33. Chapter 33
By degrees, other things filtered in. Tires. Feet stomping in the stands. The announcer losing his mind.
“—t's right, folks, you saw that with your own eyes.
Rookie Colton Rourke in that mustard yellow Camaro just took third place in his second race.
A surprise to all of us after last week's fourteenth, wouldn't you say?
From street king to the track, we love a good underdog story here at Udall.
Why don't we see if we can coax him out of his car with a little applause? What do you say?”
Applause roared like thunder, booming against Colt’s teeth. His legs were like limp noodles, his arms tense and shaking. The suit was tight like an instrument of sweaty torture, and he—
The window netting dropped, and a hand reached in to unstrap his helmet.
He sucked in a lungful of cool air as his helmet was removed and tossed into the cockpit.
When the hand slid onto the back of his slick neck, his focus narrowed to the contact.
Beau’s skin was cool compared to the furnace of Colt’s own skin, and he gripped Colt like he was a stuck kitten.
“That’s right,” Beau murmured, his cologne washing over Colt’s senses. “Good boy. Come on. Let’s get you out.”
Colt nodded, fumbling the buckle on his harness until Beau swatted his hands aside and did it for him.
When Colt climbed out of the window, Beau was there to steady him as his feet hit grass and his legs wobbled.
P1 and P2 were already out and shaking hands between their cars, but Colt’s eyes sought Beau instead of other podiumed racers.
“Beau.”
“Yeah, I know.” Beau draped a workout towel around Colt’s neck. “Unzip your suit some so you can breathe.”
It took Colt two tries to undo his collar, and then he pulled the zipper down to his stomach. A breeze slapped against his soaked shirt, and the pressure of the heavy, multi-layer suit eased.
“Third.” Colt ran a hand through his damp hair, then the other, resting both hands at the back of his head and looking at Beau again. “Third.”
“Third,” Beau agreed. He was looking at Colt with a soft sort of expression, one Colt probably wouldn't even recognize if he hadn't spent so long watching his face.
Adrenaline he hadn't known was left zipped through him and he dropped his hands. A laugh bubbled up out of his chest, and he grabbed Beau's shirt. “I got fucking third, Beau, oh my God.”
Then, because his brain was not connected to his body at this exact moment, Colt surged forward and threw his arms around Beau's neck. Just like before, just like that first time he'd found his line on the sim in Beau’s garage, but this time Beau wrapped his arm around Colt’s back and squeezed.
“I'm so fucking proud of you.” Beau’s voice was rough like it cost him something.
All the air in Colt's body expanded, his chest rose in an involuntary, startled inhale, and those words seeped down into the core of him and made themselves at home.
He dug his fingers into Beau's shoulder and pressed his nose into Beau's neck, squeezing his eyes shut because it felt like the goddamn Earth had just shifted beneath his feet.
“Boss, save some for the rest of us,” Xavier called from behind them.
The bubble Colt hadn't realized they'd been in exploded in a riot of sound and sensation as hands grabbed Colt and pulled him out of Beau’s arms. Then it was hugs and kisses and Mateo came back for thirds, squeezed Colt and ruffled his hair, and only let go the third time when Camila shoved herself between them and took her turn.
“I love you, you fucking moron,” Camila growled into his neck as he leaned down and scooped her onto her tiptoes for a bear hug. “That was terrifying. I thought you were gonna crash and burn every turn for the first, like, five laps.”
Colt laughed, startled, and shoved his head into the side of hers. “Thanks for the confidence, Mila, damn.”
She shook his shoulders but didn't let go. “Mami had her rosary out that second drift. That douche in the Fox Body was so close I thought he was gonna clip you.”
“You better get to the podium before they give your trophy to Billybob Douche Canoe," Liam said as he stepped up and took a bite of a Twizzler. He pointed across the field as Colt pulled Camila's arms off his neck. “Damn, he sure looks like he wants to have a private conversation, huh?”
Kendrick was standing at the back of the crowd with the kind of look that said he wanted a lot more than a talk. Colt’s kidneys, maybe.
Colt grinned his biggest shit-eating grin, the kind that had pissed off every person he’d ever raced against on the streets.
The first time he’d shot it at Rosy’s boyfriend, he’d gotten his nose broken.
It just got under your skin. And, damn, did it work on Kendrick, who literally bared his teeth.
He seethed with his fists clenched at his sides, and when Colt dropped into a curtsey, Kendrick looked like he was about to bulldoze through the crowd to lay Colt out.
