18. Beau
18
BEAU
I drink in the sight of her, feeling greedy and wanting more than these stolen moments on a darkened sidewalk. Her hair falls in soft waves around her face, and I ache to reach out and tuck a stray strand behind her ear, to let my fingers linger on the smooth skin of her cheek.
The air between us feels charged, electric with unspoken words and unacknowledged longing. Or fuck, maybe I’m projecting.
I tap the hood of my car twice. “Don’t move, Peach.”
I’m not letting her go that easy. Not when I’ve found her again. Fate has a funny way of bringing people back together, and I’m nothing if not an opportunist.
She pauses, dipping her chin an inch. I’ll fuckin’ take it.
I slide behind the wheel of my Hellcat, the leather molding to my body like a second skin. The engine purrs to life as I turn the key, the vibrations thrumming through my bones. It feels like adrenaline personified.
I turn around and park on the other side of the road, cutting the engine quickly. I slide out of my car, swinging the door closed with a satisfying thunk. The night air is cool against my skin as I start across the street, my strides purposeful and unhurried. I twirl my keys around my index finger, the metal jangling against itself in a familiar rhythm.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I whistle a tune, some old rock song that’s been stuck in my head all day. I stop in front of her, my fingers itching to touch her.
The street lamp shines a halo over her, bathing her in golden light. She’s stunning from every angle, but up close, she’s a goddamn vision. She looks like some kind of Greek god, and I feel like fucking Hades about to corrupt her. Suddenly, I understand all too well how easily he went from adoration to abduction.
I drink in every detail of her like a man dying of thirst. The way her strappy green dress hugs the curves of her body, the fabric clinging to her hips and flaring out over her toned thighs. The dusting of freckles that dance across the bridge of her nose and trail down to her collarbone, like constellations mapped across her sun-kissed skin. I want to trace them with my fingertips, connecting the dots until I’ve memorized every pattern.
Her eyes are a shade of gold I’ve never seen before, flecked with hints of amber and framed in thick dark lashes.
Goddamn, do I want to kiss her.
“What are you doing?” she asks, brows furrowed.
“Walking you to your car.” I stuff my hands in my pockets to stop myself from reaching out to her.
She scoffs and starts walking. “I can manage on my own.”
“I know.” I fall in step beside her. “Humor me.”
She huffs, but I don’t miss the glint of something—amusement, maybe?—in her eyes. “Fine. But if Slick Rick and the douchebags come back, let me handle it.”
“Don’t worry, Peach, he won’t.” I take two big steps behind her, putting her between me and the buildings and stores on our left.
Because if Slick Rick comes back, he’s gonna get acquainted with my fist. Again . That asshole runs his mouth too much. And he runs his mouth when he’s feeling insecure, which means he’s always talking shit.
I like to think I’m a moderately reasonable guy, but there are things in life that I just won’t tolerate. And Rick Gannon sniffin’ around my girl is on the top of the list.
“What kind of name is Slick Rick, anyway? It sounds so lame,” she mutters.
I match her leisurely pace as we head toward the block party festival. I’m in no hurry to end my time with her.
“It matches him perfectly. He’s a slimy little bastard, but he’s mostly all bark, very little bite.”
“And you? What do they call you then?”
I chuckle, the sound low and rumbling in my chest. “I’m sure they call me a lot of things, Peach. But none of it is true.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “That’s what they all say.”
I flash her a grin, enjoying the back and forth between us. It feels easy, natural, like we’ve known each other for years instead of a day.
We reach the end of the block, the sounds of the festival growing louder with each step. I stride half in front of her, my body moving on instinct to shield her as I scan the road. My eyes flick left and right, ensuring the coast is clear before we cross.
Without thinking, I reach my hand behind my back, palm up and waiting. Her fingers brush against my palm, a whisper of a touch that sends a jolt of electricity up my arm. I curl my hand around hers, her skin soft and warm against my calloused fingers. She doesn’t pull away as we step off the curb together, crossing the empty street.
