In the Groove (14 page)

So she stayed by his side, and the longer she stayed, the more he'd look for her. Courtney tried to lure him away to talk to some more print reporters, but Lance held up his hand, the garage all but deserted at this hour. The moment the race had ended the cars had been packed away and hauled off.

"I'm done," he drawled, his southern accent suddenly more pronounced, the floodlight above their head perfectly illuminating his features. Earlier he'd changed out of his firesuit and into his Star Oil polo shirt; his face above the ribbed collar was tired.

"Um, yeah," Courtney said, flicking her long blond hair over one shoulder. "Okay. But remember. You have to be on a plane by six tomorrow morning."

"Don't worry," Lance said, having never looked away. "I'll be there."

Sarah caught his eyes, feeling suddenly shy. For a moment she wondered if she might have forgotten to breathe during the past thirty seconds because suddenly she felt light-headed. And afraid.

Lance took her hand, his expression suddenly tender. "Thanks for hanging with me tonight."

"You're, um, you're welcome."

"Seriously, Sarah. You've been a big help."

She wanted to ask who, exactly, she'd helped, but she was feeling tongue-tied.

"Ready to leave?" he asked.

"Yes," she said softly.

"You want a ride back to your room?"

And there it was, the question she'd been both dreading and anticipating. But she knew by the look in his eyes that he was asking far more than if she wanted a ride.

Do you want to spend the night with me?

"I don't know," she admitted.

He moved in front of her, and, yes, she hadn't been wrong because his gaze had turned warm. He didn't touch her, but he moved as close to her as possible without physical contact.

"I don't know either," he admitted, one of his hands lifting to swipe a lock of hair out of her face. It was after midnight, his face looking gray beneath the giant lights. But she could see his eyes and they told her he felt just as much uncertainty as she did.

"I'm scared."

"I know," he said gently. "But if it's any consolation, I'm worried, too."

"What about?"

"That I should stay away from you. I don't need my head turned. I need to focus, but I can't—" His words trailed off, his hand dropping to his side.

"You can't?" she prompted.

He looked into her eyes again. "I can't stop thinking about you, about us, about how much I want to touch you and kiss you and—" he looked away for a moment "—to just hold you."

"Oh, Lance."

"I know you're worried about getting hurt, but I won't. I promise."

And still he didn't touch her, didn't kiss her or reach out to hold her hand. She realized in that moment that he was giving her the power. This was her decision, and whatever it was, he would go along with it.

She took his hand.

He sighed, his breath stirring the hairs around her face.

"Sarah," he said softly, bending down to kiss her, the moment seeming to flash in her mind, a mental picture taken of what it was like to feel his lips against her own—their masculine ridges, their surprising softness, the candy-sweet heat of his tongue when it slipped inside her mouth.

His hand lifted, skating up her side, pausing just beneath her breast. Memories of the last time he'd touched her there flooded her mind and so she was left wanting more as his thumb stroked her side.

They heard voices. Lance drew back. "Come with me."

Sarah looked into his eyes. In kindergarten they encouraged the children to enjoy the first day of school. It was nothing to worry about and once it was over they'd realize that all the fear, all the anxiety was for naught.

Lance made her feel like it was the first day of school.

"I'll go," she said.

Chicago

What a Difference a Race Makes

Q&A with Lance Cooper

By Rick Stevenson, Sports Editor

Some of you might remember that earlier this year I sat down with Lance Cooper. We talked about how much he's struggled in the past couple of years and how much he'd hoped to turn things around. Well, after this past week's win at Daytona, people are wondering: Is Lance Cooper back?

RS: Lance, what's your take on the situation? Are you back?

LC: Back. Definitely back.

RS: Good to know. But what turned it around for you this weekend?

LC: I think my head is back in the game. I'm working on some new prerace strategies that seem to be helping a lot.

RS: Rumor has it that prerace strategy involves cookies.

