Page 5 of Jackrabbit

“Holy shit,” Colt breathed.

Heart slamming against his ribcage, Colt stared up at Merc, the owner of Merc’s Motorworks. The same man Colt had heard his friend Camila gush about for years, a hard-ass who was apparently very kind but had been nothing but an asshole to Colt since he’d walked in. God. Oh, fuck, was Colt even breathing?

Tall and broad, Merc’s skin was golden, his thick black hair peppered with silver. He had a mustache and dark stubble, and Coltknew him.

“Merc,” Colt whispered, the man in question looking at him like he’d lost his damn mind.

Fuck. Had he lost his mind?

“Fuck. Me.” Colt ran his hands through his hair and left them there for a long moment on top of his head. “Mercer. Beauregard Mercer Moore. Holy shit. That’s you, isn’t it? You’re Beau Moore.”

Beau didn’t answer, but it didn’t matter. He’d been staring at that damn poster half of his life. Beau Moore was watching Colt with the sort of unreadable blank look Colt had never been good at deciphering. But Colt was too busy reeling to even try at this point.

“You’reThe Reeve,” Colt said when he remembered how to breathe again. Beau flinched, and Colt stepped closer. “Oh, shit. This changes everything. I’m Colton Rourke, by the way. Beau—can I call you Beau? Doesn’t matter. What matters is that Ineedyou to coach me. Please. I’m dirt fucking poor, but Ican—”

“No.”

Colt shook his head. “You don’t understand what this could mean for me. Please. I’ll work here for free. I’ll sign you into my contract so you get a percentage of my winnings. Beau, please, I—”

A hand fisted in the front of Colt’s shirt, and oh, shit, Colt was so goddamn small compared to this man. Beau dragged him forward, his teeth bared.

“You keep that name out of your fool mouth.” Beau smelled like grease and old-money cologne, heat furiously radiating off the huge fist pressed against Colt’s chest. “You got five seconds to haul your little ass outta my shop before I carry you out. You hear me? I don’t race. I don’t coach. And even if I did, I wouldn’t waste my time training some kid who’s on the fast track to death or prison.”

Colt’s breaths were coming in short, shallow bursts. “The fuck did you just say to me?”

“You heard me, boy.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Colt snapped, his voice raw. “You can’t—”

“You strutted into my shop after hours with your expectations and dug up a past you knownothin’about.” The fist in his shirt tightened as Beau dragged him closer. “Like it was your right. Because that’s who you are. I’ve met hundreds just like you. Full of yourself. Every person you meet nothin’ but a goddamn steppin’ stone.”

“You think I don’t know your past?” Colt’s eyes burned, and he pulled himself back. His shirt stretched, the seams popping before it finally slipped from Beau’s grasp. “I do. I know everything about your past. I know you were the best road course driver I’ve ever seen.”

“Stop.” Beau reached out for Colt again, but Colt danced out of his reach.

“I know you were the type of driver who made his competitors’ palms sweat.” Colt crossed his arms. “Frank Howard said that the first time he ever racedagainst you was the closest he’d come to losing his title in years, and that was your rookie season.”

“I said stop.”

“I know you were the favorite. That everyone knew you were gonna be unbeatable.” Colt clenched his fists at his sides and glared up at the man he’d idolized half his life. “And I know you crashed so hard you almost lost your left leg. That another driver hit you. He died, and you disappeared.”

Beau was very still. The kind of still that made Colt feel like maybe he should run. God, this was a really big man.

“You know stats.” Beau’s voice had gone low, his accent thicker than ever. Colt stood his ground as Beau took another step toward him. “You saw interviews, watched races, and what? You think that means you know me? You don’t know shit about me. You don’t know shit about real racing. You don’t know the cost.”

Colt had seen those eyes smile hundreds of times in hundreds of interviews, had listened to that drawl talk about racing, about dreams. And now the same eyes were staring at him like he was something nasty stuck to his shoe, telling him he didn’t know anything, was going nowhere. Colt’s hands went cold, and he scowled.

“You don’t know shit, old man,” he hissed, blinking hard. He laughed, a mean, harsh little laugh. “You think I don’t know the cost? I’ve paid it. Fuck you and your bullshit superiority. I’ve lost so goddamn much for racing.” Sniffing, he tipped his chin up. “I know loss. And I know cost.”

“Then you should know better,” Beau told him, flat and cold. He pointed toward the door. “Get out.”

Colt swiped at his eyes with the back of his wrist. He was such a fucking idiot. What had he expected? He looked up at Beau and squared his shoulders.

“You’re really not The Reeve anymore. Just some washed-up old man who used to be something once.” Colt tucked his hands in his pockets and turned toward thedoor. “Later, Merc.”

The desert heat washed across his cheeks as he stepped back into the night, his sneakers crunching on gravel. He was nearly out of the alley and to the sidewalk when something inside the garage crashed, echoing out into the night and startling a pigeon into flight. Parts scattered across the garage floor, pinging and rolling, clicking together.

Colt hunched forward and kept walking, his ankle monitor digging into his skin.