24. Beau
24
BEAU
It’s not that I was surprised to get the text. I’d be more surprised if I wasn’t invited.
Part of me knew this was coming. I’m the reigning champion, the one to beat. Of course they’d want me back, to defend my title or crash and burn trying. It’s good for ratings, good for the bets. The Gauntlet isn’t just about racing, it’s about the spectacle, the drama. And what’s more dramatic than the cocky golden boy taking on all challengers?
But this time, it feels different.
A strange mix of anticipation and dread coils in my gut. I know the stakes, the risks. The shit that goes down in this tournament is on a whole other level from the rest of the street racing scene.
There are no rules, just a finish line and a fat stack of cash waiting for the driver ruthless enough to want it bad enough.
I’ve lived between the thin grooves of chaos for so long, I didn’t know there was another way. I’m still not sure. But lately, I don’t know, it doesn’t feel the same.
Something is off. It’s like an itch under my skin that I can’t quite scratch, a restlessness that has me pacing around my car like some kind of caged animal.
I stare at the text message again, the words glowing on the screen. Same instructions as always. Wait for coordinates, don’t be late.
As if I need the reminder.
I’ve been doing this shit for years, since I was barely old enough to reach the pedals. Racing is in my blood, the thrill of it singing through my veins like a drug I can’t quit.
But there’s a new addiction forming, one that scares the fuck out of me. It’s not the rush of the race or the high of the win. It’s something softer, yet infinitely more dangerous.
Eloise.
Her name whispers through my mind like a siren’s call, tempting me to crash upon the rocks of my own desire. I can’t get her out of my head. The silk of her hair slipping through my fingers, the honey-gold of her eyes in the glow of the streetlights, the breathy catch in her voice when I touched her.
This can’t possibly be normal, right?
Nah, there’s something wrong with me. Maybe it’s one of those brain-eating amoebas or something, making me hallucinate.
It doesn’t seem reasonable to obsess over one woman so much.
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog of Eloise from my brain. I need to focus, get my head back in the game. The Gauntlet waits for no man, and it sure as hell doesn't care about my bullshit feelings.
Popping the hood of my car, I prop it open and lean over the engine block. The sharp, familiar scent of motor oil and gasoline fills my nostrils, grounding me in the present moment. This, at least, makes sense. The inner workings of an engine, the delicate balance of power and precision.
I check the oil, the amber liquid coating the dipstick. It’s a routine I’ve done a thousand times, but there’s a strange comfort in the ritual of it.
I lose myself in the mechanics, tweaking and tuning, my mind narrowing to the task at hand. It’s a welcome distraction from the tempest of thoughts swirling in my head.
The sun beats down on the back of my neck as I work; the heat sinking into my skin from the open garage door. A trickle of sweat runs between my shoulder blades, the humidity wrapping its sticky fist around my throat.
Time stretches and warps, minutes blending into hours until the sky bleeds into shades of orange and pink. The light slants long across the garage floor, and I think about pausing to grab something to eat.
His thunderous footfalls give him away every time. Even over the bass reverberating through the custom sound system, I hear Graham’s angry gait storming down the hallway that leads to my garage.
Graham and I share a block of three maisonette apartments. We each have our own three-story maisonette, and the one in the middle is a shared space. If we ever have family over, it’s in the middle one. It’s not uncommon for us to meander into each other’s spaces, but he usually calls me first.
“Three, two, one,” I murmur, pointing toward the door without lifting my head from under the hood.
The door swings open, and right on cue: “What the fuck, Beau?”
I wipe the grease from my fingers, tossing the rag over my shoulder as I straighten and face him. I flash him the Carter smile. Well, come to think of it, I’m the only one in the family who has this smile. So I guess it’s not the fucking Carter smile after all, is it? Damn, guess today is the day for all kinds of revelations.
“Brother! What a pleasant surprise. What brings you to my humble garage this fine evening?”
“Cut the shit. Want to tell me why the hell your name’s on the Gauntlet list?”
“Ah, about that.”
