20. Chapter 20
Over the next three weeks, Colt took to training like he was born to it. His plank time tripled, his neck steadied during resistance work, and his leg press created an influx of social media comments that had made even Colt blush as he'd read them.
Beau sat back one day and watched Colt complete a full race simulation without a single collision, and then another two after Beau had leaned against the seat and said, “Good job, boy. Real good. Do it again.”
All Beau needed to do to get Colt to take that extra step forward was his voice.
That’s it. Hold it there, boy.
Nothing more than that. Colt’s breath would catch, his neck would flush, and he’d keep going past the limit he’d thought he had.
The first few times, he’d faltered for a second when Beau spoke.
Now it was like he was waiting for the praise.
He’d bloom under it. It was good coaching.
Play to your athlete’s specific learning needs.
That’s what he was doing—coaching the way Colt needed him to.
Colt’s social media exploded. Turned out that Camila had been dead right. Colt’s first sim video rivaled his arrest video for views, and it didn’t matter that half the comments were telling him he’d crash and burn. Engagement was engagement. And Colt kept Beau out of it, just like he’d promised.
Mostly.
“Beau, bookbabesixtynine wants to know what else Coach does with them hands,” Colt told him one afternoon, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively as he showed Beau a picture he’d taken the week before.
Colt’s shirt was soaked all the way through with sweat, and Beau’s hands were just visible at his trim waist while he adjusted Colt’s form. Neither of their faces were in it. Just an angled shot of Colt’s body and Beau’s hands.
“Mhmm.” Beau leaned back into the engine bay of the Camaro and fitted a hose back in place. “Tell ‘em them hands fix cars and whoop ass.”
Colt let out a surprised bark of laughter, and Beau looked up to see him blushing furiously. “I don't think that's the discouragement you think it is. Some people like that kinda thing.”
Beau realized what he'd just implied and felt his own cheeks going pink. “Get back to work, you menace.”
“I mean, if you want an internet nickname.”
“Don't.”
“Race Daddy has a nice ring to it.”
Colt was already hightailing it to the garage door by the time Beau threw the empty water bottle at his back.
***
The sponsor offers trickled in as Colt’s social media grew.
First a small company offering pop culture workout gear, and then a clean energy drink company called Dead Wake next.
Four weeks after Colt’s first progress picture, he was standing at Beau's desk signing papers.
He set the pen down, dazed, and looked up to find Beau watching him with those warm honey eyes.
Swallowing, Colt looked back at the papers with his sloppy signature drying on them in black ink.
“Beau.”
“Yeah, boy, I know.”
“I can race,” Colt whispered.
Beau's lips quirked. “Course you can.”
Colt threw his arms around Beau's neck and hugged him tight, then danced away before the other man could decide what to do with him.
He stormed out into the garage, ignoring Liam cussing as he dropped a quart of oil, and let the others know.
They whipped him with shop towels and ruffled his hair, and Colt felt full.
At the gym that same night, Colt’s mind was already where it shouldn’t be.
He’d been replaying the way Beau’s body had felt against his during their hug the entire day.
Hard and warm and big—God, Beau was big.
And Colt needed to go out and get laid before he jumped his coach in the broom closet and got his ass kicked in a not-so-fun way. Jesus.
But at the moment, it was too late. He was destination fucked.
There was a leather harness strapped to his head with several weights hanging down from it, which was just about the most unsexy thing he could imagine, actually, except Beau had him on his fucking knees.
Colt wanted to die.
Colt wanted to do a lot of other things, too, mostly involving his mouth and his traitorous dick. Beau stood behind him and braced a hand on his shoulder to correct his posture, and Colt straightened. Speaking of his dick, if it would just stand down for a little longer, that would be great.
“There.” Beau’s voice was doing that thing where it went low and deep, and Colt let out an unsteady breath. “Good. Just like that, boy.”
Except Beau chose that moment to come around front, and Colt wasn't supposed to move his head. Gray sweats were a torture device, he was pretty sure. Beau's thighs were huge, and Colt was very very sure to focus on that and absolutely nothing else because the alternative was worse. So much worse.
Watch the quads. Not—
Beau pressed his hand against Colt’s chest, and Colt was absolutely positive he could feel Colt's heart threatening to quit on him. “Good. Okay. Let's get this off and we can take a break.”
“Thank fuck,” Colt hissed out loud.
“You need a longer break?” Beau asked as he leaned forward and pulled the weights up with one hand.
“No.” His head felt briefly so light it was like it was going to float off his neck when Beau took the harness off. Muscles protested as Colt gently rolled his shoulders. “Just need the bathroom. I'll be right back.”
He ran off before Beau could respond and locked himself in a stall in the shitty bathroom that reeked of chlorine. Leaning against the filthy, graffiti-covered wall, Colt pressed his palm against himself through his sweats.
This was becoming a problem.
It had been hot every time Beau had praised him.
He'd come to terms with the fact that he might have A Thing.
But it was getting worse. More difficult to contain himself, more difficult to stop his stupid ass mind from wandering where it shouldn't.
They spent literally every day together.
How was he supposed to survive this with his dignity intact?
He gave himself thirty seconds to get his shit together before he tucked his way-too-enthusiastic dick under his waistband and went to splash water on his face.
It was hot as hell outside, so it took for-freaking-ever for the water to cool off.
On a bonus note, he burned his hand on the water straight out of the pipes and the pain took care of his problem downstairs.
By the time he got back to Beau, he had himself under control.
