Page 43 of Jackrabbit

The third lap, something shifted. His body knew the track now. Brake points came naturally. His hands moved smoothly on the wheel. The car stopped feeling like something he was fighting and started feeling like an extension of himself. And when he came through another turn and rolled into the throttle instead of jamming it, the rear squatted and gripped. He hoped Beau had seen that.

Beau wasn't moving. Colt could feel him there—a shape at the edge of the track every time he came through the front stretch—but he wasn't waving him in, wasn't stopping him, wasn't doing the thing every other person in Colt's life had ever done, which was try to hand him the answer. Beau understood, better than anyone ever had, that Colt had to feel it before he could be told it. There was no instruction manual that would ever make sense to him. If he got it right, it locked for him. If he got it wrong, he could feel that too and had a point to start.

He was finishing up lap four when Beau hiked himself partway up the pit wall so he could wave him in, and the world that had faded slipped back into focus by measures. The heat. The sound. The ache of his hands on the wheel, his foot on the brake, his neck fighting the HANS.

Play time was over, and Colt was buzzing to hear what Beau had to say.

***

Colt pulled up next to Beau, and the engine was still ticking as he fumbled his harness open and pulled down the window netting so he could haul himself back out the window. He was stumbling like a newborn calf, but grinning as he took off his helmet and trotted the few steps over to where Beau was standing.

Sweat plastered his hair to his skull, there were red marks along his cheeks from his helmet, and his eyes were vibrant. He ran a shaking hand over his wet face.

Fuckin’ beautiful.

“Beau, oh my God!” Colt went to set the helmet down on the car that wasn’t next to him, put it under his arm instead, and nearly dropped it. Then he set it on the ground at his feet and shook out his hands. “Did you see that? Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.”

Beau couldn't help the way his lips twitched into a smile as he watched Colt vibrating out of his skin. Boy was pure kinetic energy. Beau chuckled. “Yeah, boy, s'the whole point, isn't it? Me watching.”

Colt laughed, and it was startled, unrestrained, and relieved. The comedown from adrenaline, the thrill of finding his stride. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. But— ”

“Holy shit, I know.” Beau settled his hand on Colt’s shoulder and squeezed. “Take a breath. You wanna pass out before you hear what I saw?”

Colt took a shaky inhale, then another. His shoulders dropped a fraction under Beau's hand.

"Alright." Beau squeezed one more time before letting go. He put his hand in his pocket so he didn't reach out again. "You came in way too hot on that first lap. Knew you would—street racer habits. Jamming the throttle, braking early in the turns like you're about to drift through."

Colt's face shifted, the grin fading just slightly, but he kept listening. Good. The boy wanted to learn, not just be coddled.

"But you adapted fast. Found your braking points by lap three—that's quick for a first session. Your hands smoothed out, line got consistent. That throttle application coming out of six on lap three?" Beau paused, made sure Colt was listening. "That was clean. Smooth roll-in, no wheelspin, you felt the weight transfer and worked with it. That's not street racing, Rourke. That's proper technique."

The way Colt's whole face lit up—that shy, pleased smile trying to hide behind cocky—made Beau's chest feel tight. The boy tried to play it cool, ducking his head and running a hand through his wet hair, but his shoulders straightened. He had a glow Beau was starting to recognize, one that said he'd done good and knew it.

"You've got natural feel," Beau added. Almost to himself. "Can't teach that.”

“And you doubted me when we first met.” Colt grinned at him. “Surprised you, huh, old man?”

“All the time,” Beau admitted because he was tired and Colt’s elation was contagious, and maybe because he wanted to see that shy smile back.

Which wasinappropriate.

“I wanna go again,” Colt said after a minute. “I was so close to—”

The desert had her own ideas. That distant thunder rumbled again, and it wasn’t so distant anymore. Lightning zipped across the sky and threw the whole track into sharp relief.

“We're done today,” Beau told Colt as he glanced up at the dark, churning clouds. “But I told you we'd be out here every night. Same time tomorrow.”

Nodding, Colt undid the collar of his suit and pulled the zipper open. He rubbed the back of his neck. Colt had to be aching something awful after being on the track for the first time.

As they loaded the car back onto the trailer, the first drops of rain slapped down against the back of Beau’s neck. And he wondered if Colt had a hot compress at home, if he should give him one. If he should bring Colt back to his own house and set him on his couch and make sure he ate.

Probably not. Not with the way he couldn't seem to bring himself to stop looking after last night. With the way he'd gone to bed at the asscrack of dawn, trying not to think about what Colt was doing with that girl.

“I'm starving,” Colt said. He'd stripped off the suit and was standing in pink shorts that showed too much thigh and a black long-sleeved compression top. “Come eat with me? There's a place on the way.”

“It's late.”

“Uh-huh.” Nodding, Colt pulled his necklace back out from under his top and let it rest on his chest. “But if you don't come, I'm going anyway. And who's to say what I might get? Horchata. Fatty, fatty refried beans. Maybe a concha for dessert.”