45. Chapter 45
Acid burned Colt’s throat as he hurled all over the ground, Xavier hopping out of the way just in time while Camila made worried, fussy noises that sounded just like her mother.
His side was screaming, a soul-deep ache that made him want to curl into a ball a little.
Nothing broken. He'd broken plenty of ribs before. This wasn't that.
But it still fucking sucked.
A large, warm hand slid up the back of his neck and rested there, and Colt closed his eyes with a noise he really hoped no one else heard over the roar of the crowd and the other cars pulling into the pits.
“That's it, boy, breathe.” Beau’s voice washed over him like something physical, and Colt took a long, shaky breath. “Good boy. Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“Alright, guys, let’s give them a minute,” Camila said, and started barking orders about getting the car to testing and checking the tires.
Colt pulled himself up with Beau’s hand still on his neck, shaking and probably pale as fuck but alive.
Shit. He was alive. Felt like death that had gone through a meat grinder and been made into chicken nuggets, but breathing.
They made their way through the crowd, people parting for Beau and his driver as they did, and Beau guided him up into the hauler.
The door shut behind them, muffling some of the sound, and Colt turned and pressed his forehead into Beau’s chest for one long, unsteady second.
Beau smelled like cologne and sweat and Colt pushed his nose into his shirt like a complete freak.
But, hey, he deserved it after running an all-day race with a bruise the size of Toast on his ribs, right?
Beau ran his fingers through the sweaty hairs at the base of Colt’s skull. “You’re alright. Good boy. My good boy.”
The noise that came out of him was half-sob and pure, aching relief. My good boy. Fuck. “That was fucking awesome and fucking terrible and I can’t decide which one is winning, but—” He popped his head up and blinked back a wave of dizziness before fisting Beau’s shirt. “Oh my God. OH MY GOD.”
“Yeah.” Beau pushed Colt’s hair out of his eyes. “You fucking won, Colt. Gave me a goddamn heart attack, but you won. I’m so proud of you.”
Embarrassingly, Colt’s eyes burned with tears, and he sniffed. “It’s the adrenaline, I swear.”
“I know.” Beau swiped under Colt’s eye with a thumb. “We gotta get back out there before someone comes looking so you can get your trophy and your big-ass check. Just the podium now, and then we can go. Can you do that for me?”
Privately thinking that if Beau asked it, Colt would do literally anything for him, Colt nodded. He pushed back and winced. “I feel like a prune.”
“Mhmm.” Beau made sure he was steady with a hand at his elbow. “Got a drink ready for you in the truck, but you’ll only get a sip or two before the podium. We’ll get you properly recovered after.”
“Beau.” Colt grabbed his arm one more time and shook his head. “We won. I can’t believe—shit.”
“Come on. If you don’t get a drink before the podium, you might fall on someone.” Beau guided him back out into the night, moths smacking Colt in the face immediately, drawn to the back lights of the hauler.
“That might screw my image.” A moth landed on his mouth and he blew it away.
“Can’t have that.”
“You alive, Rourke?” James asked as he jogged over with the others on his heels. Beau guided Colt over, and James must have gotten the message because he took Colt’s other elbow and helped hold him up while Beau went to the truck. “You look like shit.”
Colt laughed. “Better than you on your best day, Price.”
James sighed. “Yeah, true.”
Camila came up on his other side, the one with all the bruises, but she didn’t touch him. Always so observant. “You alright?”
“Might die, but at least I won.” Colt grinned at her. “I love you.”
“You’re delirious.” She kissed his shoulder anyway. “Love you, too. Mami texted. She’s pissed she didn’t come, but she says she’s proud of you.”
A bottle appeared in his line of sight, and Beau knocked it against his shoulder.
“Thanks.” He took the bottle and sipped, the grapefruit possibly the best thing he'd ever tasted after drying out like a saladito in the heat of the car.
By the time they were calling him to the podium, he felt a lot less like he was going to fall right off it onto his ass. The crowd was a screaming mess, but they parted for his crew, who formed a sort of shield around him so no one jostled his ribs.
He was joined on the podium by #22, a woman in her late 30s with blonde hair down to her ass. Third place was someone he'd never seen, car #34 from Phoenix, a guy Colt’s age who looked pissed about his place.
“Good race,” the woman murmured to him while they waved and smiled at the crowd. “Almost had you on that last lap.”
Colt laughed, and his bruises told him to cut that shit out. “You wish.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “You're gonna dominate this track, aren't you?”