“You good?” Beau asked. Colt nodded, and Beau pointed to the treadmill. “Three miles.”
Sighing, Colt trudged over and hopped on. God, he hated cardio. Beau always ran with him, though, and he did kind of like the sound of their feet hitting the belt together. The way Beau’s breathing remained mostly controlled except for the occasional puff or grunt when his leg bothered him.
“Wanted to talk to you about something,” Beau said as they started warming up.
For one wild second, Colt was dead certain that Beau had figured him out.
That he was about to call Colt out for his inappropriate arousal, for the way Beau’s voice made him melt in all sorts of ways.
But, he realized as he heard how calm Beau was, he didn't think that was a conversation they'd have on a treadmill.
His shoulders loosened. “Uh-huh. Shoot.”
“You've got sponsors, and that's great,” Beau started. His feet hit the belt in slow, even strides. “That'll help with gear and all. But they're not big names, and neither are you yet.”
“You sure know how to make a guy feel special.” Colt turned to grin at him and Beau rolled his eyes.
He moved on like Colt hadn't said anything at all, upping his speed. “I'm sayin’ there isn't enough money for a car. Need twelve thousand at minimum, and I'd like to put you in something better.”
“Beau…”
“Now, look.” Beau glanced at him before training his gaze forward again.
“I know you don't want charity. I get it, alright?
But I've got more money sitting around than I know what to do with, and I want to buy your car.
We can sell it after, and I'll get my money right back.
You'll only need it for a few months. Hell, it might even be worth more by the time you're done with it.”
“No,” Colt said as he upped his own speed. “I'll figure it out.”
Beau was quiet for a long minute, and when Colt flicked his gaze over he saw the other man briefly chew his bottom lip. Then he pressed stop on his treadmill and turned to Colt. “Colt. Come on now. You've been doing so good. Real good. I'm—”
Cutting himself off with a curse, Beau ran a hand through his hair. He put his hands on his hips. “You need a car. I can get you a car, and it won't cost me a damn thing.”
Colt upped his speed again. “No.”
“Colt—”
“No.”
Beau's hand came down on the stop button for Colt’s treadmill, and Colt grabbed the sides and briefly hung his head. Then he looked at Beau, who he really didn't want to deny literally anything, and wiped at his mouth.
“It's not about what it'll cost you, Beau. It's about what it'll cost me.”
Beau searched his face, taking his time like he did with everything. Then he sighed and nodded. “Alright.”
Simple answer, but Colt felt in that moment like they were on more equal footing than they had been this entire time. He smiled and turned back to his run. Beau followed suit, and they finished the rest of the workout in silence.
But Beau's point wouldn't leave him alone.
The issue of the car sat in the back of his mind as he showered after Beau dropped him off.
It lingered as he got dressed in clean sweats and an old band tee with the sides cut out.
As he sat on his couch and didn't even pretend to not be staring at his poster of The Reeve.
As he idly thought about Beau's hands, about the crow’s feet he had now on the rare occasion he smiled, the salt and pepper streaking parts of his hair that he didn't have in this poster.
And then Colt was grabbing his keys and heading out the door. Not even a decision, really. Just his feet needing to move and knowing exactly where to go.
The door to the storage unit groaned as he pulled it open, rusted red at the hinges, but he supposed at a whopping fifteen dollars a month he couldn't be picky about those things.
Since he'd had it off so recently, the tarp only had a minimal layer of dust on it when he pulled it and let it fall to the floor. Wasp gleamed under the dim fluorescents, the yellowjacket on the side shining golden.
He ran his hand along the hood, followed the smooth line of the body all the way to the spoiler Connor and Colt had added themselves when Colt was ten.
He remembered telling Connor that it looked silly.
Like a bench, he'd said, and Connor had laughed and threatened to make him sit on it like one the next time he raced.
Connor had loved this car. Their parents had tried to make him sell it, told him it wasn't sensible for someone on the path to Harvard to drive around.
But he'd kept it and told Colt that maybe it wasn’t right for Harvard, but he wanted to go to MIT anyway.
He'd used this car to win almost every single race he'd won. Connor was a beast behind the wheel, and he put every penny toward Colt’s karting.
Opening the driver door, Colt slid inside and leaned back in the seat with one hand on the steering wheel.
“You're so fast, Con,” Colt had said the first time he'd sat in this seat. Nine, missing a tooth on one side. He stuck his tongue through the hole and put his tiptoes on the pedals. “You really love racing, huh?”
Connor had pushed Colt’s shoulder and taken the keys out of his hand. “Nah. You're the racer in the family. I just like watching you do it.”
Closing his eyes, Colt leaned his head back against the seat and tightened his fingers on the wheel. The leather creaked, and he twisted his hands.
Then he took them off the wheel and pulled out his phone. Dialed a number he hadn't used in weeks.
Rosario picked up on the third ring. “Ay, Colt. My man! Haven’t heard from you since your freedom day. You got your car back yet? Coz I’m setting up this—”
“Do you remember Connor’s car?” Colt asked.
He reached out and plucked off the little golden wasp figure hanging in the rearview. Smaller than the tip of his finger, it still shone like new.
“Yeah, man.” Rosy inhaled, voice thick with smoke when he continued. “I was there when he won it. Nearly creamed myself the one time he let me drive.”
Colt looked around at the interior of the car his brother had used to fund his dreams when their parents wouldn't. He clenched his hand around the wasp and squared his shoulders.
“I want to sell him.”