39. Chapter 39 #2
“Sounds serious.” Colt’s heart jumped into his throat. They were watching watching him this race.
Beau let out a breath, and that tension eased out of his eyebrows as he ducked his head and gripped Colt’s shoulder. “It is. And it’s a good thing. That race Saturday made a big impression, and I guarantee with the following you’ve ramped up, they’re not the only ones watching.”
“No pressure.” Colt’s voice sounded strangled even to his own ears.
“Boy, listen here.” Lowering his voice, Beau searched Colt’s face with those warm honey eyes. “This is what you’ve been fighting for. You wanted their attention. You got it. Now go show ‘em why they’re looking.”
There was something about Beau’s confidence in him that never, ever failed to calm Colt’s nerves.
Like if this man and no one else believed he could do it, then he could.
And he would. He wouldn’t let Beau down.
He pressed his palm into the wasp at his chest. He wouldn’t let Connor down, either.
Not when he was so close to achieving the dream Connor had helped him build.
He nodded, and let Beau put his helmet on for him. They walked to his car together, all the guys gone to the stands with Camila and her mom. Mateo hadn’t made it, but racing wasn’t really his bag anyway.
He slid into the cockpit, and Beau strapped him in just like he always did.
Colt took his breaths, closed his eyes and envisioned driving that perfect lap, that perfect line just like Beau had taught him.
By the time Beau was tapping his helmet, he was centered.
He clicked the button to turn on his mic as he drove off to get on the grid, and saw Beau watching him through the rear-view.
“How’s my rear looking, Coach?” Colt asked with a feral grin. “I know how you hate to see me leave, but love to—”
“We are being recorded.” Beau sounded very done with Colt’s bullshit, and Colt saw him rubbing the bridge of his nose before Colt hit the track and he was out of view. “Could you please, for five goddamn minutes, pretend to be a professional?”
There was a soft snort over the radio that definitely wasn’t Beau’s. Sam must be listening.
“I’ll try, but no promises,” Colt said as he pulled up to P3 on the grid. He glanced around him and noticed there was a new car on the track. Number 22, black with pale lavender racing stripes down the body. “Hey, you seen my number one fan anywhere? Big, dumb, homophobic?”
”Track chat says he got suspended when someone leaked what he said to you last race.” Beau sounded deeply satisfied. “Now, focus on your own race, Rourke.”
Colt laughed at the poetic justice. “Aw, and here I was gonna dedicate my race to him.”
“Colt.”
“Fine, fine. Focusing. Over.”
The pace laps started, Colt’s car rumbling beneath him, heat already making him sticky with dripping sweat.
He tried very hard not to think about all the cameras on him, reminded himself that he’d been recording his street races for weeks before he’d gotten arrested.
It was no different. He’d been looking for attention then, too, though never in his wildest dreams had he imagined he’d be where he was right now.
When the flag dropped, everything else faded away. He kept his spot with Gar and Henry Kade in front of him and everyone else behind for the first three laps easily.
On lap four, his radio clicked on and Beau’s voice filled his head, deep and warm through the crackling feedback. “Fifteen’s got a run on your inside. He’s been mimicking your line for three laps, trying to time your entry. He’s gonna dive for the bottom in Turn 3. Don’t give him the hole.”
Shit. Beau’s voice directly in his ear in combination with the car’s vibration and adrenaline was…
something. The nose of car #15 poked into his peripheral vision.
He didn’t even look; he just dove the car down an inch, pinching the other driver’s momentum.
He jammed his thumb against the PTT button on the wheel.
“I see him,” he grunted, the G-force of the turn making his voice tight. “Not today, buddy. Go find someone else to play with.”
The race was good, no wrecks. Colt stayed in P3 for the majority, watching Gar and Henry fight for first right up until lap fifteen, where Colt took Henry on the outside.
He caught the new car, 22, fighting to take Henry again once Colt pulled away.
Which was damn impressive, considering 22 had started in P7.
By the time there were three laps to go, Colt was still running P2 behind Gar’s purple and teal, and the old bastard was driving like he had all the time in the world—patient, defensive, blocking every line Colt tried to take.
“Patience, Colt,” Beau’s voice crackled through the radio with all that steadiness. “Wait for the straight. He’ll give you the gap.”
Colt was quiet, watching Gar’s line through the next turn, the way he swept wide to protect the inside. Predictable. Safe. Slow. He tucked himself directly behind Gar’s bumper on the straightaway, riding his draft to give himself a speed boost.
“Colt, don’t you fucking dare,” Beau warned, because he knew Colt’s driving better than any person alive. “Get off his ass and wait for your door.”
The next turn was coming up, but Colt already had his eye on the one after that. Gar would brake early. Take the U-shape around the apex, accelerate clean out of it. Textbook.
“You hear me?” Beau all but snarled into the radio.
“Loud and clear, Coach,” Colt said, steady, sweat pooling down his back, his vision narrowed to the car in front of him and nothing else. “Watch this.”
A millisecond before Gar hit his brakes, Colt popped out from behind him.
As Gar took the U, Colt dove to the inside and slammed his brakes at the last second.
The car’s front splitter scraped sparks off the asphalt, and Colt knew he had to get every single second of this move right or he’d spin out and cause a hell of a pileup.
“COLT—”
He jammed his nose into the gap Gar had left and snapped the car around into a sharp V so tight he could have reached out and touched the inside wall. When he came out of the turn, his car hopped as it found the groove again. The video of this would have ‘Jackrabbit’ tagged all over it.
“Goddamn,” Sam whispered over the radio, the unmistakable sounds of Xavier and Liam losing their shit in the background.
The flag dropped with Gar still behind him, and Colt laughed out loud, drenched, his hands clenched hard around the wheel.
“Bring it in, Rourke.” Beau's voice was dead calm over the crackling of the radio.
Oh, Colt was in trouble.
“You got it, Coach,” Colt said back, still grinning.
The radio crackled again, and James’ voice broke as he screamed wordlessly into what Colt assumed was Sam's line. It cut off with a click, Colt’s ears still ringing as he pulled into the winners’ circle along with Gar and Henry.