The festival pulses with life around us. Music spills from open doorways, the salty-sweet scent of popcorn and funnel cakes fills the air, raucous laughter and snippets of conversation float on the summer breeze. But I barely notice any of it, my entire focus narrowed down to the way her fingers intertwine with mine.
We fall into a comfortable silence, but it’s anything but quiet. We’re approaching the heart of Clearwater’s block party, and the night feels alive.
I glance sideways, watching Eloise take in the sights. Her gaze lingers on a group of people dancing to a band set up in the courtyard of a cafe, a small smile playing on her lips.
“So,” she says suddenly, pulling me from my thoughts. “How can you race in the Gauntlet and run the Alley at the same time?”
I wasn’t ready for her question, but the fact that she’s asking means she’s thinking about me. I rock back on my heels, letting out a low chuckle. “So you watched me drive tonight, huh?”
She rolls her eyes, but a faint blush creeps up her cheeks. “Don’t flatter yourself, Carter. I watched everyone drive.”
I clutch my chest with my free hand. “You wound me, Peach. Carter ? It’s like that now, hm?”
She smirks, bumping her shoulder into mine. “Isn’t that what your friends call you?”
I grunt, my head rearing back as I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. It takes her two more steps to realize it, our hands outstretched and fingers still locked together. She looks over her shoulder at me, and I feel like the world tilts on its axis for a moment. The playful glint in her eyes, the way her lips twist into a mischievous grin, the breeze sweeping a few pieces of her hair across her cheeks.
In all my years racing fast shit, there’s only been a handful of times that I actually got hurt. I always chalked it up to luck more than anything. I wasn’t ever the most careful child, and I definitely didn’t adopt that trait as a man. But there was one time that always sticks out. I’d just gotten a dirt bike from my grandpa Dalton, and he tried to tell me to go slow, learn how to ride the bike before it spit me up and left me worse for wear, as he’d say.
I remember thinking that I didn’t need lessons. I didn’t need someone to tell me to go slow. So I took it onto the backend of their property, Magnolia Lane, and I let that thing rip.
He was right, of course. I hit a divot in one of the little hills, flew over the handlebars like a goddamn slingshot, and wound up with a broken collarbone and a healthy appreciation for helmets.
I’ll never forget the jarring way I lost my breath. I never saw the divot, so I didn’t have time to brace. The doctors said that’s ultimately what helped me. My body wasn’t tensing, it just absorbed the blow.
I wasn’t bracing for Eloise, but damn if she didn't knock the wind right out of me all the same.
She tugs on my hand and arches a brow with a small laugh. “Are we not friends?”
I’m already shaking my head, doing my best to push away the bone-jarring impact of Eloise. “Nah, Peach. We’re not friends. Let’s grab something deep-fried, and I’ll go over all the reasons why we’re most definitely not gonna be friends.”
She laughs, and I feel like a fucking sap for the way I can feel my body fueling fucking pep as I take the two steps to reach her. I don’t think I’ve ever really felt pep in my step before, but I gotta say, I don’t hate it. Not if it means I get to spend time with her.
I steer us toward Batter Up. It’s a colorful food truck parked in front of what looks like a music store. A large menu board hangs on the side, chalk-painted with whimsical illustrations of corn dogs, funnel cakes, and cookies dancing around the edges.
She leans toward me and looks at the menu. Vanilla peaches ambush my senses, and I’m taken back to the last time I got dosed with her scent.
God, just her scent is turning me on. What the fuck is wrong with me, honestly.
“A deep-fried Oreo?” she muses, her eyes growing wide as she looks up at me.
I swipe my tongue along my bottom lip, my gaze narrowing on her plush bottom lip. “I’ve never had that one, but I bet it’s good. Anything deep-fried and covered in chocolate sounds good.” My favorite is the banana. They deep-fry it, dunk it in chocolate coating, and sprinkle peanuts on top of it.
She side-eyes me. “Even Brussels sprouts?”
My lip twitches at the sass. “I mean, have you tried Brussels sprouts deep-fried and dipped in chocolate?”
“Well, no,” she says with a grin, her nose scrunching up a little. It kind of reminds me of a rabbit. Like one of those cute little bunnies Ma chases out of her garden . . . and oh my god, what the actual fuck is happening right now? Am I having some kind of malfunction? Since when did I start to think of women as cute woodland animals?
