32. Chapter 32 #2
Beau’s faith in him was steadying. It took the writhing anxiety in Colt’s stomach and muffled it into something quieter. Some of the tension in Colt’s muscles drained out as he took off Beau’s windbreaker and traded it for his helmet.
Their fingers brushed, and Colt let it linger, leaning closer so he could drink in Beau’s warmth and scent one last time before getting in the car.
“When I win this, you gonna finally admit that you like watching me, Beau?’
Beau’s gaze flicked down so briefly that Colt couldn’t be sure if it had sought his mouth, then it was back on Colt’s eyes. “Get on the grid, Rourke.”
“Uh-huh.” The world went slightly muffled as he slipped on his helmet. He zipped up his suit the rest of the way and clasped his collar. “That’s not a no.”
“Boy, get in the car.”
Colt tossed Beau a cheeky grin. “Yes, sir.”
He climbed up into the car window and slid into the damp seat.
Once he’d pulled on his harness, he waited for Beau’s customary check with too much anticipation.
Beau filled the window as he leaned in, and Colt bit his own lower lip.
Knuckles dragged across his chest as Beau tested tension, and heat slithered down Colt’s spine.
Which was his own fault, actually. He’d been a flirty little shit like always and worked himself up.
When the helmet was strapped into the HANS, Beau gave those two ‘good to go’ taps, and Colt steadied himself.
Eyes on the prize.
Colt was immediately assaulted by the memory of Beau’s chest. Wrong prize, geez.
By the time he was in his place, he was vibrating in his seat.
Kendrick was next to him on the grid in sixth on the outside.
He was gunning like a moron, rocking on his shocks again, and Colt didn’t need to look to know he had turned his whole body to watch him.
Colt kept his eyes forward as the pace laps started, held his place and his patience right until they were pulling in front of the grandstand.
Then he turned as much as he could, keeping his path without looking directly at the track at all.
Kendrick spotted him, and Colt pressed a hand over his visor where his mouth would be.
He mimed blowing a kiss, and—because Colt was an asshole—he cupped his hand and gave an exaggerated princess wave.
Kendrick drifted and jerked the wheel to get himself back in line.
Colt laughed and settled back in his seat just in time for the pace car to shut off its lights.
Seconds after the flag dropped, visibility went to shit as everyone hit the throttle and sent up rooster tails of water behind them despite the dryers. Kendrick lunged, his engine a desperate, angry scream as he tried to pull in front of Colt.
Too much gas, dickwad.
Kendrick's tires losing purchase vibrated through Colt's steering wheel, and he snorted. When Kendrick’s back end stepped out—a slow, sickening slide toward the grass—Colt kicked his own car’s tail just enough to pivot and avoid a collision.
Beau would have reamed his ass for it on a dry day, but the back of the pack was struggling to get their grip today, and Colt was going to need a lot more of those moves to keep his edge.
P7 and P8 had already gained spots, but P1 and P2 had both nearly fucked themselves on turns one and two.
They were approaching turn three with extreme caution, and P3 sailed right past him on the outside to get near the wall, where the grip was better.
That was what he should do, too. He knew that.
But as his car thrummed beneath him—as his focus narrowed to the road, the wheel in his hands, his foot on the gas—he dive-bombed the corner instead.
He braked so late that someone without his background would be shitting their pants if they’d tried it, but the sound of his tires sliding as he drifted to rotate his nose was like coming home.
He’d heard it a thousand times, only this time it was accompanied by the roar of nineteen other engines and the rumble of the track’s soaked grooves.
He passed P1 and P2 and left Kendrick sipping his rooster tail as he straightened out and grinned like a fucking psycho. God, he felt alive. Everything was quiet except this, except him and his car and his tires trying to find their grip.
As the track heated from the friction, Colt began to roast. It was a different kind of sweaty with the water drying and rising from the track, and his visor was getting spots of fog he had to be careful about.
He was also losing the line, the grip of his tires different as he passed P3 on an exit.
The track was losing its moisture. P7 and P8 were gaining on him like fucking Jaws, and he knew he needed to pivot.
They hadn’t slid once, and the only reason Colt was in P1 was because the other cars had been putting on varying renditions of Swan Lake for the first six laps.
But everyone was about to find their line, which meant—
P7 took the lead.
Shit.
Okay.
New tactic.
Find your line, boy, stop dicking around.
Colt watched P7 pull away, the gap widening with every second of precision driving. It stung, seeing that lead evaporate, but he didn't have time to mourn it. P8 was close enough to read the sponsor decals on Colt’s rear wing.
Don't look in the mirror, Beau’s voice rumbled, so clear in his head it was like the man was sitting in the passenger seat. Eyes forward. Hit your marks. Make him work for every inch of pavement.
Colt’s hands tightened on the wheel. He stopped trying to be a showman.
His grin melted into a set jaw and relaxed lips as he took a steadying breath.
Tucking his chin, he ignored the sweat stinging his eyes and started driving the race Beau Moore had spent months preparing him for.
The race Connor had spent half his life trying to get him to.
He would not lose.