22. Chapter 22
The smell of bacon frying was always a glorious thing to wake to.
Better when he wiggled into the couch and pulled the blanket up to his nose.
It smelled like Beau, and he'd take a moment to tell himself he was being a creep later.
Right now he was warm and the blanket smelled good and Colt just wanted to breathe it in.
Colt stretched his arms over his head and blinked at the ceiling. He grinned. “I hope you’re making toast.”
“I hope you like tofu bacon,” Beau responded, and Colt sat up to glare at Beau’s back over the couch. Beau didn’t even turn around. “Coffee next to you on the table.”
The same thermos Colt had bought for Beau that first morning was sitting next to him—which gave him all sorts of warm fuzzies he didn’t want to look too closely at—and as Colt reached over to pick it up something slid off the top with a soft hiss of metal.
It fell into his lap, and he stared down at it.
When he picked it up and held it out in front of him, he had to press his lips together to stop himself from making some stupid ass noise.
Sometime while Colt had been sleeping, Beau had taken Connor’s wasp and attached it to a gold rope chain.
Colt turned to stare at Beau’s broad, beautiful back and ran his hand through his hair. He let out a puff of air.
God, he was so incredibly fucked.
Colt stood and put the necklace on, the wasp settling on his sternum, and went to sit at the island.
Sipping his coffee, he waited for Beau to turn around.
When he finally did, Beau’s warm honey eyes dipped down to the wasp and back up to Colt’s face.
Neither of them said anything, and Colt felt like a live wire.
Then Beau turned back to the stove, and the tension snapped. “Turkey bacon. And you’ve got an hour on the sim after you eat it.”
Colt smiled against the lip of the coffee cup. “Yessir.”
***
It didn’t take long for Colt to get a car. Two days after Rosy cut that check, Colt showed up to the shop at noon in something hideously mustard yellow with a missing fender. But it rumbled like a beast under his legs and handled like a dream. And it was his.
Camaro body. Older than he’d hoped, newer than he’d expected.
As he pulled into the parking lot, Colt revved loud and hard so they’d know he was coming. By the time he was in front of the garage doors, the guys were filtering out. Liam laughed and started circling as Colt threw it in park.
Colt hauled himself out of the window and sat on the sill, his legs inside the car. He slapped the roof right over a rough oxidation spot. “Whatchya think?”
James tucked an oil stained shop rag in his back pocket and knelt down to look at the horrifically clouded headlight. “Nah, man, bottle of mustard for sure.”
“You're missing a fender,” Liam called.
“No shit.” Colt rolled his eyes and rested his chin on top of his arms. “Just cosmetics, man. She's nice under the hood. That's what matters.”
Camila came up next to him and shoved him aside so she could look at the interior. “She? Your cars are always guys. Why she?”
“Coz she's got curves in aaallll the right places,” Xavier said.
Colt grinned. “Nah. Coz she's a little bit crazy. Little bit fucked up. Kinda wild under—ow!”
“You're such a shit, Colton,” Camila admonished as she slapped his arm again. “Show some respect.”
“Yeah Colton.” James raised his voice to something high, nothing like Camila's tone. “Show some respect. Before Mama Mila gives you the chancla.”
“You know what this car needs?” Liam asked as he came back around the side and pulled off his hat to wipe his forehead. “Flames.”
Xavier cackled. “Underglow! Green, you know. Really lean into this ugly-ass color scheme.”
“My street car didn't have underglow,” Colt said. His eyes flicked toward the shop. Definitely not looking for the last employee. “I'm sure as shit not putting it on her.”
“Let's name her Dijon,” James said as he put one foot on the passenger side tire.
“Twinkie,” Liam offered. “Yellow with that white stuff on the inside.”
“Nah, can't use Twinkie. Copyright, innit?” Xavier leaned against the other side of the roof and grinned at Colt. “Plus, too on the nose with this twink driving.”
“Excuse you, I am built.” Colt leaned back and pulled up his shirt to show his torso. “Like a fucking tank, bro.”
“Didn’t realize I was running a strip show in my front parking lot.” Beau's voice rumbled across to them even though he never raised it, and Colt looked over to see him walking toward them from the diner. “Put your clothes back on, boy.”
Or I could take more off, Colt’s brain supplied.
He dropped his shirt and rested his head on his arm again. “Might be a good side hustle. Merc's Boys, huh? It's Raining Men?”
Beau shook his head and pushed Colt aside to look in the car just like Camila had. But unlike when Camila had done it, Colt was suddenly extremely aware of every molecule between them.
“What's she running?” Beau asked. He shoved Colt harder with his shoulder. “Move.”
“I was here first,” Colt protested. Just to be difficult.
“Mhmm.” Beau pulled himself out of the window. Then, in front of God and everyone, he picked Colt up off the car with one arm around his torso, deposited him next to it, and opened the door.
Xavier wrapped his arm around Colt’s shoulders and shook him, leaned close so he could stage-whisper in his ear. “Twink.”
“Alright, come here,” Colt said, trying as hard as humanly possible to not process what the actual fuck had just happened. “I'm gonna kick your ass. Then see if you can still run your mouth.”
“You kick his ass, and I'm gonna have to finish that piece of shit Pinto.” Camila shoved Xavier gently between his shoulder blades. “Which, by the way, the owner is coming back in an hour. Go do your job.”