LC: [Laughs] Yeah, that's certainly part of it. Also, a friend of mine kind of put it in perspective when she reminded me of why it was I started racing in the first place—I love to race. If there were no fans, no sponsors, no year-end-championship, I would still want to race. I forgot that for a while.

RS: So is it safe to say you'll be keeping this woman around?

LC: I don't know. Depends of if she keeps making me sugar cookies.

RS: Sugar cookies?

LC: Yeah. She bakes the team cookies every week. We love them. And as far as if I'm going to keep her, I'm afraid the ball's in her court.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

It wasn't a dream.

When Sarah opened her eyes the next morning she remembered immediately what happened. There was no momentary horror. No remorse. Just a languid sense of satisfaction.

She'd slept with Lance Cooper.

And he really did wear purple underwear.

She smiled, rolling over in bed only to sit up a bit. Where was he? She wondered, looking around. The motor coach's bedroom door was open so she could see down the long aisle. And though the blinds might be drawn, and a sunshade stretched across the front windshield, she could see the kitchen and family room area perfectly. Empty.

Wait. Lance had had to leave early. It was... nine o'clock! Jeez, she'd slept late.

Likely because of your night of drunken debauchery.

She hadn't been drunk, but she felt sort of punchy right now.

Her cell phone rang.
Lance.
It had to be Lance because nobody else had this number. She clutched the sheet around her, seeking out the location of her purse by cocking her head. It was like playing Marco Polo, but she found the darn thing in one of the cabinets where'd she stashed it for safekeeping.

"Hello?" she said, her every muscle buzzing with anticipation.

"Hello, Sarah?" said a voice, a feminine voice. "Sarah? That you?"

Oh, jeez, Sarah thought, wilting onto one of the couches.
Mom.

"Hi," Sarah said automatically, clutching the sheet around her tighter as if her mom could see her state of dishevelment right through the phone.

"It
is
you," she said, her raspy voice sounding even more raspy at—what time was it on the West Coast?— six o'clock? "Sarah Tingle, you have no idea what a tough time I've had trying tracking you down!"

How had she gotten this number? How? She'd deliberately not given her mother any number but the one to her voice mail service.

"What if I'd dropped dead from a heart attack?" she lectured.

A distinct possibility, given her mom's addiction to cigarettes.

"You should never leave town without making sure I have a way to reach you."

But that was the whole thing. Sarah didn't want to talk to her mom. To say that they weren't close would be like claming Mars and Pluto weren't within walking distance of each other. "I'm sorry, Mom. I forgot to let you know where I was going."

"Forgot, huh?" There was suspicion in her mother's voice. Sarah winced. Long ago Sarah had realized that most of her problems, including her propensity to involve herself with the wrong man, stemmed from her mother.

"I did," Sarah proclaimed, perhaps a little too vehemently, a headache beginning to throb at her temples. "But I see you managed to find me."

"No thanks to you," said the woman who was the poster child for bad behavior. When they'd last talked Sarah had been shocked when her mom had taken the moralistic high road, plunging yet another knife in her back when she'd berated Sarah over the pictures. It wasn't that she was an abusive mom, but she'd made plenty of rotten choices for Sarah to emulate.

"Um, Mom? How
did
you find me?"

"The TV."

"The TV?"

"I saw you in the winner's circle last night."

"You watched the race last night?" Sarah asked, deadpan.

And suddenly her voice dripped so much honey Sarah wouldn't have been surprised to hear the drone of bees in the background. "Why sure I did, baby," she said. "I told you. Hank was a huge NASCAR fan. Imagine my surprise to look up and see my baby girl standing next to Lance Cooper."

Sarah hadn't been her "baby girl" since she'd kicked her out of her trailer at seventeen. Actually, probably even before that.

"Me? On TV?" Sarah said, trying to sound surprised. "Oh, Mom, you must be mistaken."

"Don't play with me, Sarah Ann Tingle. You forget I called you on a company phone. A Lance Cooper, Inc. company phone. I got the number from someone at the shop."

Doop. Busted.

"Look, Mom, I'm not sure why you called, given the way our last conversation ended..."

