47. Beau
47
BEAU
I’m flying around a bend, the Hellcat roaring as I simultaneously search for Peach and the fucking exit. I haven’t seen any headlights since I forced the Mustang off the track and into the cornfield ten minutes ago.
How big is this fucking maze, anyway?
I should’ve seen someone else by now.
A loud crack splits the air, echoing through the maze like a gunshot. My head whips toward the sound, a sick sense of dread coiling in my gut.
A heartbeat later, I see it. Black smoke billows from some place ahead, a thick plume that stains the dusky sky. It rises from the sea of green stalks like a beacon, a signal of something gone terribly wrong.
My heart seizes in my chest, a vice grip of fear squeezing the air from my lungs.
“Eloise,” I choke out, fear strangling me.
I shift and push the Hellcat even further. I pull up her contact and press call. Her voicemail picks up immediately.
“Don’t leave a message, just text me.”
“Fuck,” I curse and hang up.
I call her again. Voicemail. I call her three times, and her voicemail picks up every single time.
Like her phone is off or she doesn’t have service.
“Fuck,” I yell, slamming my hand on my steering wheel.
Terror fills my chest, expanding to take up every available inch. My fingers tremble as I call the one person who can help. Ringing fills the car, and I drum my fingers against the steering wheel.
“C’mon, Graham, pick up your fucking pho?—”
“Shouldn’t you be driving the semifinals right now?” Graham says, his voice dry.
“I need you to look at the GPS locations and tell me where?—”
He tsks. “You know I can’t help you cheat, man. Don’t ask me to.”
“Stop. Stop talking and listen. Where’s Eloise?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “What’s going on?”
“Tell me where the fuck she is, Graham. And then tell me how the fuck to get to her.” I take a left, driving deeper into the corn.
“Alright, Beau. I’ll look. Now tell me why I’m hacking into Jess’s GPS program right now.”
“There was a fucking explosion, Graham. I don’t know where or how or fucking who . But we got separated fifteen minutes ago, and I’m stuck in this fucking corn maze like a bad horror movie.”
“Fuck,” he mutters. I hear the tapping of keys in the background, and I fucking pray he can work his magic and jump in a backdoor or whatever the fuck it’s called.
I lean forward and look out the top of my windshield again. “Fuck, Graham, it’s a goddamn pillar of smoke. It looks like a car exploded .”
Graham’s voice is tight with worry when he responds. “I’ve got her GPS location, Beau. She’s about a half mile northeast of you. But her signal hasn’t moved in the last few minutes.”
My stomach drops, icy dread seeping into my veins. “Is she still on the track?” I ask, my voice rough.
“She’s still within the maze, but that’s all I know.”
“Fuck. Okay, I’m heading that way. Keep me on track,” I say, my voice tight as I whip the Hellcat east.
I strain to see ahead, praying for a glimpse of her car, of any sign that she’s okay. The pillar of dark smoke grows larger, the acrid stench of burning rubber and gasoline filling my nostrils even through the closed windows. Dread curdles in my gut, souring into full-blown panic with each passing second.
“C’mon, where are you, baby?” I murmur.
“Go left,” Graham directs. “Her signal is about a quarter mile ahead.”
I yank the wheel, the Hellcat fishtailing before straightening out. My heart pounds against my ribs, fear a living thing clawing and shredding my gut.
“She should be just ahead,” Graham says, his voice clipped.
I barely hear him over the thundering of my pulse in my ears. The smoke grows thicker, stinging my eyes and throat. I squint through the haze, desperate for any sign of her. And then I see it: the back end of a car, crumpled against the trunk of a large oak tree. Smoke pours from the crushed hood, flames licking up the trunk.
My heart stops as I slam on the brakes, the Hellcat skidding to a halt in a cloud of dirt and smoke. For a moment, I can't breathe, can't think beyond the all-consuming terror gripping my chest.
“Talk to me, Beau,” Graham says.
“Fuck,” I say on an exhale.
“Did you find her?”
“It’s not her,” I whisper. “She’s not here.” I clear my throat and look around. The driver isn’t in the car, so someone else must’ve stopped before me. “Where is she?” I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.
The brief moment of relief at seeing the wrecked car wasn't Eloise's is quickly swallowed by renewed fear. If she's not here, then where the hell is she? And why isn't her car moving?
“Her signal is stationary, about an eighth of a mile northeast of you,” Graham says, his voice tense. “Take the next right and floor it.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I slam the gear shift and hit the gas. The Hellcat roars as I take the sharp right, tires clawing at the dirt. My heart pounds a staccato rhythm against my ribs, fear and adrenaline a dizzying cocktail in my veins.
“You should be coming up on her any second now,” Graham says, his voice confident and even.
The trees thin, revealing a small clearing bathed in the fading light of dusk. And there, in the center of it all, is her car.
