42. Chapter 42
Colt woke up groaning. He'd known he was going to pay for those moves on the track, but Jesus—he could barely turn his head. The ache was deep and total—his neck, his back, all the way down to his thighs. The bruises he’d suspected on his sides were throbbing, too, the punishment for slamming himself into the harness on repeat just to piss Beau off.
“Fuck,” he hissed as he pulled himself up and twisted out of bed. “God fucking damn.”
It took him twice as long as normal to get ready, not even an indulgent, hot shower soothing him enough for him to stop wincing as he put on his clothes for the day.
No way in hell was he jogging to work like he was supposed to, so he opened his phone and pulled up a ride-share app.
He could call Beau, who picked him up on his way to work when it was raining or dropped him off when practice had run long.
But that would be admitting defeat.
Speaking of Beau, though—
Colt grinned as he leaned back against his wall and pulled up his shirt. He stuck it between his teeth and palmed his chest, made sure his thumb was right on the edge of that dark, yellowing hickey, and snapped a picture. He sent it off to Beau with a winky face and tucked his phone in his pocket.
Beau—wearing a band tee and tight, black jeans that showed off everything Colt wanted to see—was just unlocking the front door when Colt gingerly pulled himself out of the car he’d called. He turned to watch Colt amble up to him, and his lips quirked. “Sore there, hotshot?”
“Fuck you.” Colt took a long drink of his burning hot coffee, his traps screaming.
“Mhmm.” Beau opened the door and held it for him. “Not allowed, ain’t that right?”
“Sure you are.” His thighs had gone stiff on the short car ride over, but Colt tried his best to walk like a normal human anyway as he passed Beau and flipped on the lobby lights. “Whenever you’re ready to give me what I want.”
Beau snorted. “We’ll see about that.”
Twenty minutes later, Beau cursed from his office, and his phone thunked against his desk.
Colt grinned as he finished checking the schedule for the day to make sure no one was double-booked. “You alright in there, coach?”
“Fucking—what if I’d opened this message when someone else was around?” Beau asked, standing in the doorway and clutching his phone. Colt could just make out a flash of pink skin on the screen.
“Please.” Colt tucked the clipboard back under the desk and rolled his shoulders, wincing. “I sent that picture like an hour ago, and you just now checked it. You never look at your phone. Especially in front of other people.”
The front door opened before Beau could answer, and he hastily shoved his phone in his back pocket.
Colt smirked at him and turned to greet Camila, whom he'd mostly avoided since the race Wednesday.
She narrowed her eyes at him and popped her bubble gum, then looked at Beau, who cleared his throat and went back into his office.
“You've got an oil change coming in at seven,” Colt told Camila. She made her way to the desk and stopped next to him, pulling her hair into a bun. “And at ten—”
“Cut the crap,” she whispered, quietly enough that Colt was sure Beau wouldn't hear. “Something's up with—”
Colt slapped a hand over her mouth and looked back at the open office door. The last thing he needed was Beau hearing Camila being suspicious. That would be a one-way ticket to never getting into bed with him ever.
A tiny wet tongue slipped across his fingers, and he yelped, pulled his hand back, and groaned when it tugged at his sore muscles. “Mila, fucking gross!”
“I need to show you something.” Camila sounded sweet, but her face said Colt would get an ass-whooping if he didn't cooperate. “In the bay. Come on.”
“Actually, I'm supposed to be answering phones, so—”
Camila grabbed his wrist and pulled, and Colt gritted his teeth.
He could fight, but that would make his pain twelve times worse.
This conversation was coming either way—if he didn't go now, she'd break into his apartment at two in the morning like she had that time he'd broken his leg and tried to hide it from everyone.
Sighing, Colt nodded and raised his voice. “I'll be right back, boss. Mila needs me in the shop. Can you get the phones?”
“Mhmm.”
Colt followed her out into the garage, and the second the door shut, she spun on him. “I thought I told you to keep your hands to yourself when it came to Merc.”
“How the fuck—”
“You think I'm freaking blind?” Camila poked him in the chest, hard, and he raised both hands.
“I saw what happened last race when you pulled that move.
You should have seen his face. I thought he was gonna puke on his boots, and then I walk in here, and he's looking at you like you're a slab of meat and you're looking at him like you're about to jump him right there.”
“Well, I am grade A, choice—”
“Colt!”
Colt sighed and glanced back inside toward Beau’s office door. “It's not a big deal, Camila. And it's not like I'm tying him down, you know. We're just…playing.”