The PA system crackled to life, and the announcer called the winners to the podium, and Kendrick was lost to a sea of surging spectators.
Joyce grabbed Colt’s arm and hauled him forward, James on his other side, and they delivered him to the three-tiered boxes with red paint chipping off the front, and a banner that was sagging under the weight of the rain that had drenched it earlier.
Like assholes, Xavier, James, and Liam lifted him up onto the lowest tier, and he laughed as he got his footing and turned around.
“That was some race, rookie,” said the guy in first place, a man a little taller than Colt with brown hair in a military cut and a seriously bushy mustache. He was dressed to match his car, all purple and teal, and he held out his hand for Colt to shake. “Garfield. Go by Gar, mostly.”
“Colt.” Colt shook his hand and grinned. “Thank you. Thought I might take myself out there a couple times.”
Gar laughed. “Yeah, that's half the fun, don't you think?”
The PA gargled, and Gar dropped his hand to turn and wave at a pretty blonde woman in the crowd. She blew him a kiss, and his big ass mustache lifted as he smiled and caught it like a cheese ball. Colt liked him.
When they called his name and someone handed him a plastic trophy with a checkered flag on top, Colt’s crew exploded.
Xavier whistled through his fingers, Liam threw a Twizzler at his feet like a rose, and Camila screamed her head off while Joyce and Marisol waved their neon plastic ponchos like ridiculous flags.
But Colt’s eyes kept leaving them and searching for someone else.
For steadiness and warmth. He found Beau against one of the haulers way at the back of the crowd, arms crossed, one foot hooked on a tire.
He wasn't cheering or clapping or whistling. He was watching, and somehow that gaze felt louder than the crowd. Beau tapped two fingers against his own temple as he caught Colt’s eye—a salute. I see you, boy.
His friends pulled him off the stands at the end of the ceremony and passed his trophy around.
They sat on his car while the rest of the crowd cleared out, sipping 99 Bananas out of tiny bottles Xavier had snuck in under his shirt and drinking pozole straight out of the container.
It was ridiculous, maybe tacky, and Colt was so fucking lucky.
Joyce had stayed long enough to laugh at the looks on their faces after that first sip of shit liquor. Then she’d kissed Colt on the cheek, swatted his ass, and herded Camila’s parents toward the parking lot despite their protests that the party was just getting started.
When the bottles and soup container were all empty, Camila pulled Colt into a long hug and dragged the shop guys off like errant children, leaving Colt alone on the hood of his dented-ass car as the cicadas screamed in the trees now that the track was mostly vacant.
He lowered himself gently onto his back with one arm behind his head and the other pressed against his chest over the wasp and took a long, deep breath.
Last week was a bad dream in the wake of what he'd proven he could do today.
“You look like a deer some hunter strapped to his hood.” Beau walked up and leaned his arms against the roof of the car.
Colt tipped his head back to look at him upside down and grinned. “Prize buck right here.”
Beau smirked. “Get off the hood unless you wanna ride it into the trailer like real game. Gotta load up before they drag us out.”
“Not the kinda role play I'm into,” Colt sighed, pulling himself up and hopping off the hood. “I should probably get out of this suit anyway before it becomes a biohazard.”
“Bag's already in the truck,” Beau said as Colt tossed him the keys.
Colt tucked his hands in his pockets and walked away, weaving between the few haulers still hanging around. He'd just reached the truck when footsteps crunched behind him.
“Bet you think you're real fuckin cute,” Kendrick said, stepping out from behind a hauler. He was still wearing his suit, but it was unzipped to show a camo shirt that matched his car exactly.
“Man, you sure seem to.” Colt rolled his eyes and leaned back against Beau’s truck. “Why are you so into me? It's weird. Creeping out of the shadows like a stalker.”
“You are the mouthiest little faggot,” Kendrick snarled as he took a step forward. “You asking for an ass-whooping?”
“Dude, it's the twenty-first century.” Colt shook his head and opened the truck. “We prefer the term ‘queer’.”
“I fuckin knew it.” Kendrick stepped closer as Colt pulled out his bag.
“Yeah, yeah, I like a good dick now and then.” He slung his bag over his shoulder. “Don't worry, sweetheart, I wouldn't touch your little shrimp dick with a thirty-foot pole.”
Then he turned and walked away toward the locker room. Colt had been dealing with idiots like this his whole life. He wasn't going to let some nobody who couldn't stand to lose to a rookie ruin his high.
