Page 73 of Jackrabbit

The first beer went down quickly enough that he was reminded he hadn't eaten any dinner, and he ordered a water. He didn't want to get shitty and not remember anything but the ache tomorrow.

“You're Colton Rourke,” someone said, and Colt turned to his left to see a man sliding into the stool next to him. Tall, with dark skin and a fluff of thick dark hair that stopped just above his round, wire-framed glasses, the man was probably in his 40s.

Colt grinned. “And you're very cute.”

The man laughed, warm and open. “Just as bold as your moves on the track, I see.” He held out his hand. “Sameer Kulkarni.”

“You can call me Colt,” Colt said as he took the offered hand and slid his fingers into it. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Pretty boys like you can call me Sam.” Shaking his head, Sam ran his thumb along Colt's palm before he pulled his hand back and turned more fully to face Colt. His shirt was tight and red, which looked very nice against his hair. “Allow me. I did approach you first, after all.”

“Sure,” Colt agreed as he slid onto a stool and turned to face the other man. “Whatever you're having is fine.”

“Vodka soda with lime,” Sam ordered.

“So.” Colt drummed his fingertips against the bar to the tune of the song blasting against his eardrums. “You a local racing fan?”

Sam smiled. It was a very nice smile, all soft with plump lips and dark eyes. “Definitely a racing fan, though only my parents are local. I'm visiting. But everyone I work with has been following your progress.”

Colt raised his eyebrows and turned until he was fully facing Sam just as his drink was dropped off. “Really? Where do you work?”

“Liberty Speedworks.”

The drink went down the wrong tube, and Colt tried very hard not to spew it all over the cute man fromLiberty—holy shit. “What?”

“I'm Vic Navarro's racing engineer,” Sam told him as he took a drink like he hadn't just dropped a bomb on Colt’s pulse. “We all heard about the offer after your first video.”

“Oh, shit”. Colt took a long draw from his glass to give himself time to think. This could be a real shitshow if he wasn't careful. When he lowered his glass, he set it down gently and leaned closer. “Are you here in an official capacity? Wild fucking coincidence if you're not.”

Sam shook his head. “Not at all. I'm very specifically tied to Navarro's car. Nothing to do with you or anyone looking at you professionally.” He made an X over his chest and offered Colt that charming smile. “Cross my heart.”

Colt laughed. Thank fuck. “That was real cheesy.”

“You laughed.” Sam shrugged and took a sip of his own drink. When he set it down, he made sure his fingertips were close enough to Colt’s hand to touch.

“So,” Colt started again as he pressed his hand into the contact of Sam's fingers. “You've all got a betting pool going on me, don't you?”

“Cheeky.” Sam ran his palm across the back of Colt’s hand to gently stroke his wrist. “But, also, absolutely we do. It's gotten out of hand, actually.”

“What's your money on?” Colt asked. He moved his free hand to Sam's knee, his knees pressing into Sam's thigh. “Fiery death?”

Sam chuckled. “No.” He leaned closer, too, smelling like light, pleasant cologne over clean skin. Colt tried not to think about spice and grease and sweat. Sam wrapped his fingers gently around Colt's wrist. “How about you give me a dance, and I'll consider telling you.”

“Deal.” He drained his glass and stood just as Sam did the same, and took the other man's hand to drag him out to the floor before he could remember what the callouses on Beau's palms felt like. Before he could think about what he was doing. Before he could stop.

The music was louder, and there was no room for the pretense of distance in the crush of bodies. Colt stepped back, and Sam pressed close as the threesome he'd been watching drifted closer to them. It was sweaty and loud enough to drown out all the ways this felt wrong to make room for the ways it felt nice—the warmth of Sam's breath, the steady rhythm of the bass in his chest, hands on his hips that wanted him without complication.

“I bet you'd crash out by week three,” Sam said against his ear, his thumbs dragging against Colt’s hipbones. “Glad I was wrong. So was Vic. She got a hundred bucks off me.”

Colt's chest tightened for a split second before he shoved the thought away and pressed closer to Sam, moving his hips back until he could feel the button of Sam's jeans against his bare lower back. He tipped his head onto Sam's shoulder. “I hope you learned your lesson.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Sam ran his hands up Colt’s stomach, catching on the fishnet and letting one of his fingers slip under Colt’s shirt. “You are stunning, Colton Rourke. Goodness.”

Colt nearly froze, just a heartbeat, but Sam must have felt it because he put his hands back on Colt’s hips immediately. That was probably why Colt turned and wrapped his arms around his neck.

He didn't have to reach too far. Sam was pretty close to him in height, close enough that it wasn't hard to half-shout into his ear. “Come with me to the patio?”

Nodding, Sam followed as Colt led the way through the dancers to the side entrance. He took the opportunity to breathe and remind himself that he'd done this countless times. Beau wasn't allowed to ruin it for him with his stupid perfect voice and his stupid hands and the goddamn stupid way he made Colt want to die when he called him ‘good boy’. Sam was nice. He was hot. And just because he was soft didn't mean Colt didn't want it.