Jackrabbit (Redline #1)

1. Chapter 1

Colt tapped his foot, his heel smacking the chipped linoleum as he refreshed the page again.

The ratty couch he’d snagged from the street in the neighborhood behind his apartment complex groaned as he leaned back.

He grinned and reached down to scratch underneath the cuff of his ankle monitor.

Which was itchy as fuck, honestly, shouldn’t these things be more comfortable?

Maybe that was part of the punishment. Nonstop discomfort.

The top comment on the video had fifty thousand likes and climbing: “How is this man not dead yet?”

Solid question, really. He’d been asking himself that for years between the screech of tires and the full-body shakes of adrenaline drop.

Three nights ago, when the cop had clipped his rear quarter panel, there had been a split-second when his hands had gone dead-cold on the wheel.

His heart had stuttered. Then the moment had passed as he leaned into the spin and drifted between a semi and a moving van going eighty-eight miles per hour.

On the screen, he grinned behind his middle finger as he pulled that drift out of his ass and kept going backwards. As he screeched around and shot onto an exit ramp, he looked directly at the dashcam. “My name is Colton Rourke, and this is for Liberty Speedworks. Call me.”

Blowing a kiss at the camera, Colt turned off the ramp as flashing lights lit up his rear window. They’d boxed him in a mile down the road. The views ticked up to 3.5 million, and Colt laughed. Worth it.

His phone blared a classic rock song, and he answered. “Rosy, babe, you’re alive!”

“Yeah, and you’re out of the clink.” Rosy laughed, a lawn mower whirring in the background. “Thanks for the save, Mini Rourke. I’d say sorry you had to take the heat for me, but I’ve got three grand waiting for you from the race, and it looks like you found a way to use the footage.”

“Three grand.” Colt sighed and stood, pacing to his window and then to the front door. “And I can’t get into a car again for six weeks. That’s gonna have to stretch.”

“I could swing you more,” Rosy offered. “Not charity, alright, you can be an idiot and pay my fabulously wealthy ass back. Plus, if you hadn’t drawn the cops then I’d be the one with the pretty new ankle bracelet.”

“Absolutely the fuck not.”

“Colt, come on—”

Colt’s phone screamed in his hand, and he pulled it away from his ear to look at the caller I.D. Unknown number.

“Rosy, shut up. I have to take this call. It could be my parole officer, and she’s mean.”

Before Rosy could respond, Colt hung up on him and switched to the new caller.

“Hello?”

“Colton Rourke?” Definitely not his parole officer.

“Yeah.” Colt stepped up to the counter and drummed his fingers across the cigarette burns. “Who’s asking?”

“This is Laura Walters. From Liberty Speedworks.” Colt jerked, slamming his hand into the counter. “We saw your little stunt.”

Fuck yes. It had worked!

It had worked?

Colt’s eyes drifted to the video playing on his laptop, and he watched himself get shoved—shirtless, inked up and flush with adrenaline—into the back of a cop car.

“The one where I got hauled off to the pen?” he asked, then dropped his forehead against his palm. Goddamn it. His mouth.

Laura laughed—the kind that came with self-assurance and money. “Yes, Mr. Rourke. That one.”

Papers shuffled on the other end of the line, and a desk chair squeaked. “I believe in being frank, Mr. Rourke. We liked what we saw. The control at that speed in traffic? You have talent.”

Blood rushed in Colt’s veins, zipping from his toes to the tops of his ears as every hair on his body stood.

He looked toward the eighteen-year-old poster hanging on his wall, the Reeve sitting on the hood of his black and red Gen 6 car.

Firesuit tied around his waist, his dark hair pushed back from his sun-kissed forehead, The Reeve had that ultra serious expression that had earned him his name.

Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy—

“But you’re reckless,” Walters continued, vaguely pleasant while actively popping his budding excitement.

“You’re as reckless as you are talented.

We think you could be an asset to our team, but not without training.

We want the bad boy. What we don’t want is the bad boy who’s going to crash and burn and take one of our cars with him. ”

Colt frowned. “I’m not gonna—”

“Please.” Walters had gone stern, and Colt’s mouth snapped shut.

“Colton, we know your type. We’ve seen hundreds of twenty-somethings who have been street racing their whole lives and think they’re invincible.

They’re not. And neither are you. The dimples are cute, the attitude is cuter, but we aren’t interested in someone with a death wish. ”

If Colt opened his mouth, he was going to say something fucked that would get him in trouble. He clenched his jaw and flexed his toes.

“You have six months until pre-season starts,” Walters continued. “We want to test you at our home practice track. We’ll provide transport for you and your coach. Pass, and you’ve got yourself a spot on our team. Fail, and you can go back to street racing for likes.”

The views on his video ticked up, and emptiness yawned ahead of him.

He strode over and shut his laptop. “I’m in.”

“Of course you are.” A keyboard clacked fast enough to sound like rain drumming on a roof. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Rourke. Try not to disappoint.”

The line went dead, and Colt stared at his phone with a taste in his mouth like copper after a near-crash. He clutched his phone and breathed.

Tried to, anyway, but instead he tossed his phone on the couch and stalked into his bedroom.

He ran his fingers through his strawberry blonde curls and let a harsh breath out through his nose.

The dumpster clanged outside his window, and he paced across the room in time to see Terry drop the warped plastic lid down and light a cigarette.

Oh, God.

Oh, shit.

Six months was nothing. Absolutely no time at all, and he needed to move.

Needed a simulator, a stock car for practice, a track—and his own damn car was impounded.

Maybe he could borrow one from Rosario? That rich fuck had, like, six.

But he’d just told him fuck no about borrowing cash. He couldn’t ask for a whole-ass car.

Colt moved back and forth across his apartment, chewing the inside of his cheek.

He needed money for gas, which he wasn’t going to get without a car, and he needed—

A clank stopped him dead, and he looked down at the monitor he’d just slammed into his end table. Blinking green at him just to remind him it was watching.

Then there was that.

Sighing, Colt tipped his head back.

A coach. What he really needed first was a coach.

But fucking where? Barlowe, Arizona had a million people, and Colt’s circle was pretty exclusively not above the board. No one he knew could help him train for an oval track. But maybe someone knew someone. Only one way to find out.