how different driving a late model stock car on a track was from everything else he’d ever done. He accelerated too quickly, the momentum throwing him back into the seat as his tires kicked up smoke. It didn’t matter, though, because the car was sticking to the track, the engine was screaming like a banshee, and Colt had never felt so fucking alive.

His neck strained despite the conditioning he'd undergone, and as he approached his first turn he remembered Beau drilling into him to trust the brakes. He did, but too soon, braking like he was taking a turn on a street despite all his time in the sim. When you took a turn too fast on the street, you either drifted, or you spun out and, if you were lucky, just fucked your car. So when he was coming up on a turn doing eighty-three, his instinct and muscle memory screwed him.

It took him three turns to get the braking right, to feel that sweet spot. But once he did, his body remembered for the next turn, and the next.

He'd never admit it, but the first few minutes, he was scared out of his goddamn mind. The sensory overload was unreal, he was roasting like a fucking turkey in his suit, sweat sluicing down his neck and into his collar, and the markers were coming faster than he could track.

The first lap was shit.

But on the second—as the harness bit into him hard enough he wondered if it would bruise—and he stopped looking at the wall, started his turn before he even saw it coming, he hit his line and time ceased.