11. Chapter 11
Watching Colt’s thumb run across the peeling edge of that sticker Sutton had slapped on the cage the last time they’d fought was like slipping underwater. They were so alike, the two of them. Reckless. Stubborn. Deaf to all reason.
Colt ran his hand along the seat, hovering over the leather like he was afraid to really touch it.
“Boot it up,” Beau said when it became clear that Colt was too in awe for logic. “That button there, yeah.”
The system started, sounds he hadn’t heard in twelve years echoing across the garage, and Beau’s palms broke out in a cool sweat. He subtly wiped them on his shirt. Christ, what was he doing? Letting this kid disorder half his life and now this.
“I think I’m gonna puke.” Colt fumbled with the harness. “I can’t believe I’m here right now. Holy shit. Pinch me, Coach.”
Beau snorted. Colt was always rambling, and it had bothered him at first. He was used to quiet—something Colt had never been. But as he reached down to buckle Colt’s harness, he was grateful for it. If it were quiet right now, he might damn well bolt.
“You’re so small,” Beau mumbled, yanking the harness tighter.
“Rude.” Colt turned to stare at the side of his face, cheeks dusted pink from the heat of the garage. “I am a perfectly average height. You’re just huge.”
“Mhmm.” The harness groaned as he tightened it again. “This won’t be quite right since it’s fit for me. Old, too. Maybe we could get Liberty to send you something better.”
Hands tightening on the wheel, Colt shook his head. “If you take this away from me right now, I might cry. Lemme try. It’s perfect.”
It had been a long time since Beau had experienced hero worship. It fit him poorly now, that admiration, like a too-fancy coat over his greased-up coveralls. But Colt was shameless with it. It was hard to miss. Harder to ignore.
“Alright, rookie.” Beau stepped back and crossed his arms. “Show me what you got. I wanna see five clean laps before you leave here today.”
“Prepare to be blown away, old man.” Colt was grinning so hard Beau could hear it in his voice. “I was born for this.”
The speakers shook, the seat rumbled, and the wheel tightened in Colt’s hands.
Immediately, Colt tightened his shoulders to compensate, and Beau didn’t tell him to let it go.
He’d be sore as all hell tomorrow, and that was gonna be a better life lesson than Beau telling him outright ever could be.
They’d been training Colt’s legs for the extreme resistance the pedals gave, but Colt leaned into it with his whole hip anyway. Another sore spot.
On the first turn, the rig wailed as Colt crashed into the wall.
“Again,” Beau said as Colt sat in stunned silence. “Everyone crashes on their first go. It’s what you learn from it that matters. Go again.”
“Oh, I’m gonna make this sim my bitch,” Colt murmured as he reset it.
“Mhmm.” Beau’s knee ached, and he shifted his stance.
The countdown rolled, and right out the gate Colt was too hard on the gas. Lost control and ate concrete faster than the first round. Colt growled, and Beau stepped around the back of the rig to lean his forearms on the top. “He your bitch yet?”
From the kitchen, something crashed as his damn cat knocked something off the shelf.
Colt was silent, though. No quip, no sarcastic comment or innuendo.
Not a word as he set the sim up again, not so much as a sideways glance when Beau came around the side to get a look at his face.
Colt’s brows were knit in determination, lips set in a firm line.
Dialed in like crashing was something personal. Like he had a score to settle.
That same damn look Sutton got. The one that led to something so goddamn foolish his mama threatened to whoop them both.
Swallowing, Beau flexed his hand and put it in his pocket. “Again.”
The first time Colt made it through a turn, he was so surprised his grip went slack and the wheel jerked out of his hand. He slammed into the wall.
Sweat dripped down the back of Beau’s neck. “Again.”
On his sixth try, Colt made it through two turns clean. He was just starting to smile when a car he wasn’t watching for found a line and took it. Colt didn’t react in time, and he snarled as he hit the wall again.
By the eighth crash, Beau’s heart was hammering against his ribcage. He stalked across the garage to the fridge and grabbed two bottles of water. Then he drained half of one in three long swallows before heading back to the sim just in time to watch Colt crash again. Beau’s shoulders tightened.
“Here.” He held the other water out to Colt. Colt shoved it away and rolled his shoulders, and Beau gritted his teeth. “You’re sweating out all your water, boy. You need to drink.”
“No.”
Beau blinked as Colt started another race.
No?
Two weeks of spending damn near all day, every day with him, and this was the first time Beau had heard that sharp tone saying that even sharper word.
When Colt crashed this time, he snarled and smacked one of the poles.
He started another race. Crashed. Beau knew his problem.
It was flashing like a neon sign that said ‘this is where you’re fucking up’.
But if Colt couldn’t figure it out for himself, then all of this was wasted effort.
Beau could teach someone who wanted to slam his head into the brick wall until it cracked.
“Fuck,” Colt hissed as he crashed again.
Colt threw off the harness with shaking hands, and pulled himself out of the rig so fast he was lucky he didn’t smack his fool head on the bars. He stormed off, leaving the imprint of sweat on Beau’s seat as he hauled ass to the open garage door. Both hands slid into his hair, and he pulled at it.
Right. So Beau had been wasting his time.
Just like Sutton. This kid was just like him.
Beau knew this story. He’d lived it. Colt would cuss, break something maybe, refuse to see what he was doing wrong until Beau grabbed him by the ear and waved the answer in his face.
Which Beau wasn’t about to do. Not again.
He wasn’t going to strong arm another idiot onto the track just to watch him—
Colt turned. He pulled the bottom hem of his shirt up, abs flexing under the garage lights, sweat pouring down into his jeans. He wiped his face with the shirt before he dropped it, and then he stalked back over to the rig and hopped in. Did the harness up himself.
But he didn’t start the sim right away. Instead, he sat there staring at the screen and flexed his hands on the wheel. Rolled his shoulders. Closed his eyes and took a breath, held it, let it out slowly. He repeated that three times before he opened his eyes again, and he didn’t look angry anymore.
Beau’s grip slackened, and his water bottle slipped out of his wet hand. He caught it, water drizzling out the top and onto his boots. He hardly noticed.
Colt started the sim again with calm, sure movements, and pulled out right. He kept his pace, adjusted as the other cars moved around him.
On the third turn, Colt found his line.