He wouldn't say no to being tied down himself, though. Now, that was a great idea. Ratchet straps?
“Oh my God, you're an entire moron, aren't you?” Camila punched him in the arm, and he hissed as pain shot up into his shoulder. “He's not just my boss! He's yours. And your coach. Jesus. What about Liberty?”
Colt rolled his eyes. “What about them?”
“If they find out you're boning your coach, are they still going to consider taking you on?” She frowned and put her hand on her hip in a picture-perfect imitation of her mother. “If it gets out?”
“He's not officially my coach.” Colt ran a hand through his hair, his gut twisting. “Liberty will provide one when I go over. And anyway, it's just four months.”
Camila searched his face. “You can't just fuck him for four months and leave, Colt. He's not some twenty-two-year-old you picked up at a bar. Merc's a really good man.”
“I know that.” He clenched his fist and let it go.
“Did you know that James was living on the streets when Merc hired him?”
“No, but—”
“Did you know that when Joyce almost lost the diner after her wife died, he paid her rent for three months?”
“I—”
“You can't just screw with someone like that, Colt. It's—”
“Why are you assuming it's me?” He didn't yell, but even he could hear the venom in his voice.
Camila froze. “What?”
His eyes burned, and he looked into the shop so he didn't have to see her face.
“Why are you assuming I'm the one who doesn't—” He stopped and let out a long breath before looking back down at his best friend.
“This isn't just something I'm doing to him, Mila. He's…he doesn’t do more than casual either.”
The phone inside rang, and Colt glanced up as Beau grabbed it. He'd put on his coveralls but left them unzipped down to his navel. God, he was handsome. All broad shoulders and smile lines and a sharp jaw. His eyes caught the morning sun filtering in through the front window, and they blazed.
“Oh, babe.”
Colt tore his gaze away from Beau to see that Camila had caught his stare. She wasn't mad anymore. Her eyes were wide with sympathy, and she grabbed his hand and laced their fingers. “This isn't just playing for you, is it?”
“Of course it is.” Colt swiped his eye with his shoulder, and every muscle on that side groaned. He smiled anyway. “I'm Colton Rourke. Everything's a game.”
He slid his hand out of hers and turned away, and when she tried to call him back, he kept walking.
***
The rest of the day sucked, but Colt kept hearing echoes of that chuckle as he worked and groaned and tried not to die. Made it a little bit better at least. By 4:15, they were in Beau’s truck and heading out of the parking lot. They didn't drive toward the gym, though.
“Where are we going?” Colt asked. Beau didn't answer, and Colt turned to glare at him. “You're gonna put me out to pasture, huh? Useless, useless driver who can barely lift his arms. Don't do it, boss. I'm still good for some things!”
Beau snorted. “That right? Like what?”
He waited until Beau glanced at him to wiggle his eyebrows. “I've still got a mouth.”
“Should know by now,” Beau mumbled, flipping his turn signal as they pulled onto the road that led to his house. “Walk myself right into it all the damn time.”
Beau was quiet as he pulled into his drive and got out, in direct contrast to Colt, who moaned like an eighty-year-old retired farmer when he hopped down out of the lifted truck.
He followed Beau into the house and immediately looked for Toast, his favorite fuzzy beast. A soft, aborted meow drew his attention to the far side of the living room.
Toast stood, stretching on his bookshelf perch, eyes locked on Colt.
There was a sound like something crashing farther back in the house, a sort of repeated hollow thud.
Colt froze. Was Beau alright? The thud came again, along with some splashing, and Toast’s ears swiveled toward the hall.
Probably not Beau falling into a table full of plastic hangers if it happened twice in a row.
Three times.
What the hell?
Toast chittered.
“Baby,” Colt cooed, limping to Toast's perch on a bookshelf that had no books on it because they were all scattered on the ground where Toast had left them. “You making a mess?”
Toast opened his mouth on a silent meow, and Colt patted his own shoulder. “Come here. Be my parrot so your dad can't force me to work out while I'm literally on my deathbed.”
Shifting his paws and purring, Toast eyed the spot Colt was urging him toward. He hunched and reached out with one furry arm, but before he could make contact, a big hand intercepted.
“No.” Beau picked Toast up with both hands and cradled him against his chest. Colt frowned as Toast melted and purred, rubbing his face against Beau’s shirt while Beau scratched behind his ears.
“Don't look at me like that. This cat is the size of a damn dog.
You're already hurting. How you think you're gonna feel with him using your shoulders like a balance beam?”