Page 65 of Jackrabbit

“Yeah?” Kendrick snapped, storming after him. “That how you pay that coach? He looks like the type that likes pretty kids on their fucking knees.”

Colt dropped his bag and stalked toward Kendrick, a set of boots hurrying toward them from the left. Kendrick smirked, and Colt bared his teeth. “The fuck did you just say?”

“You heard me.” Kendrick tipped his head back. “That old pervert clearly—”

“Colt,don't—”

Too late. Colt snagged the collar of Kendrick's shirt, yanked him down, and socked him right in his stupid fucking face. It was a good hit. He could tell by the way his knuckles split.

With his mouth, Colt was used to fights. He'd had to learn at an early age not to write checks he couldn't cash. Kendrick was fit like all the drivers, but being fit didn't make you able to take a punch, and Kendrick very clearly hadn't taken many punches. He went down like a ton of bricks, gravel scattering under his weight.

Arms wrapped around Colt’s waist, and he was hauled back. He grinned a mean grin at Kendrick, but let himself be pulled away. He'd proven his point.

Kendrick scrambled up and spat a mouthful of blood. “You stupid little—”

“Watch yourfuckingmouth, Kendrick,” Beau snarled, his voice rumbling through Colt’s back from his chest.

“He decked me!” Kendrick wiped his mouth, spreading blood across his cheek. “I'm gonna call—”

Beau pushed Colt behind him, blocking Colt’s view with his broad back as he stomped over and loomed above the bigot. “You call whoever you want. Go ahead. But you better take a second and look behind you.”

Colt peered around Beau's shoulder. The driver for car #15 and two crew members wearing purple and teal were watching warily. They were clearly within earshot, standing like they'd been rushing over at the same time as Beau.

“Everyone here heard what you said. How you called him a faggot, what you implied about us,” Beau continued. “Track rules on harassment and hate speech are crystal clear. You wanna take Colt down, fine. But I swear on my mama’s grave I'm takin’ you down with him. We clear on that?”

The single most inappropriate time for Colt’s brain to short-circuit intoholy fucking shit that's hot, but the authority, the threat, the growl in Beau’s voice—

Fuck. Me.

Kendrick bared his bloody teeth, but didn't say anything else. Just turned on his heel and fucked off, shoving past the onlookers and spitting one more time before he disappeared around the corner.

“That was a good punch,” one of the guys in teal and purple—Gar’s crew—called.

“Deserved it,” the other one said with a shrug. “That guy's a pig. Always making passes at Gar's wife.”

The driver for car #15, a short, bald guy with a full beard, came over and held out a clean shop rag to Colt. “Here, son. Check those knuckles.”

He held his hand out to Beau. “Name's Henry Kade. I'll give a statement if you need it. We heard him from the off. Already coming to get him out of here when your boy laid him out.”

Your boy.

Colt’s breath caught. Not. The. Time.

“Thank you,” Beau said. “I don't think he'll say anything. Soon as he calms down he's gonna think about the fact that he got rocked by the rookie he's been calling a princess all week. He won't want that spread.”

“Gonna spread anyway.” Henry stroked a hand down his beard. “Things have a way of getting around here. Not everyone is a Kendrick, but prepare for some ugly.”

“Mhmm.” Beau shook his head. “I'm gonna get us out of here before he decides to come for round two.”

“That really was a good punch,” Henry told Colt as Colt gingerly wrapped his knuckles. “Good race, too. I hope to see you back.”

“Count on it,” Colt said.

Henry walked off, and Colt sighed. “That guy—”

“Get in the truck.” Beau’s voice was glacial, and Colt’s arms broke out in goosebumps.

“Beau—”