2. Beau
2
BEAU
The room buzzes with a familiar mix of tension and excitement that marks the annual coalition meeting. I lean back in my chair, fingers tapping an idle rhythm on the table’s edge. Around me, faces shift in conversation—some lined with years of experience, others still taut with the raw hunger that comes from being new to the game. It’s the same group, more or less: old-timers who could probably fix a carburetor in their sleep, brash up-and-comers who think they’re invincible, and the ones like me, caught somewhere between knowing better and missing the thrill anyway.
The chatter has a pulse to it, steady and sharp, like static, punctuated by the clink of glasses and the shuffle of papers. But the energy in the room doesn’t reach me the way it used to. Instead, there’s a dullness inside that I can’t shake. A weight pressing down on me for weeks, and a dull thrum of apathy that doesn’t belong here.
Two years ago, I would’ve been on the edge of my seat, vibrating with anticipation. The Gauntlet was everything—high stakes, high risk, and the kind of adrenaline that made you feel alive in a way nothing else could. Winning it had been the pinnacle, a moment that solidified my reputation and made people talk. But now? Now I sit here, arms crossed, wearing a smile that feels like a mask.
Maybe it’s because I’m not racing this year. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been sitting on a secret for over a year now. It’s the kind of truth that changes everything.
These were easy decisions, but both of them left me feeling like I’m half-alive, craving that rush while stuck in neutral.
“Carter, you good?” A deep voice across the table cuts through the noise, drawing every eye to me.
My brother, Graham, sits to my left and gives me a look that’s half-smirk, half-checking in. Older by fourteen months, he’s always been my biggest protector and never missed an opportunity to call me on my shit.
Business partners and best friends, we reclaimed the previously abandoned Avalon Falls Alley Speedway race track together years ago. Combining Graham’s business savvy with my talent behind the wheel, we turned our love for racing into a semi-legitimate business on the outskirts of town. We’ve poured our blood, sweat, and tears into making the Alley a success. Our seats in the coalition are a testament to that success.
I nod a few times and flash my trademark confidence. “We’re all set,” I lean forward, elbows on the table and catch Hammond’s approving nod.
Curtis Hammond, with his gray stubble and hands that bear the permanent stains of engine grease, looks pleased. “Good. I don’t need to remind you that hosting a pre-qualifier is no small thing, boys. Make sure it’s got legs, especially since we won’t get the usual Carter crowd .”
A muscle in my jaw ticks at the mention of the “Carter crowd,” the group of drivers and thrill-seekers who used to follow the Gauntlet like roadies.
Some were rivals, others were hang-arounds, affectionately calling themselves cheetahs, but they all came for the same reason: to watch the chaos and maybe get a taste of it.
The Alley receives a share of the driver buy-in for hosting the pre-qualifier, so the more drivers that enter the Gauntlet, the more money we make. And that’s not even taking into account the profits from the actual event day sales and bets.
But after my temporary retirement, there has been some chatter of a decline. The only thing people love more than an underdog is to band together to take out the top dog.
Graham, ever the tactician, cuts in with a level voice. “We’ll handle it. You just make sure Clearwater’s ready for their share.” That’s the thing about my brother—he’s got a knack for sounding calm when there’s a storm brewing. I wish I could borrow some of that tonight. Instead, I settle for the amiable smile that’s always come naturally to me, hiding the gnawing frustration underneath.
There’s a collective grunt of agreement before the conversation shifts again, and I let my gaze wander. The hum of the room fades into background noise as I scan the faces, familiar and otherwise. Across the table, fucking Slick Rick Gannon throws me a smirk. He’s always had an opinion about me, mostly because he can’t beat me and he fucking hates me for it.
“You worried about handing over your crown to me this year?” Rick’s voice cuts through the noise, drawing a laugh from a few others.
I smirk, tilting my head just enough to meet his eyes. “I could still beat you with my eyes closed and hands tied behind my back, Slick Rick .”
The laughter that follows is louder this time, and I let it wash over me like the tide. It’s easier to play the part, to let the familiar banter fill the silence that’s been creeping in lately.
Rick clenches his fist, his eyes narrowing on me as he mutters, “Prove it.”
