Page 48 of Jackrabbit

Eyes on me.

Jesus fuck.

Colt swallowed. Did Beau know how fucking dom-coded he was? God, probably not. That was kind of worse. Kind of hotter, too, this big, gorgeous bastard walking around just casually being all…you know,that. Not that Colt had any dom experience personally, but he’d spent enough time on certain websites recently to see it in Beau.

He was having a whole moment, and as Beau’s eyes flicked down to Colt’s mouth, Colt really hoped it wasn’t obvious.

“Third is real good,” Beau said, catching and keeping Colt’s gaze. Entirely unaware of what he was doing to Colt, as per fucking usual. “But that doesn't mean you go in there cocky, y’hear? That 25 is going to be a problem. Guaranteed. Can spot that type from miles away.”

“Yeah, well, asshole is a universal language.” Colt shifted his hips and tapped his fingers against the roof of the car. “You think he's bad, you should see the dudes I raced against before all this.”

“Mhmm.” The signal to get to the grid sounded just as Beau was opening his mouth, and he snapped it shut instead. He nodded and reached past Colt to grab his helmet off the seat. “Listen.”

Colt had already started rezipping his suit, but he paused with a hand on the zipper to look back up at Beau.

“You have it, Rourke.” Eyes searched Colt’s face, Beau's voice low. “You know you do, and so do I. Go prove it to the rest of them.” Beau's hand landed on the back of his neck—brief, firm, then gone. "Now get in there.”

Colt finished zipping his suit with the lingering feeling of Beau’s grounding hand on his neck. Beau handed him his helmet, and Colt slid it on before pulling himself up into the driver’s seat and clipping the harness in place. Those big hands of Beau’s reached in for the usual harness check—running the straps, tugging once, twice, his knuckles brushing Colt’s collarbones throughthe suit—and then he patted Colt on the helmet. Two sharp taps that meantyou’re good to go.

The grid was tighter than he'd expected it to be because of the small local track, but no tighter than racing three guys down Main at ass o'clock at night. Colt flexed his hands against the wheel. They'd had rain in the early afternoon. Just enough to make the air sticky and thick, and sweat was already pooling in the hollow of his throat as heat seeped up from his seat. Engines revved and barked all around like echoes. Someone popped behind him, and just ahead, #25 rocked on its suspension as Tracker feathered the throttle.

Hot rubber and oil fumes filtered into his nose, carried by the chewy, damp air. Colt pressed his palm against his chest. The wasp dug into his skin, and he pressed harder as the announcer on the PA babbled something that may as well have been Latin for all the good it did down on the track.

But he could see. When the green flag dropped, they were gone. He didn't take off like a shot anymore. Over this week of practice runs, he’d figured out the right momentum. Which was good, because being in a pack like this, taking off like a bat out of hell probably would have gotten him in a situation warranting a bad flag.

It was like racing in a traffic jam at first. Cars on all sides, close enough to see paint swirls on fenders. No room. His foot twitched over the throttle, searching for a gap. A door, Beau had called it.

Turn one, turn two—he hit every apex exactly where Beau had taught him. The car felt locked in like an extension of his hands.

At turn three, Kendrick went wide, and there was Colt’s door. Muscle memory told him to gun it before the gap was gone, and he hit the throttle hard. He had excellent control on turns, he knew, if he could just be fast enough, just get it right, he could—

Kendrick whipped back in front of him so fast that Colt had no choice but to correct. It sent him right off the track on the inside, where his tires skidded, and he kicked up a violent spray of pebbles. He didn't spin out. Didn't crash. Ofcourse not. Colt had iron control. But the move cost him, slowing him enough that two cars zipped around him.

“Fuck,” he hissed as he straightened out.

The car screamed, the air was thick and hot despite his speed, and the wasp was biting into his chest under the harness like it had opinions about the shit-ass move he'd just pulled.

Shit. Shit, fuck.

Chapter 29

“Man, that was tough.” Xavier stepped up next to Beau and pulled off his hat to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “Colt’s gotta be bugging.”

“Mhmm.”

Colt had started in third and ended in fourteenth. That wasn’t near as bad as it could have been, and was more or less what Beau had expected for his first time on a track. You couldn’t train the street racing out of Colt without other cars around, so there was only so much Beau could do in private sessions. It was a shitty lesson, and he’d hoped Colt wouldn’t have needed to learn it, but it would serve him later.

Camila approached with Liam trailing right behind her. “There he is.” She pointed toward the yellow Camaro pulling into Colt’s spot, though Beau’s eyes had been tracking him since checkers.

“Where’d your parents go?” Xavier asked, tucking his hat in his back pocket. “I’m in love with your mom, by the way. Thought you should know.”

“They knew he wouldn’t want them to see him after that, so they left.” Camila crossed her arms and worried her lip. “He…well, you’ll see.”

Beau could guess what she’d been about to say, though he tried not to. How should he know, anyway? He’d only known Colt a few months. Maybe he was wrong.

“I’m gonna go see if he needs anything.” Liam tossed a water bottle in the air and caught it. “Water, at least. I’ll be right back.”

He jogged away, dodging the crowd swarming the field. When he approached the car, he pulled down the netting and leaned inside with one arm on the roof. His body was blocking Colt from view, but it looked like Liam was talking to him. After a minute, Liam stepped away from the car and set the water bottle on the roof before jogging back to them. Frowning, he shook his head.