Graham crosses his arms over his chest, his long dark hair tied back in a neat bun at the base of his neck. With his size and that sharp, assessing glare, he looks more like a modern-day Viking than my brother. I get why people are intimidated by him. It’s why everyone brings me the problems at The Alley, and he stays in the back office.
“You know, big brother,” I start, leaning casually against the Hellcat, “did anyone ever tell you that you have one of those faces?”
He huffs a sigh, already over my bullshit. “What the fuck is going on? I thought you weren’t running the Gauntlet this year.”
I shrug and close the hood. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t.”
“But you are now.”
“Looks like it, yeah.”
Exasperation radiates off him as he rubs a hand over his face. “If you were going to run, why the hell didn’t you do the pre-qualifier at The Alley?”
“Simple, man. I wasn’t planning on running back then.”
He looks to the ceiling, muttering something under his breath about patience. Good. The man needs to lighten up, anyway. It’s a good thing he has me to get him to chill out every once in a while.
“Look, Beau. I know, okay?”
My heart stutters for a beat before kicking into overdrive. I keep my expression carefully neutral as I lean back against the car. “Yeah? Know what?”
“I know about the inheritance.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken truths. My mind scrambles to connect the dots. How the hell does he know? And more importantly, why? The whole point was that Nana Jo’s will was read privately for each of us.
Shit, I still don’t know what some people inherited from Nana Jo and that was over a year ago.
A laugh bubbles out of me, low and disbelieving. “Goddammit, Graham. You hacked the lawyer’s office, didn’t you?”
He shrugs, glancing away like it’s no big deal. “They’re a law firm, Beau, and they don’t even have basic firewall protection. It wasn’t hard.”
“So it’s their fault? That’s what you’re saying?”
“I’m not saying that.”
“How long have you known?”
He hesitates, then sighs. “I got curious after about a month. You stopped racing and wouldn’t tell me what Nana Jo left you, so I decided to do a little investigating.”
“You fucking hacked the lawyer’s office. That’s not what I’d call investigating.” I shake my head, caught somewhere between disbelief and inevitability. This is exactly the kind of shit Graham would pull.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice is quieter now, tinged with something I can’t place. Hurt, maybe.
Uncomfortable, I shift my weight and look away. “Does it even matter? I broke the terms anyway.”
Silence falls again, heavy and suffocating.
“Why’d you race in Clearwater, Beau? What’s going on?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
I look at him, imagining his reaction if I admitted the truth: that I threw away a fortune for a chance to spend time with a woman I met two months ago. Even thinking about it makes me feel insane. No way in hell I’m telling him that.
I swallow roughly and force my face into a smile I don’t feel. “If I win, maybe I’ll tell you. In the meantime, why don’t you tell me about your inheritance, since you seem to know all about mine?”
He saunters down the stairs into the garage, brushing past me. “Nah. It’ll never happen, so it’s not worth talking about.”
Before I can ask what he means, he changes the subject, running a hand along the Hellcat’s fender. “What do we need to do to get her in top shape for the first race?”
“When’s that race, hmm?”
He glances over his shoulder, smirking. “No insider trading, man.”
A laugh escapes me. “Insider trading? This isn’t fucking Wall Street, Graham. Who are you fooling? The Gauntlet’s built on back alleys and dark zones.”
He tsks, finishing his stroll around the Hellcat. “Yeah, well, you’re gonna have to wait for the text like everyone else.”
“And when’s that text coming?”
Jogging back up the stairs, he throws a grin over his shoulder. “Three days. Get the Hellcat in top shape, bro. Maybe swing it by a real mechanic.”
Top shape . Graham always says that when he’s worried about something. Get the house in top shape, there’s a storm coming. Get the Alley in top shape, we’re gonna be a Gauntleted-qualifier.
Looks like I’m not the only one who doesn’t trust the Gauntlet’s lawlessness. The Gauntlet doesn’t reward strategy; it rewards the reckless.
I glance back at my Hellcat, running a hand along the edge of the hood. I’m good at the basics, but for top shape , I need a professional. And lucky for me, my sister’s in love with one.
Looks like I’m heading to Reaper’s Garage tomorrow.