39. Chapter 39
“Wednesday races are lit,” Xavier said, craning his neck to watch the top of the stands fill. It had been a clear day, and the nights were finally starting to cool, so more people than ever were out for race day. “You see that girl up there? The one with the checkered shorts.”
Colt finished tucking the wasp under his shirt. He found her immediately, pretty with dark skin and a puff of hair that was all bleached on the left but natural on the right. He snorted. “Yeah, she’s hot as fuck. Way out of your league.”
A kid scream-laughed as his dad picked him up and ran up the stands with him, feet thundered on the metal as someone started their qualifier, and Colt took a long breath in. Savored it. He loved race day—the dirt, the grit, the sounds, the smell of shit hot dogs and even shittier spilled beer.
“Xavier, I know you’re not sitting here watching girls instead of finishing that checklist,” Beau rumbled behind them, and Colt grinned.
And then there was the growl of Beau’s voice with that accent, all serious and sexy and in control.
Xavier winced. Beau was behind them watching with a raised eyebrow. “Get your ass back to that car.”
“Sir, yes, sir.” Xavier clicked his heels together and saluted before he jogged off. He was wearing a black Jackrabbit shirt again, but this time the rabbit was designed in vibrant, neon pink. It was awesome.
“Haven’t seen you take a drink in fifteen minutes,” Beau told him.
“You been watching me, Beau?” Colt asked, shooting Beau a coy smile.
The last two days had been interesting. Not as tense as Colt had expected after Beau had destroyed him with nothing but his thigh against Colt’s taint and his voice.
His fucking voice. Colt had jerked off more in the past two days than he had in the last two years, all to the soundtrack of that rough, dark drawl.
Beau had been watching Colt, his eyes on him so many times he’d memorized the feeling.
What had he been thinking? Hopefully, the same things Colt had been thinking.
“Drink,” Beau grumbled, and Colt put the straw between his teeth and grinned around it while Beau glared.
He took a sip because he wasn’t an idiot, that weird taste—like someone had eaten a grapefruit and burped into a cup of salt water—washing over his tongue.
It wasn’t so bad now that he was used to it, but the first time Beau had handed it to Colt he’d given his coach such a look of betrayal that Beau had damn near laughed at him.
“Colton Rourke,” someone called, and Colt and Beau turned at the same time to see Sameer walking up to them carrying several thick, black cases and a heavy-duty black backpack over his shoulders.
He was grinning, wearing a Jackrabbit t-shirt and jeans. “Pre-race hydration? Vic’s crew chief, Patrick, practically has to force them down her throat. She hates those drinks.”
“Sam!” Colt smiled, shaking his head. Behind him, Beau went very still. “What are you doing here? Isn’t your flight at, like, ass o’clock tomorrow morning?”
“Yeah,” Sam agreed. He held up one of the cases. It had ‘Liberty Speedworks’ written across the front. “But I told you you’re kicking up a fuss at work. Vic wanted me to get footage of your race so she can watch it in high-def since I’m already here visiting the folks.”
“What?” Colt bounced on his toes as his heart skipped. “No fucking way!”
Sam laughed. “Yes fucking way.” He set down his cases and leaned closer, pressing his fingertips against Colt’s wrist and lowering his voice.
“Between you and me, Jake Peters walked off four months ago and took one of our biggest sponsors—Stillwater—with him. The way you’ve been blowing up since you started your social media run has got a lot of eyes on you. ”
“Holy shit,” Colt whispered. He grabbed Sam’s forearm, squeezing it like a stress ball. “Sam. Oh my God. This is—”
A large, warm hand settled on the back of Colt’s neck, and Colt froze.
Shit. Colt had intentionally provoked Beau using his night with Sam, and here Sam was at the race wearing Colt’s brand, touching him.
Was Beau mad? With the way his fingers were very subtly tightening on Colt’s neck, Colt was going to guess that was a big, fat, yes.
Which, hot. Very hot.
Sam raised an eyebrow at Beau’s hand. He smirked, and Colt remembered confessing that he was more or less gone on someone else. It must have been dead obvious who it was.
“You must be the coach.” Sam hitched his backpack further up on his shoulder and held out his hand. “Sameer Kulkarni with Liberty Speedworks. I’m Vic Navarro’s racing engineer.”
“I know who you are.” Beau didn’t take Sam’s hand. “We’re going to the pits. Enjoy the race.”
“Beau, be nice,” Colt hissed, and the hand at the back of his neck tightened again.
“Actually, if you’ll allow me,” Sam continued, entirely unfazed by Beau’s cold tone and already picking up his bags. “They’ve requested I get some shots of the engine. They want to know what he’s already working with. You understand, don’t you, Mr—?”