The woman smiled wider, pretty and warm, her eyes like a viper. “As soon as some hotshot kid leaves for the big leagues.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “I'm Pearla.”
“Colt.” His eyes scanned the crowd as the announcer started his spiel, passing his crew and a hundred reporters until he found a pair of warm honey eyes already on him.
Fuck, he was gorgeous. Standing with his arms crossed and leaning against a light post, all broad and tan and Colt’s—at least for four months.
“You win this race, you can have whatever you want.”
Colt shivered. He was gonna collect on that. With interest. Some of his thoughts must have shown in his grin, because Beau raised both eyebrows at him.
Colt winked.
Pearla followed his gaze. “Your coach is a fox.” She wiggled her fingers at him, and Beau nodded. “He single? I've got some friends who would love to meet him.”
“Nope.” Colt shook his head. “Very taken. Tame fox.”
“Pity.”
After Colt collected his stupidly massive check and trophy, he didn't get to leave. There were pictures, short interviews, handshake after handshake after handshake—Colt was all for attention, but he kinda wanted to fall into a hole by the time the night was over.
The crew had gone home at least an hour ago, waving at him—James and Liam—and blowing kisses—Xavier and Camila—over the crowd of flashing cameras before heading to the parking lot. He'd lost sight of Beau at least thirty minutes before that.
“That was some impressive driving, Mr. Rourke,” a reporter was saying while Colt looked for Beau again, his foot bouncing, fingers tapping against his thigh. “We all thought you were going out when you drove into that smoke. How'd you know you could get through?”
“My coach.” Colt looked back at the fifth reporter he'd spoken to since coming off the podium, a kid young enough to look like an intern. “He was on the spotter stand guiding me through.”
“That's…” The reporter shook his head. “I can't imagine the trust that takes. You didn't even lift.”
Colt finally spotted Beau, walking toward him with a look that said ‘we're done with this shit.’ Grinning, Colt turned to the reporter again.
“He knows what I need before even I do.” He saw Beau getting closer from the corner of his eye, right in hearing distance. “I know he'll always take care of me, get me where I need to go.”
Beau’s stride stuttered just enough for Colt to know he'd heard, and then he was walking right up to Colt and the reporter.
“Come on. We're done for the night,” he said, like the reporter wasn't there at all, and the kid’s face went incredibly red, probably embarrassed about how easily he’d been dismissed. Amazing.
“See?” Colt stood and winced. “Knows I need my beauty rest, or I'll be useless tomorrow. What a guy, right?”
“Absolutely,” the reporter agreed, notepad in hand. “If we could get a picture of the two of you—”
“No.” Beau put his hand on Colt’s shoulder and guided him away without a backwards glance.
“Didn't they media train back in the day?” Colt teased as they walked through the half-empty grounds toward Beau’s truck. “Thought that kid was gonna piss himself.”
“I pity the poor bastard who has to media train you,” Beau murmured. He squeezed Colt's shoulder. “Think you're funny?”
“I think I'm hilarious. Haven't you figured that out by now?”
Beau helped him into the truck, and Colt let out a long, relieved sigh as he finally got to take the weight off his aching feet. The driver’s side door shut, and Colt rested his head against the passenger window. “I'm tired.”
“Long way to go yet.” The truck rumbled to life, and Beau started driving them away. “You need Epsom salts, ice, arnica—” He paused, his hands tightening on the wheel. “I can hire someone to come to the house, if…You got a huge check today. We can have someone come take care of you.”
The thought of a stranger’s hands on him after the shit-storm of a day he'd had made him sick. Especially with the way just being in Beau’s truck with Beau next to him, surrounded by his scent, was making Colt’s eyes heavy, making his shoulders unclench, his toes relax.
“I know what I said.” Colt turned his head to look at Beau, whose eyes were fixed intently on the road.
He didn't want to hire someone else to touch Colt.
But he would, and that was enough right now.
“But I don't want someone else's hands on me. I want you to put me back together tonight. And you said I could have whatever I want, so…”
Beau let out a long exhale, and his hands loosened on the wheel. “Alright.” His voice was low and rough, and he finally glanced over at Colt for just a flicker as they passed under a street light. He looked back at the road. “Alright.”
“I'm not saying this fixes everything.” Colt leaned his head against the window again, wincing as his bruise protested. “I still want to touch you. But right now, I feel like shit, it was a long day, I nearly wrecked, and I just…I want you.”