35. Chapter 35
Toast was on Beau the second he walked into his house, meowing and slamming against his shins as he took off his boots.
They still had mud caked on them from when he’d stopped in the desert.
The house was silent except for the cricket that had been screaming somewhere in his living room all week.
He padded to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water.
Tried to stop thinking about Colt's throat under his hand, that noise he'd made, how it had felt to finally taste him, touch him, want him openly.
What the hell had he been thinking?
He drained the water and set the cup on the counter, and Toast hopped up next to him.
The cat put his paws on one of Beau’s shoulders and stretched up to headbutt him in the chin, but stopped mid-push.
Instead of going for the chin, Toast lowered himself enough to sniff Beau’s chest, shoving his nose into the fabric of Beau’s shirt before pulling back with his mouth hanging slightly open like he’d smelled something off.
“What’s that look for?” Beau asked as Toast’s tail flicked.
Toast hopped off the counter and ran to the door, where he parked himself with his tail wrapped around his feet. His damn cat had smelled Colt, and was expecting him to walk through the door like he usually did these days.
“He’s not coming,” Beau told his cat, whose ears flicked back toward him. “Toast, come on boy. He’s not here.”
Toast kept staring at the door, and somehow that was worse than if he’d yowled.
It reminded Beau of the horrible, sucking silence that had fallen between him and Colt as he’d driven him home.
The way Colt had sat in the passenger seat with his back straight, his chin up, proud and silent despite the pink beard burn along his jaw.
‘If the next words out of your mouth are ‘a mistake’, I'm never talking to you again, Beauregard Moore.’
Christ.
Said with such steadiness, even as Colt shook from arousal. And damn if that hadn’t just made Beau want him even more.
He couldn’t bring himself to call what had happened a mistake.
Even in his own head, he damn well just couldn’t.
It shouldn’t have happened for a hundred different reasons; it couldn’t happen again, but he was richer for knowing what it felt like to hold all that wild in his hands for just a moment.
The mistake was what it had done to Colt.
Hadn’t he known? Seen the way Colt looked at him, responded to him, wanted him?
Colt had left Beau’s truck with pride in every line of his body, but Beau had felt the way he’d trusted Beau so deeply he’d let himself fall apart against him.
And Beau had left him to put himself back together.
You’re a selfish, selfish old man.
He poured two fingers of whiskey from his cheapest bottle and downed it in one go. The burn didn’t erase the taste of Colt, but it warmed him where he’d been feeling cold in his chest at least.
Toast meowed, loud and impatient, and swatted at the door handle like he could make Colt appear through sheer force of will. Beau knew the feeling.
He was Colt's coach. Fifteen years older. Colt had looked at him like a hero before they'd ever met, and tonight Beau had used every bit of power he had—the praise, the control, the authority Colt craved—and taken what he wanted.
No. Colt had wanted it, too. Had lunged first, wrapped his legs around Beau's waist, made sounds that would live in Beau's memory until he died.
But wanting it didn't make it right.
His phone buzzed in his pocket four times in a row, and he took it out.
It wasn’t Colt, but it was sure as shit about him.
Someone had posted a video of Colt’s race, and it was trending like fire on every social media site Beau had been watching. Swallowing as his heart did a slow, painful roll in his chest, he opened the first video. It was a TikTok, and the top tag was #PrincessJackrabbit.
A slow-mo opening of Colt driving the pace lap next to Kendrick started, and Colt turned his entire body to blow that asshole a kiss before waving like Princess goddamn Diana at a parade.
“You arrogant little shit,” Beau whispered.
The video cut to the race, to that first drift that had nearly killed Beau while he’d watched. Even in the playback he felt his stomach drop when Colt’s car pivoted in a perfect, controlled slide that shouldn’t have worked on a wet track.
Another video with the tag #JackrabbitRourke popped up, this one on a different platform, and it started with the same princess wave to some 8-bit arcade tune as Colt blew his kiss.
Then the video slammed into the cockpit with Colt with that manic grin as the song changed to the opening riff of Rob Zombie’s “Dragula.”
Colt’s hands were a blur on the wheel, his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed.
Every shift, every pivot, every slide was punctuated by the heavy, thrumming beat.
Beau let out a breath as the video switched to external shots, the yellow car a monster in the mist, taking the lead with aggressive, almost violent precision.
Christ, he was good. He was so goddamn good, and Beau had helped him get there. Whatever else was broken between them, this—this was real.
The comments were pouring in as the views shot up, and Beau just knew the whole crew was buzzing as they watched it happen.
Holy shit he's so good! Wtf happened in the last week?
Still hot. Think there's a Mrs. Rourke?
Yo, @LibertyRacing, you watching?
Four more responses calling for Liberty's attention pretty much guaranteed Colt was about to get it. And he deserved it.
Beau clicked on Colt’s official page and scrolled past gym selfies, clips of practice runs, and even footage of his loss with the caption ‘only way out of the sewers is up, right?’ It was posted the day after their hike.
His finger stopped on a picture he hadn't seen yet, though he knew exactly when it had been taken. The day Colt’s car had come in, dented and ugly as hell, but he'd been so proud of it anyway.
The picture was of Colt sitting in the window, his arms folded on the roof, coveralls tied around his waist and showing his skin-tight black t-shirt with a neon green turtle painting the back.
His hair reflected the sun, ruffling gently in a breeze, and he was smiling the kind of smile that wasn't for anyone else but himself.
Beau saved the picture to his phone before he could think better of it.
He got another notification and opened it to see that Dead Wake's official page had reposted the video.
Heard Kendrick said Rourke was fucking his coach as payment and Rourke knocked his ass out for it after this race.
Douche deserved it
I've seen those hands on Rourke. I'd bone him too
Wonder if that's the only reason he's doing so well
Beau’s hand clenched on the counter, and he stopped scrolling.
Wonder what the rules are about fucking your coach
Wonder if they've ever heard the term ‘grooming’
Bruh, FR
The phone clacked against the granite as Beau set it down and clicked off the screen.
‘Grooming.’
Christ.
He drained his glass and set it in the sink.
“Come on, Toast,” he called as he walked toward his bedroom. “Bed.”
Toast meowed one more time, then pattered after Beau as he opened his bedroom door and dropped into sheets that still smelled faintly of Colt.