“Okay, mom,” Xavier said. But he went back into the shop anyway. Liam followed, jumping on Xavier's back and nearly toppling them both.
“We're gonna fix it up, right, Boss?” James asked as he poked his head into the passenger side. “Can't have his fool ass representing the shop like this.”
“Hey, be nice to her.” Colt placed a hand on the hood. “If she dies on me, I'm blaming you guys for hurting her feelings.”
“I'm gonna call ángel and see if he has a fender at least.” James, who had entirely ignored Colt, pulled out his phone as he started walking toward the shop.
Camila pulled Colt down and kissed his cheek. “I'm so proud of you, you big idiot.”
Colt watched Beau pop the hood, and he felt like his smile might be a little fucking goofy. “Yeah. I'm kinda proud of me, too.”
Gasping, Camila pinched his other cheek. “Growth!”
Then she left, too, heading back toward the shop to finish up whatever she was working on.
“So, what's the verdict?” Colt asked as he stepped up next to Beau and watched him checking out the car.
“Good bones.” Beau pulled back and put one hand on the raised hood. “Ugly as sin, though.”
Colt laughed. “Yeah. But no one's gonna care about that when all they're seeing is her ass end.”
Beau was quiet for a long moment, staring into the engine bay. “It's a Camaro.”
Oh.
The midnight blue Camaro in the back garage. The one no one, not even Camila, was allowed to touch. Fuck. Beau worked on that thing with such deep focus, carefully silent, his hands moving like—like a prayer. Like how Colt used to work on Wasp.
“Yeah.” He tucked his hands in his pockets and turned toward the shop. “I wasn’t…I was looking for the make. It’s late model stock. Former regional car, you know? The body kit was—I could change it. Later, when I have more money.”
A breeze picked up, hot and dry, and dust kicked against Colt’s ankles.
Beau relaxed his shoulders, his fingers. “No. It’s a good car. Don’t matter what it looks like. Late model stock’s got more power. Makes it less forgivin’, and that’s good for NASCAR prep.” The hood clanged as Beau shut it. “You made a good choice.”
Relief simmered through him as Beau turned toward the shop, too.
Beau crossed his arms, bare and defined in the glaring sun, and Colt remembered the way it had felt to be manhandled by one.
Like it was nothing, like Colt weighed approximately zilch.
Was this the ideal time to be thinking about it?
No. Was there ever an ideal time to get horny about your boss? Also no.
Fucking hot. So, so hot. Which, okay. He’d never really considered being tossed around. Usually, he was the one doing the tossing. But yep. He’d learned today that it was definitely something he could get behind. Or under. Or—
“You got your gear yet?” Beau asked, and Colt pulled his mind out of the filth it had fallen into.
Sort of.
Jesus, Beau had nice arms.
Stop. Fuck.
“Uh—” Colt cleared his throat. “Yup. Well. Static Channel Apparel sent me a suit. It's got their logo on the back. The safety shit came from Dead Wake. Plus, like, five cases of their drinks.”
“Which you haven't been drinking, I assume,” Beau said. Colt grinned at him, and Beau rolled his eyes. He ran his hand over his mustache. “You’ll need a HANS.”
“Solo?”
Beau cuffed him. “Brace so you don't break your fool neck if you hit something. I'll send you a good one. Order it tonight.”
“Sunshine, that's just about the ugliest car I've ever seen.” They looked over to see Joyce leaning against the wall of her diner. She took a long drag on her cigarette and let the smoke curl out. “We oughta go celebrate tonight. Drink about it, you know.”
“You're speaking my language, Joyce,” Colt called. He bounced on his toes a couple times and shouldered Beau. “Whatchya think, coach?”
“I think the last thing you need is a buncha beers and a hangover when we're gonna be on that track every night till the next race.”
“Vodka soda with a twist of lime.” Colt put his hand over his heart. “I promise to only drink clear liquids. And, hey, lime! Vitamins. Fruit. Sounds healthy.”
“You can glare and loom and make sure he doesn't get white girl wasted all you want, big guy,” Joyce said.
That startled a laugh out of Colt. “White girl wasted?”
“Yep. You look like the type.” Joyce eyed him up and down. “Real pretty. Little dumb.”
“Aw, Joyce, you think I'm pretty?” Colt batted his eyelashes at her, and she grinned. “If I had the right parts for you I'd show you how pretty I can be.”
“Does your flirting come with an off button?” Beau grumbled.
It wasn't on purpose. Colt had a bad habit of talking without thinking, and he was amped about his car, riled from Beau manhandling him—it just came out.
“Don't worry.” He put his hand on Beau's chest and dragged it down to the coverall arms tied around his waist. “There's plenty to go around. Could be real pretty for you, too, Beau.”
Exactly one second after Colt hooked his fingers around the coveralls, his brain caught up with his mouth. His knuckles were pressed against Beau’s lower stomach, he could smell the engine grease and cologne and sweat and heat and—
Fuck. Shit, fuck, shit. Oh my God. Move, Colt. Fucking move.
But his body wouldn't cooperate. He still had his fingers in Beau's motherfucking clothes when his eyes flicked up to find Beau watching him. Very, very still.