16. Eloise
16
ELOISE
Beau leans against the hood of a sleek charcoal gray Dodge Challenger Hellcat, the epitome of casual confidence. The car gleams under the floodlights, its curves and angles speaking of raw power barely contained. But it’s Beau who commands attention, effortlessly drawing every eye.
Damn him. He looks good. Too good . I had all but convinced myself that I exaggerated how attractive he was.
I look at him like I’m expecting him to lock eyes with me, like we’re going to have some kind of epic movie moment.
But things like that just don't happen to people like me.
A flicker of regret rushes through me, but I push it down hard. I’m not here for him, not for whatever happened between us, and certainly not for any feelings I might be foolish enough to entertain.
And I hate that this development will sully my one night.
A swirl of emotions churns inside my gut: surprise, confusion, and a sharp pang of betrayal. I roll my eyes, annoyed with myself for being irrational. I don’t usually have such dramatic feelings, but I’m so caught off guard right now.
I know it’s not fair. Not really. He never lied outright to me. But seeing him here, in his element, it feels like a deception. Like that night we spent together was just a fantasy, a dream that dissolved tonight under the harsh light of flood lights.
What are the odds that we met in a town hours away, spent an epic night together, only to discover we’ve been living in the same damn place this whole time? Avalon Falls isn’t huge, but it’s not that small.
I tear my gaze away from Beau and slip back into the crowd, finding a spot in the stands with a clear view of the track. I lean against the metal railing, the cool surface grounding me as I try to calm the riot of emotions swirling inside me.
The air thrums with anticipation as the drivers take their positions, engines revving like a pack of restless beasts. I spot Beau’s Hellcat near the front, its sleek lines a sharp contrast to the flashier cars surrounding it.
A hush falls over the speedway, our collective breath held in anticipation. In the sudden quiet, the rumble of the engines seems to echo, a promise of the raw power about to be unleashed.
The starting light flashes green and the cars surge forward as one, tearing down the track in a blur of color and speed. It’s a dizzying sight, the pack jostling for position as they hurtle into the first turn.
My blood hums in my veins, adrenaline spiking and urging me to get in my car and join them. I can’t believe this was me two nights ago. Though the Alley is a lot more rustic than Clearwater. This feels like some kind of amateur weeknight race and not a pre-qualifier to an illegal Gauntlet.
My eyes are locked on Beau’s car as it slices through the chaos, moving with a fluid grace that seems almost otherworldly.
He’s fucking incredible.
I watch, mesmerized, as the Hellcat weaves through the pack with preternatural precision. It’s like watching a dance, each move calculated and flawlessly executed. He drifts into turns with breathtaking control, the back end of his car flirting with the other bumpers before he whips it back into line.
The other drivers fight for position, jockeying and swerving, their desperation palpable even from where I stand. But Beau remains untouchable, gliding through the chaos like a shark cutting through bloody water.
As the final lap approaches, the energy in the speedway reaches a fever pitch. The crowd is on their feet, voices hoarse from shouting and hands red from clapping. The air itself seems to vibrate with anticipation, charged like the moments before a lightning strike.
After toying with the other drivers, Beau takes the final turn with breathtaking precision and soars across the finish line in first place.
As people clap and cheer, I slip out of the crowd and leave the speedway. I’ve seen enough for one night.
The rumble of engines fills the night air, a discordant symphony of squealing tires and revving motors. I keep my gaze fixed ahead, determined not to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. But their voices grow louder, more insistent, as the cars slow to a crawl beside me.
“Hey there, pretty thing,” one of them calls out, his voice dripping with the faux sweetness that only the most entitled assholes use. “Need a ride?”
I glance to my right, at the car keeping pace with me. I recognize it from the track. A purple Mustang. It’s the kind of bright color that’s begging people to look .
I stare straight ahead, continuing my easy pace down the sidewalk. The sounds of the block party festival echo are loud enough that it sounds like it’s just a block over instead of nine.
“Aw, c’mon, sweetheart. Don’t be like that. We just wanna talk,” another voice from inside the car yells.
“Nah, I’m good.” Maybe if I flat-out tell them no, they’ll just move on.
Regret slithers between my ribs, taunting me for being stupid enough to park so far away from the track. It’s not like I had a ton of options, not when it’s in the literal middle of downtown Clearwater.
I reasoned it was safer this way, that if shit went sideways, and the cops came, I could easily make a break for it on foot, run the handful of blocks to my car, and dip out of town before they even caught wind of me being here.
I realize now that I forgot to factor in one small thing. A tiny complication, really.
Other drivers.
The Mustang’s engine revs, the driver trying to get my attention. My heart pounds in my chest, but I refuse to let them see my fear. I keep walking, my strides purposeful and unwavering.
"Last chance, baby," the driver calls out, his voice taking on a harder edge. "We ain't asking again."
I stop in my tracks, my fists clenching at my sides. A wave of exhaustion crashes over me, the kind that seeps into your bones and makes every breath feel heavy.
