37. Chapter 37
“Ruin me.” Colt kicked his apartment door shut and dropped his bag and then stripped his shirt off. It landed on his spare helmet. “‘Yer talkin’ real big, boy. Fucking sanctimonious, sexy, goddamn asshole.”
He yanked off his shoes and stomped to his kitchen, where he pulled out the bottle of tequila Camila had brought on his first day of house arrest. The shot glass that said ‘fuck me, I’m Irish’ hit the counter with a sharp click, and he filled it to the brim.
“Fuck you,” he said to his poster of the Reeve, all clean-shaven and stupidly handsome. He raised his glass at it and took the shot with a choke. “Damn, Mila, you really were trying to kill me.”
The second one went down easier, and he dropped his shorts before going to the bathroom to take out the plug and wash it. Stupid. Stupid fucking idea. He'd felt so sexy, two fingers deep, imagining Beau’s face if he found it
Now, setting the toy out to dry, he just felt cheap and unwanted.
And somehow still horny as hell. How was he supposed to feel when the shape of Beau’s fingertips was burning into his skin thirty minutes and two miles later?
“Fuck,” he hissed. “Fuck this.”
He kicked off his boxers and took a quick shower. Hell if he was going to sit around feeling sorry for himself. Hadn’t he made a promise?
‘I'm gonna find someone else to fuck me.’
Nothing if not a man of his word, Colt pulled on his favorite lacy black boxer briefs, paired them with a neon pink fishnet top that teased at his abs and disappeared into the racing tee he'd cropped years ago, and slipped on his tightest pair of jeans.
Flicked eyeliner on and left his house with nothing but his wallet, some condoms, his phone, and a few one-use packs of lube.
He'd be damned if he let anyone, especially that man, make him feel small.
***
The Sapphire Room was packed even on a Sunday night.
Bass pumped in the soles of his shoes as he stepped out of the security hall and into the club proper.
Two girls nearly tripped over him as they tried to get to the dark corner to his left without taking their hands off each other, the air was frigid, and it reeked of stale booze and sweat.
“I love it here,” Colt sighed as he headed toward the bar and let the overwhelm of the atmosphere seep into his bones.
He ordered a beer from a local brewery because the tequila was still burning unpleasantly in his gut and turned to lean against the bar so he could watch the writhing mass of bodies under the strobing lights.
Sweaty faces flashed purple and pink and blue as people danced like they were doing a lot more with a lot less clothes.
Two guys with a short, pretty girl sandwiched between them leaned around her and kissed as they ground her between them, and she tipped her head back on one of their chests to watch before pulling the guy in front of her away for her own kiss.
Colt shifted restlessly. Maybe they had room for a fourth. Probably not. That looked like a relationship from where he was standing across the floor. Pity.
The first beer went down quickly enough that he was reminded he hadn't eaten any dinner, and he ordered a water. He didn't want to get shitty and not remember anything but the ache tomorrow.
“You're Colton Rourke,” someone said, and Colt turned to his left to see a man sliding into the stool next to him. Tall, with dark skin and a fluff of thick dark hair that stopped just above his round, wire-framed glasses, the man was probably in his 40s.
Colt grinned. “And you're very cute.”
The man laughed, warm and open. “Just as bold as your moves on the track, I see.” He held out his hand. “Sameer Kulkarni.”
“You can call me Colt,” Colt said as he took the offered hand and slid his fingers into it. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“Pretty boys like you can call me Sam.” Shaking his head, Sam ran his thumb along Colt's palm before he pulled his hand back and turned more fully to face Colt. His shirt was tight and red, which looked very nice against his hair. “Allow me. I did approach you first, after all.”
“Sure,” Colt agreed as he slid onto a stool and turned to face the other man. “Whatever you're having is fine.”
“Vodka soda with lime,” Sam ordered.
“So.” Colt drummed his fingertips against the bar to the tune of the song blasting against his eardrums. “You a local racing fan?”
Sam smiled. It was a very nice smile, all soft with plump lips and dark eyes. “Definitely a racing fan, though only my parents are local. I'm visiting. But everyone I work with has been following your progress.”
Colt raised his eyebrows and turned until he was fully facing Sam just as his drink was dropped off. “Really? Where do you work?”
“Liberty Speedworks.”
The drink went down the wrong tube, and Colt tried very hard not to spew it all over the cute man from Liberty—holy shit. “What?”
“I'm Vic Navarro's racing engineer,” Sam told him as he took a drink like he hadn't just dropped a bomb on Colt’s pulse. “We all heard about the offer after your first video.”
“Oh, shit”. Colt took a long draw from his glass to give himself time to think. This could be a real shitshow if he wasn't careful. When he lowered his glass, he set it down gently and leaned closer. “Are you here in an official capacity? Wild fucking coincidence if you're not.”
Sam shook his head. “Not at all. I'm very specifically tied to Navarro's car. Nothing to do with you or anyone looking at you professionally.” He made an X over his chest and offered Colt that charming smile. “Cross my heart.”
Colt laughed. Thank fuck. “That was real cheesy.”
“You laughed.” Sam shrugged and took a sip of his own drink. When he set it down, he made sure his fingertips were close enough to Colt’s hand to touch.
“So,” Colt started again as he pressed his hand into the contact of Sam's fingers. “You've all got a betting pool going on me, don't you?”
“Cheeky.” Sam ran his palm across the back of Colt’s hand to gently stroke his wrist. “But, also, absolutely we do. It's gotten out of hand, actually.”
“What's your money on?” Colt asked. He moved his free hand to Sam's knee, his knees pressing into Sam's thigh. “Fiery death?”