“Moore,” Colt offered because Beau wasn’t going to. He pulled out of Beau’s grasp and took one of Sam’s bags for him. “And of course he doesn’t mind.” He raised his eyebrows at Beau, whose jaw was ticking. “He’s thrilled for me. Right, coach?”
“Mhmm,” Beau bit out, and, boy, Colt was going to have a lot to talk to him about on the truck ride home. The jealousy was so thick he could taste it.
Delicious.
He guided Sam back toward the pits, dodging other crews. “Where’d you get the shirt?” Colt asked as they slipped through the gates.
“Oh, that girl saw me in the parking lot.” Sam plucked at the front of the tee. “Camila, was it? She said if I was going to show up like some sort of sugar daddy I could at least prove it by buying some of your merch. How could I refuse?”
Colt glanced back at Beau in time to see his face shut down entirely, and he turned back around to hide his grin. Some part of him hoped that Sam showing up and being so familiar would push Beau into another possessive show of dominance that would leave Colt’s legs barely functional.
Okay, all parts of him. Every part of him wanted that.
“Oh, it’s Sam!” Liam shouted from inside the cockpit of the car as they approached. “And in full groupie mode, too, our boy must have given him the ride of his life.”
“Well,” Sam said as he set down his things and opened a case. “He is an excellent driver.”
The guys catcalled and shouted like morons, and Colt sought out Beau, who wasn’t looking at them at all.
He was over by the hauler on his tablet, already leaning his back against the metal with one foot hooked on a tire.
Colt left Sam to the guys and went to stand next to him, mimicking his position and watching other crews running around getting ready.
“So,” he said. “You seem on edge.”
“You seem to be enjoying yourself.” Beau didn’t look up from his tablet at all. “Drink.”
He took a few little sips before crossing his arms with the bottle dangling by its strap from his fingers. “Think he’s gonna ask me to dinner after. What do you think?”
Beau froze for a beat, predator still, before slowly shutting off his tablet and lowering his foot. “I think you—”
“Sorry to interrupt.” Sam didn’t sound sorry in the least as he approached again. “But Vic sent a radio, too. Figured you wouldn’t have one at stock level, and she wants to hear what’s going on while you race. You two okay with being recorded? She said you can keep the setup when I leave.”
“Oh, hell yeah,” Colt agreed as he reached out both hands and wiggled his fingers. “Gimme.”
There was no time to talk to Beau after that, because Colt’s qualifier started before Sam could even get him connected to the mic.
He was third to last, so the rest of the time before the pace laps was spent with Sam, who got the radio installed, took pictures of every part of the car, and one of Colt after he’d pulled on his suit and left it unzipped.
“Third,” Sam said when the grid places were announced. He put away his camera and hauled his cases and bag back into his arms. “Good qualifier. You have a good race, yeah? I’ll be watching.”
“Thanks.” Colt nudged him with his shoulder. Maybe Sam could never do it for Colt the way Beau could, but he was a nice man. Funny, too. They’d get along. He could feel it. “Make sure you get my good angle.”
Sam glanced behind Colt briefly before his smile widened, and he raised his voice enough to carry. “Easy to do when you’re all good angles.” Colt felt Beau approach just as Sam said, “But my favorite has to be the one from behind.”
Oh, shit. He’d done that on purpose, hadn’t he? That beautiful, sweet genius. As Sam winked at Colt and walked away, Beau’s hand dropped onto the back of Colt’s neck again. Colt was going to have to send Sam a very nice bottle of alcohol. What a goddamn treasure.
Beau spun him around and zipped up Colt’s suit with tight, controlled movements. His brow was drawn, his lips pressed together, and Colt bit back his smirk. “Little rough there, coach. Big fan. But I’m wondering—something bothering you?”
Fingers pressed against his throat as Beau roughly snapped the collar closed, but he didn’t say anything.
The silence was as much of a confession as if he’d said what he was thinking out loud.
Which Colt suspected went something like, 'I’m fucking pissed because that guy you slept with is here and I’m a possessive bastard who wants to shove you in this hauler and fuck you until you can’t walk. '
But maybe Colt was just paraphrasing.
“You gonna play the strong, silent type the whole race?” Colt asked as Beau flipped his helmet over and checked the wire and mic Sam must have taped in there. “Is that duct tape?”
“Rush job,” Beau murmured. He peeled off the strip of tape on the mic and moved it so the mic would be closer to Colt’s mouth. “You’ll feel it while you drive. There’s a Push-to-Talk button on your steering wheel. They also put a 360 GoPro in.”