“Yeah?” Kendrick snapped, storming after him. “That how you pay that coach? He looks like the type that likes pretty kids on their fucking knees.”
Colt dropped his bag and stalked toward Kendrick, a set of boots hurrying toward them from the left. Kendrick smirked, and Colt bared his teeth. “The fuck did you just say?”
“You heard me.” Kendrick tipped his head back. “That old pervert clearly—”
“Colt, don't—”
Too late. Colt snagged the collar of Kendrick's shirt, yanked him down, and socked him right in his stupid fucking face. It was a good hit. He could tell by the way his knuckles split.
With his mouth, Colt was used to fights.
He'd had to learn at an early age not to write checks he couldn't cash.
Kendrick was fit like all the drivers, but being fit didn't make you able to take a punch, and Kendrick very clearly hadn't taken many punches.
He went down like a ton of bricks, gravel scattering under his weight.
Arms wrapped around Colt’s waist, and he was hauled back. He grinned a mean grin at Kendrick, but let himself be pulled away. He'd proven his point.
Kendrick scrambled up and spat a mouthful of blood. “You stupid little—”
“Watch your fucking mouth, Kendrick,” Beau snarled, his voice rumbling through Colt’s back from his chest.
“He decked me!” Kendrick wiped his mouth, spreading blood across his cheek. “I'm gonna call—”
Beau pushed Colt behind him, blocking Colt’s view with his broad back as he stomped over and loomed above the bigot. “You call whoever you want. Go ahead. But you better take a second and look behind you.”
Colt peered around Beau's shoulder. The driver for car #15 and two crew members wearing purple and teal were watching warily. They were clearly within earshot, standing like they'd been rushing over at the same time as Beau.
“Everyone here heard what you said. How you called him a faggot, what you implied about us,” Beau continued. “Track rules on harassment and hate speech are crystal clear. You wanna take Colt down, fine. But I swear on my mama’s grave I'm takin’ you down with him. We clear on that?”
The single most inappropriate time for Colt’s brain to short-circuit into holy fucking shit that's hot, but the authority, the threat, the growl in Beau’s voice—
Fuck. Me.
Kendrick bared his bloody teeth, but didn't say anything else. Just turned on his heel and fucked off, shoving past the onlookers and spitting one more time before he disappeared around the corner.
“That was a good punch,” one of the guys in teal and purple—Gar’s crew—called.
“Deserved it,” the other one said with a shrug. “That guy's a pig. Always making passes at Gar's wife.”
The driver for car #15, a short, bald guy with a full beard, came over and held out a clean shop rag to Colt. “Here, son. Check those knuckles.”
He held his hand out to Beau. “Name's Henry Kade. I'll give a statement if you need it. We heard him from the off. Already coming to get him out of here when your boy laid him out.”
Your boy.
Colt’s breath caught. Not. The. Time.
“Thank you,” Beau said. “I don't think he'll say anything. Soon as he calms down he's gonna think about the fact that he got rocked by the rookie he's been calling a princess all week. He won't want that spread.”
“Gonna spread anyway.” Henry stroked a hand down his beard. “Things have a way of getting around here. Not everyone is a Kendrick, but prepare for some ugly.”
“Mhmm.” Beau shook his head. “I'm gonna get us out of here before he decides to come for round two.”
“That really was a good punch,” Henry told Colt as Colt gingerly wrapped his knuckles. “Good race, too. I hope to see you back.”
“Count on it,” Colt said.
Henry walked off, and Colt sighed. “That guy—”
“Get in the truck.” Beau’s voice was glacial, and Colt’s arms broke out in goosebumps.
“Beau—”
“Get in the truck,” Beau snapped as he glared down at Colt. “Right the fuck now, boy.”
Colt’s chest ached as he picked up his bag and did as he was told. He slid into the truck and put his bag on his lap before getting his seatbelt on.
Beau got in after him and turned on the truck, his shoulders tense, his jaw working.
“Beau, I—”
“Don’t.”
Colt’s eyes burned, and he stared down at his bag as he twisted the handle between his fingers. He hadn't heard Beau talk to him like this since that first day, and he hadn't realized quite how much of Beau’s warmth he was given until he was sitting there with it fully gone.
But he wouldn't fucking cry. He wouldn't.
That guy deserved it. He'd been on Colt’s ass since day one for no goddamn reason, and he'd just implied Beau was a fucking predator. Colt would hit him again in a heartbeat.
He turned to look out the window and rubbed his eye on his shoulder as Beau drove them out of the track and onto the dirt road that would lead to the interstate.