The back quarter panel took some damage, but her car isn’t on fire. So I’m calling it a fucking win.
“Found her.”
“Good. Is she okay?”
“I think so. I gotta go,” I mutter. “I’m out of the maze, so let’s keep this chat between us. Oh, and Graham? Thank you.”
“You’re my brother,” he says before he ends the call.
I swing the Hellcat next to her and ignore everyone celebrating in the clearing. I don’t bother counting the cars. I don’t particularly give a fuck where I placed right now.
I’m out of the car and yanking open her driver’s side door in five seconds flat.
She startles, jumping in her chair. “Beau?”
“Oh thank fuck,” I breathe out, dropping to my knees and leaning into her car. My gaze runs over her, my hands following, making sure she’s really in one piece.
“What’s going on?” she murmurs, her palms landing on the back of my hands, still them around her waist. “Hey, hey, talk to me.”
I drop my forehead to her thighs and exhale. “Fuck, Peach. I was so worried about you,” I mumble without lifting my head.
Her fingers tunnel through my hair in soft, smooth swipes. “I’m alright, see?”
Her fingers continue their soothing path through my hair as I take a shuddering breath, trying to calm the fear still churning in my gut. “I saw the smoke, and then I couldn’t find you. I thought—” My voice cracks, the words lodged in my throat.
Eloise’s hands still for a moment before she gently urges my head up, cupping my face between her palms. Her golden amber eyes search mine, worry and confusion swirling in their depths. “Beau, I’m okay. I promise.”
I turn my head, pressing a kiss to her palm, needing to feel her. “Let’s get out of here, Peach. I just need to take care of something quick.”
“Alright,” she says, pressing a kiss to the corner of my mouth.
I turn, catching her lips in a hard, fast kiss. “Wait right here.”
I push to my feet and stalk toward my car. Popping the trunk, I move a duffel bag out of the way and snag my baseball bat.
I whistle as I close the trunk, swinging the bat over my shoulder and walk toward the Camaro, its shitty paint job glinting in the fading light. The weight of the bat is familiar in my grip, the smooth surface worn from years of use. It’s not just for playing ball, and the poor bastard in the Camaro is about to find that out firsthand.
I stroll across the clearing, my boots crunching on the dry grass and dirt. The air is heavy with the acrid stench of burning rubber and gasoline from the wrecked car, but I barely even notice.
“Beau? What’re you doing?”
My girl’s voice cuts through the celebratory din, and I spin around to face her, still walking backward. “Did you know I used to play ball, Peach?”
She shakes her head, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip. “No.”
My heart clenches at how close I came to losing her tonight. How fucking scared I was at the prospect.
“I was one hell of a cleanup hitter,” I say with a cocky grin, giving her a wink.
I spin back around, my fingers flexing on the grip of the bat as I close the distance to the Camaro in a few long strides. The driver’s side window is halfway down, some shitty rap music blaring from the speakers. And Trent fucking Wallis sitting in the driver’s seat.
I see the moment he realizes he fucked up, eyes wide and hands scrambling.
I point at him with the end of my bat. “I fuckin’ warned you. And I warned your shitbag boss.” I don’t give him time to drive away or think, just enough time to duck.
The bat connects with the window in a glorious explosion of shattered glass. Shards rain down like a thousand glittering diamonds, catching the fading light and scattering it like raindrops.
Music still plays, but conversation has ground to a halt. I feel everyone’s eyes on me, but it doesn’t bother me. I’m used to it.
In fact, maybe people need a fucking visual. I readjust my grip on the bat, determined to give it to them.
Wallis thunders, “What the fuck, Carter?”
“I told you.” I take out his side mirror in one swing. “You mess with my girl, it’s a declaration of war.” I take out his headlights.
The sound of shattering glass fills the air as I methodically work my way around Wallis’ car, the bat connecting with metal and plastic in a satisfying cacophony of destruction.
“Are you fucking insane?” Wallis shouts, scrambling out of the driver’s side. His face is a mask of fear and anger, his hands held up in a placating gesture. “It’s just a fucking race, man!”
I pause, the bat resting on my shoulder as I level him with a cold stare. “Wrong. Consider this your formal warning.”
“Fine, you crazy motherfucker,” Wallis spits.
I swing the bat over my shoulder, whistling as I stroll back to my girl. Slowly, the chatter starts back up.
“Carter’s fuckin’ crazy.”
“Jesus Christ, who even is that girl?”
“Wallis should’ve known better.”
I let the commentary roll off my back like water on a duck. I don’t give a fuck what they say or think. As long as they get the message: Eloise Hawthorne is mine.
I march toward her, sliding my arm around her lower back and sweeping her into an all-consuming kiss.
“Now I’m ready to go, Peach.”