Before I can reply, Graham shifts beside me, his fingers drumming against the table as he steers the conversation back to logistics, leaving the jokes behind.
The meeting wraps up with the usual handshake deals and knowing nods. We’re in the middle of nowhere, which is ideal when holding a meeting about an illegal street racing tournament. But the threat is always there. And if we all get swept up together, then we’re all likely to go down for something. That’s one of the biggest reasons we only meet once a year.
I push back my chair, stretching out the tension that’s settled between my shoulder blades. Around me, the coalition members disperse, and I take a slow breath. The room feels lighter now, the stakes set, the countdown started.
“Beau Carter,” a syrupy voice coos. I turn, meeting the calculated smile of Callie Sharpe, one of the coalition’s sharpest minds and most dangerous players. She’s a fucking shark with the kind of ambition that eats people alive just for the fuck of it.
“Sharpe,” I reply, keeping my expression neutral.
She leans in, the scent of her perfume—floral and heavy—wafting between us. “How about a drink to discuss your plans for the Alley? I’d love to hear how you’re going to outdo yourself this year.”
I force my smile to stay easy. Callie’s been playing this game for years, and I’ve grown tired of it just as long. “Wish I could, but I’ve got plans with Graham.”
Her eyes narrow before she recovers, the smile returning as if it never slipped. “Another time, then.”
Hard fucking pass .
“Sure,” I lie smoothly, knowing full well there won’t be another time. Fucking never is what I wanted to say.
I watch her retreat into the throng of coalition members and feel the familiar itch of escape. These meetings are a necessary evil, but they always leave me feeling restless, like I’ve outgrown a skin that used to fit just right.
“How many years do you think you’ve got left before she corners you with an offer you can’t refuse?” Graham mutters as we step outside.
I flip my baseball cap around, shielding my eyes from the afternoon sunlight. “How long has it been?”
The side of his mouth hooks into a grin. “Since she was interested? Fuck, probably like ten. Since she started blatantly hitting on you? I don’t fucking know. You tell me.”
“Lost count.” Too fucking long.
I was sixteen the first time Callie Sharpe propositioned me outside of a race. I turned her down then, and I’ve been doing it ever since. It’s fucking exhausting.
“Ain’t that the fuckin’ truth,” Graham mutters as we make our way to our cars, side by side. His dark eyes gleam with concern, and he pushes his hands into his pockets, looking every bit the laid-back mastermind he is.
I glance at him, the hint of a smile fading as that familiar ache returns. I shake it off and clap him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry so much, bro. In two months from now, we’re gonna be swimming in cash.”
He lets out a huff of dry laughter. “I’m not worried about money.”
The cool night air hits my face, sharp and bracing. Clearwater isn’t Avalon Falls, but there’s something about it that feels familiar in the way a lot of small towns do.
I chuckle, shaking my head. I know exactly what he means, but for now, we’re good. “One day she’ll learn.”
“Or one day, she won’t,” he replies, eyes glinting with that knowing look he gets. He claps me on the back, and for a moment, the weight of his hand is grounding.
“Headed home?” I ask, watching the way his gaze shifts, assessing, always calculating.
“Yeah. You?”
I spin my hat around, letting the sun warm my face. Going back to the quiet house feels a little more depressing than I can stomach. “Think I’ll take the scenic way back.”
Graham’s grin turns wry. “Wouldn’t expect anything less. Try not to find too much trouble, yeah?”
“Me? Trouble?” I give him a crooked smile, one that’s half true and half bullshit.
He shakes his head, the laughter in his eyes as familiar as our shared history. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you later, man.”
With that, he’s gone, leaving me standing alone on the curb. The air hums with life, but it feels distant, like a song I used to know the words to but can’t quite remember.
I climb into my car and start driving. The wind swirls around me, and the road stretches out before me, dark and endless.
There’s an ache inside me I can’t quite name, a need for something that feels real in a way that hosting races and throwing money around never will. Two years ago, I thought I’d found it in the roar of an engine and the thrill of crossing the finish line first. Now? Now, I’m not so sure.
Tonight, I’ll drive until the road runs out, and maybe I’ll get lucky.