No, not women. Woman. One.
My Eloise.
My Eloise?
Her smile falls as her gaze bounces around my face, and I cough to cover up whatever the fuck was happening to my expression. “Yeah, sure, let’s, uh, get that.”
“Okay,” she says, dragging the word out and stepping up to the counter.
“Welcome to Batter Up. Can I interest you in a deep fried funnel cake on a stick today?” the guy behind the counter asks. It sounds like this is the thousandth time he’s recited this little pitch.
“Hey, yeah, I’ll take the Oreo, and he’ll take Brussel sprouts.” She hooks her thumb over her shoulder toward me.
“Oh, uh, yeah. We don’t have that here,” the guy behind the counter says. He looks between the two of us and scratches the back of his neck. “You want something else?”
I blink, a flush creeping up the back of my neck. The guy behind the counter is staring at me expectantly, and I feel like an idiot.
“Uh, banana. Please.” I reach into my back pocket and pull out my wallet, fishing out a twenty-dollar bill. I slide it across the counter to the guy before Eloise can even think about paying. She shoots me a look, her brows knitting together, but I just shrug and give her a lopsided grin.
"My treat, Peach," I murmur, leaning in close so only she can hear. Her eyes narrow slightly, but there's a glimmer of amusement in their golden depths.
The guy behind the counter takes the cash and hands me back some change. “Your order will be up in just a few minutes. You can wait over there.” He points to the other side of the food truck, where a small crowd has gathered.
“Thanks, man,” I murmur, dropping my change in a tip jar on the counter.
We step to the side as more people line up behind us, the scent of fried dough and melted chocolate filling the air. Eloise leans against the side of the food truck, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. She's close enough that I can feel the heat of her body, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to reach out and pull her into me.
“So,” she says, her voice casual but her eyes intense. “You never answered my question. How can you run the Alley and race in the Gauntlet at the same time?”
“It’s a bit of a gray area.”
“Ah,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear and glancing over my shoulder. “You don’t want to tell me.”
I drag my hand over my beard, buying myself a couple of seconds. “Nah, it’s not that, Peach?—”
“It’s fine,” she interrupts me, shifting her weight and glancing away again.
“How much do you know about the Alley?”
“Let’s see,” she says like she’s settling in to launch a lecture. “The Alley was once the belle of the ball, much like the speedway is here, though it was never in the middle of downtown. Because that shit is wild. But some old dudes let it go or sold it or something like thirty years ago. Some punk kids stepped in?—”
Amusement tap-dances along my spine. “Is that me? Am I one of the punk kids?”
She gives me a sidelong glare. “I don’t know, Beau Carter , are you?”
I hold up my hand, fingers splayed in the Vulcan salute. “I’ve mended my wild ways, scout’s honor.”
Eloise’s eyes widen, her lips twitching as she fights back a smile. “I don’t know what that is, but it’s definitely not the boy scout sign.”
I grin, unrepentant. “Don’t tell me you don’t recognize the classic Star Trek salute.”
She shakes her head with a small laugh, the sound bright and unexpected in the night air. It washes over me like a warm breeze.
“Can’t say that I do.”
Wonder hums underneath my skin. “Maybe I’ll introduce you to the gang sometime.”
“Yeah, maybe, when you’re not running the Alley, right?” she asks, her smile still lingering.
I whistle. “Damn, Peach, obsessed much?”
She arches a brow and gives me a look that says seriously ? “I live in Avalon Falls, remember?”
“Yeah, funny how that worked out, hm? Yet, here we are, hours away in another town, meeting again,” I muse, letting that sink in for a minute.
“Here we are,” she murmurs, a small smile playing at the edge of her mouth.
Fuck it. I’m gonna tell her. She already knows the biggest secret I have. What’s another one?
Plus, I saw her race the other night. She’s fucking good. There’s no way she doesn’t make it to the Gauntlet.
My impulsiveness might take me out one day, and all I can do is hope that it’s not today.