I’m so fucking tired. Tired of someone always wanting something from me. Tired of always being on guard, tired of the endless entitlement. Tired of being afraid. It’s the same shit, every single day. It’s infinite, without a single beam of relief at the end.
And I’m done with it.
Today is the day I’m going to do something reckless. I know I’ll wonder later if choosing to be reckless is actually the same thing as being reckless and not just destructive.
But that’s a thought for later. Right now, I’m currently debating on which colorful string of words I’m going to lob at these assholes like three-day-old fish.
I turn to face the Mustang, my eyes narrowing as it crosses the dotted line and inches closer to me.
The driver is grinning, half-leaning out of his window. He kind of looks like one of those Ken dolls Vivie had when she was younger. Slicked-back brown hair and a plastic smile.
“Fuck off.”
Caustic laughter ripples into the night like a pack of hyenas. It sets my teeth on edge and straightens my spine.
He rears back, his smile turning sharp. “Don’t be such a bitch. We’re just trying to be friendly.”
I stare at him for a second, willing him to get the fucking hint and leave me alone. When he doesn’t pick up on it, I heave a sigh and turn around. I resume walking, casually throwing him and his buddies my middle finger. “Pass.”
Another round of hyena laughter cartwheels into the night, the pitch severe. I take it as my cue to get the hell out of here. I pick up my pace, not quite running, but not a leisurely stroll, either.
The rumble of another engine cuts through their laughter, distinct from the Mustang still keeping pace next to me. I glance over my shoulder, squinting into the deepening shadows of Downtown Clearwater.
The streetlights glint off its polished curves and sharp angles, like a panther stalking through the shadows. My heart stutters in my chest as I recognize the sleek lines and deep charcoal gray of the car. A Dodge Challenger Hellcat. The same one I watched Beau Carter drive across the finish line in first place twenty minutes ago.
The Hellcat slows, but never stops as it drives around the Mustang. The acidic tang of disappointment splashes up my throat, and I hate myself a little bit for being disappointed. A bitter laugh escapes my lips, mocking my own foolishness.
What did I expect? For him to come riding in like some knight in shining armor to rescue me from these entitled pricks?
I shake my head, angry with myself for even entertaining the thought. It’s not fair to him or me. He doesn’t owe me a goddamn thing. We shared one charged moment months ago, a fleeting connection born from adrenaline and shared trauma. Nothing more.
It’s better this way.
The thought of that night with him lingers, tormenting me with the possibility of hope. Better to snuff out that flame now. I don’t need the distraction, not when there’s a half a million dollars and my future on the line.
Taillights flare, and the Hellcat whips around. He spins on a dime, tires shrieking as he pulls a flawless handbrake one-eighty.
The Hellcat surges forward, cutting through the night like a bullet. One second it’s idling, the next it’s on me, closing the half-block in what feels like the blink of an eye. The engine growls low and throaty, a warning shot that sends a thrill racing up my spine. I can practically feel the ground vibrating beneath me as it prowls closer, headlights spilling over the asphalt and stretching toward me.
Like some kind of magic trick, he edges the front of his Hellcat in the limited space between me and the Mustang, half-blocking it.
“The fuck, Carter,” the driver shouts, slamming on his brakes. He leans halfway out his window, open palm smacking against his car door. “You almost hit me, asshole.”
I stand still, suspended in shock.
Beau climbs out of his car, standing between the door and the frame. He smirks at the driver of the Mustang. “Aw, c’mon, Slick Rick . I thought you were gonna take my crown this year? You’re not gonna last long in the Gauntlet if you freeze every time a car gets near you.”
“Slick Rick?” I mutter under my breath.
The driver of the Mustang—Slick Rick, I guess—scowls. His face turns an angry shade of red. “Any time you wanna race, man, just let me know. We don’t need to wait for the Gauntlet for me to embarrass you.”
He finally gives me his attention, pinning me with those dark blue eyes of his. Fuck me, how is he hotter under a halo of yellow from the street lights? No one is supposed to look good with those harsh shadows.
But I shouldn’t be surprised. I bet Beau Carter is the exception to a lot of things.
“Another time. I just found something I lost,” Beau says, holding my gaze.
I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended.
“Her? Good luck with that one,” Rick says with a laugh. His posse of jackals chime in, and it still sounds as weird as it did the first time I heard it. It’s so timely, if I didn’t see people in the back, I would think it’s some kind of laugh track.
“Yo, Slick Rick ? Do us all a favor, man, and fuck off, yeah?” Beau says, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Fuck you, Carter,” Rick snaps, jabbing his index finger toward Beau. He revs his engine like an asshole, tires burning rubber on the cement as he takes off.
His gaze drifts over me, his smile this slow, lazy thing that does something fluttery to my insides. His gaze lingers on places it shouldn’t, the heat of his stare a tangible caress.
“I’ve been waitin’ for you, Peach.”