Page 10 of Jackrabbit

“First of all—rude. I have never messed with your career, ma’am.” Colt held up one finger and then another. “Second of all, no. This is pure slave labor, baby. No pay for your local janitor slash receptionist.”

“Hey, you’re that guy,” an unfamiliar voice said from the direction of the shop. The kid with the backwards hat was standing in the threshold for the garage. He looked at Camila. “Holy shit! It's like having a celebrity in the shop—mopping? Shouldn’t he be in jail? Is this community service?”

“He’s here to clean, and if he’s gonna be a distraction, he won’t be here at all,” Beau said, leaning against the doorway to his office with his arms crossed and his glasses up in his hair. “Leave him alone. Ain’t no one famous here.”

“Sure, boss.” Camila shoved Colt again. “Be good, you street punk.”

“I’m always good.” Colt wiggled his eyebrows. “If you know what I mean.”

Groaning, Camila grabbed the kid’s arm and hauled him back into the shop. The door snapped shut, and she yelled something in Spanish at the other two, who jumped back to their tasks like she’d cracked a whip at them. Scary, scary woman.

“You know her?” Beau asked as Colt pushed his mop again. “Is that how you learned about me?”

“Nah.” Colt dropped the mop in the dirty water bucket and swished it around. “We’ve been friends for a really long time, but she’s banned me from the shop. Said her boss is a real hardass and he’d hate me on sight.” Laughing, Colt wrung the mop out. “She’s got your number, huh?”

The weight of Beau’s gaze burned into his back, and he turned to find Beau watching him. Their eyes met, and Colt’s ears went hot.

“I’m serious.” Colt put the mop back in the water and leaned on the handle. “You worked on my friend Harvey’s Fastback a couple of years ago. When I hit up my network for anyone who might know someone with NASCAR experience, he told me that the guy who owned Merc’s looked like someone he used to watch race. Mila would never. And, for what it’s worth, she doesn’t know shit about racing.”

“Mhmm.” Beau dropped his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. “Get back to work.”

Beau disappeared into his office, and Colt let out a short breath before he kept cleaning.

Chapter 6

“Boy, come here,” Beau called two full hours after he’d gone back into his office.

Bossy.

Colt dropped the pen he’d been using to doodle a box car. The whole day had been one long string of phone calls and absolutely fuck-all otherwise. The mechanics came in to check customers in and out, but otherwise he was standing still alone behind the desk and slowly losing his whole mind.

When he stepped into Beau’s office, he leaned against the door. Beau took off his glasses and set them on one of the neat stacks of papers surrounding him.

“Can I help you, Mr. Moore?” Colt crossed his arms, his lips quirking. “Coffee? Tea? Biscotti?”

“You work at being such a smartass, or does it come to you naturally?” Beau’s voice was even, like it almost always seemed to be. What was behind all that calm?

“Natural born, Mr. Moore.” Colt patted his own head. “Like my hair.”

“Go to Joyce’s and tell her I sent you to help with the lunch rush.” Beau pulled himself out of the chair and rolled his leg like it was stiff. “She’ll have an order for you to bring back when you’re done. Probably gonna feed you, too, since you turned her down this morning.”

Colt’s stomach wrenched. Yeah, coffee and literally nothing else since midnight wasn’t doing him any favors. “Alright. What time do you want me back?”

“Whenever she lets you go.”

“Yessir, Mr. Moore, sir.” Colt tossed Beau a salute and turned to make his way back into the lobby, already unzipping his coveralls. He stripped out of them right there in the lobby before balling them up and shoving them under the front desk.

He blew Camila a kiss as he passed the shop window. She rolled her eyes and gave him the finger, and he laughed on his way out the back door. The alley behind the shop led to Joyce’s diner, which he knew from taking out her trash this morning. His shoes dug into the gravel, and he stood by the shut back door to pull his cigarettes out of his pocket. He tapped one out and stuck it between his lips before cupping his hand over it and lighting the end. Smoke burned his throat and filled his lungs, and he sighed as he exhaled into the afternoon heat.

An alleycat darted past him, and when his eyes followed it he caught sight of the Camaro sitting on its stands in the back garage. The paint was deep, midnight blue. Beautiful car. Even better in the daylight, too, every inch of the body pristine. It was, what, a ‘72? ‘73?

Guilt clawed at his chest as his eyes drifted to the rolling workbench full of out-of-order parts. They’d been all neatly lined up last night, Beau working with methodical attention. Like meditation, maybe. And Colt had barged in and ruined that. The crash as he’d walked away had probably been this table full of parts scattering across the floor. Most of them were back on the bench at least, but he spotted a few shining under the toolbox and sitting against a stack of tires.

Maybe he hadn’t physically made the mess, but he was sure responsible for it, wasn’t he? He’d rolled around all damn night picturing the look on Beau’s face when Colt had mentioned his crash. Spat it out like he had any right to bring that up. God, he was an ass.

Colt looked back toward the back door once before tucking one of his hands in his pocket and making his way toward the diner.

Do better, Rourke.