Sam chuckled. “No.” He leaned closer, too, smelling like light, pleasant cologne over clean skin. Colt tried not to think about spice and grease and sweat. Sam wrapped his fingers gently around Colt's wrist. “How about you give me a dance, and I'll consider telling you.”
“Deal.” He drained his glass and stood just as Sam did the same, and took the other man's hand to drag him out to the floor before he could remember what the callouses on Beau's palms felt like. Before he could think about what he was doing. Before he could stop.
The music was louder, and there was no room for the pretense of distance in the crush of bodies.
Colt stepped back, and Sam pressed close as the threesome he'd been watching drifted closer to them.
It was sweaty and loud enough to drown out all the ways this felt wrong to make room for the ways it felt nice—the warmth of Sam's breath, the steady rhythm of the bass in his chest, hands on his hips that wanted him without complication.
“I bet you'd crash out by week three,” Sam said against his ear, his thumbs dragging against Colt’s hipbones. “Glad I was wrong. So was Vic. She got a hundred bucks off me.”
Colt's chest tightened for a split second before he shoved the thought away and pressed closer to Sam, moving his hips back until he could feel the button of Sam's jeans against his bare lower back. He tipped his head onto Sam's shoulder. “I hope you learned your lesson.”
“Oh, absolutely.” Sam ran his hands up Colt’s stomach, catching on the fishnet and letting one of his fingers slip under Colt’s shirt. “You are stunning, Colton Rourke. Goodness.”
Colt nearly froze, just a heartbeat, but Sam must have felt it because he put his hands back on Colt’s hips immediately. That was probably why Colt turned and wrapped his arms around his neck.
He didn't have to reach too far. Sam was pretty close to him in height, close enough that it wasn't hard to half-shout into his ear. “Come with me to the patio?”
Nodding, Sam followed as Colt led the way through the dancers to the side entrance.
He took the opportunity to breathe and remind himself that he'd done this countless times.
Beau wasn't allowed to ruin it for him with his stupid perfect voice and his stupid hands and the goddamn stupid way he made Colt want to die when he called him ‘good boy’.
Sam was nice. He was hot. And just because he was soft didn't mean Colt didn't want it.
Right?
He pushed through the patio door into a cloud of cigarette smoke. It was hot even after the sun was down, but it hadn't rained since Saturday, so at least it wasn't sticky. The smoke kind of made his mouth water, though. Should’ve brought his nicotine gum.
“Are you alright?” Sam asked as they settled in a corner under a broken floodlight. “I got the feeling I said something wrong back there.”
“No.” Colt pressed his upper back against the rough brick wall, and Sam came to stand in front of him at a respectful distance. Everything was slightly muffled after the noise of the club, that fuzzy sort of feeling like something was pressed against his ears. “It wasn’t you. You’re sweet. I just…”
“Just..?” Sam prompted. He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “You can talk to me.”
The wall scratched his back as he shifted.
“I have to be honest that I’m…really, really hung up on someone else.
I’m…he doesn’t want me, or can’t admit he does—doesn’t matter.
What matters is that I’m just here for a good time.
I’m not looking for anything. You’re really nice, and I don’t want to lead you on. ”
Sam’s smile was kind as he brushed some of Colt’s sweat-damp hair off his forehead.
“In the spirit of honesty—I’m not looking for anything either.
” He ran his fingertips down Colt’s neck to his collarbone.
“I fly out Thursday morning. My life is in Charlotte, neck-deep in telemetry data and a driver who thinks oat milk lattes count as fuel.
I just want one uncomplicated night with someone beautiful before I go back to the chaos. "
“Beautiful, huh?” Colt hooked his finger in one of Sam’s belt loops.
“Very.” Sam’s hand slid onto Colt’s waist.
“How about you kiss me and show me just how pretty you think I am, Sameer?”
“Your wish,” Sam said because he was, apparently, committed to being charmingly cheesy.
Colt wrapped one of his arms around the back of Sam’s neck as they came together, opened his mouth and ran his other hand up Sam’s back.
It was a very nice kiss. Sam knew what he was doing, was soft but insistent, not shy about pressing his body against Colt’s or running his hand along the waistband of Colt’s jeans.
The tongue against his tasted like vodka and lime instead of coffee, and Sam didn’t kiss like he was trying to brand Colt’s mouth with his own.
But as he pushed Colt gently into the wall and slipped a knee between Colt’s thighs, it sent off pleasant little sparks in Colt’s gut.
Sameer was getting hard, and maybe it wasn’t that dizzy-can’t-breathe-oh-god feeling Beau gave him, but it was good.
He wanted it, wanted this, wanted to go home with an attractive man and feel desired.
When he pulled back, he pressed a kiss against Sam’s jaw and gave it a soft nip. “You wanna get out of here?”
“Absolutely,” Sam agreed. “My hotel is down the street, if you’d like to walk? Just let me go close out my tab.”
Colt pulled him into one more kiss and sent him off.
He tipped his head back against the wall while wisps of clouds passed across the stars.
He wouldn't cheapen this by thinking of Beau the whole time, but as he waited for Sam to come back out, he allowed himself one moment to remember the want in how Beau had kissed him, the way his mustache had rubbed Colt raw, his hands like brands against his chest and back as Beau had ripped open Colt’s suit like he just might die if he didn’t get his hands on Colt that second.
By the time Sam was done paying, Colt had swallowed all of that down and shoved it into his ‘shit to deal with later’ box.
He wrapped his arm around Sam's waist and leaned in as the other man did the same, and decided he deserved this—deserved to be wanted without the weight of someone else's guilt.