"Oh, now, honey—I hope you realize I didn't mean nothin' by that."

"You were rotten," Sarah felt bold enough to say.

"I was only telling you a few home truths for your own good. I may not be the best mom in the world, but I thought I raised you better than to take your clothes off for some man:"

"But that's just it," Sarah practically yelled, shooting up from the couch before realizing all she wore was a sheet, the back end opening up so that cold air hit her backside. She sat back down again. "I didn't take my clothes off, Mom. Peter must have Photoshopped someone else's... things on me."

"Really, Sarah? And how can that be possible?" her mother asked, Sarah dumbfounded that her mom still didn't believe her.

"It's possible," Sarah said. "And anyway, it's not like you're one to judge me."

"No, no. Don't you go there with me, missy. I did the best I could."

Sarah began mouthing the words along with her.

"I was a single mother, working at a convenience store, completely unprepared for the realities of motherhood."

"Mom," Sarah said.

"You're lucky I didn't give you up for adoption."

"Okay, that's enough," Sarah said, wondering why she even bothered to try.

"But all that's in the past now," her mother said, her voice turning sugary-sweet again, the kind of sweet that only ever attracted flies. "You're all grown up and dating a race-car driver."

Okay. So now she knew the purpose of the call. Her mom saw visions of garage passes dancing in her head. "Mom, I'm not dating him. I drive his motor coach."

"Well then, you'll be able to get us tickets to California."

Oh, jeez. Why hadn't she seen that coming? "I'll look into it for you."

"No need," she wheezed, sounding like a squeaky toy. "I already asked the nice girl at Sanders Racing to put me on their list."

"You did
what?"

"She didn't mind. After I proved to her that I was your mother, she was only too willing to accommodate me."

The underlying message being,
unlike you.

Sarah closed her eyes, thinking things couldn't get any worse.

"In fact, Hank and I were thinking of joining you in Chicago."

"Chicago!" Sarah cried, straightening so fast the sheet just about fell off. "Mom, you can't afford to do that."

"Hank's paying."

"But, Mom—"

"So I'm thinking we'll see you there on Thursday, honey," she interrupted. "If we end up making it, I'll give you a call so you can come pick us up at the airport."

"I can't pick you up—"

"Bye."

And that was that.

The connection was closed and Sarah was left hanging.

But really, there was nothing new about that. Her mom always did what she wanted to do without a care or a thought about how Sarah might feel. It was the story of her life. Her mom would move them from trailer park to trailer park, little caring that Sarah had made friends, or liked her old school.

She'd done as she pleased and when Sarah had turned seventeen, she'd booted her out.

As sad as it seemed, there were times when she'd wondered why her mom
hadn't
put her up for adoption, except she'd always had this horrible feeling that her mother had kept her around because as much as she might consider a daughter a pain in the you-know-what, Sarah had been a good cook and a whiz with a toilet brush; all the skills her mother had lacked. It was only when her mother's latest boyfriend objected to having a teenager around the place that Sarah had been kicked out.

Her phone beeped again. Sarah tried to see who was calling because if it was her mom, she wasn't answering again. But the odd thing was, it wasn't a cell phone ring, it was a beep.

Alert.

That's what the display screen said. Then she remembered. She pressed the button on the side, the phone chirping in response. "Hello," she said into the speaker.

"Are you up?" Lance asked.

She wanted to close her eyes, wanted to open her mouth and spill out all her angst-filled feelings for her mother. But despite their physical intimacy last night, she couldn't.

"Where are you?" she asked, realizing too late that she'd sounded almost accusatory.

Get it together, Sarah.

"I'm in Indiana. Testing."

And he said the words like she should have known where he was. Then she remembered that he
had
told her where he was going, but it'd been right after he'd... well, she'd had other things on her mind shortly thereafter.

"You're at the brick factory," she said, suddenly remembering the name.

"The Brickyard," Lance said with a smile in his voice.

"When I woke up and you were gone I just..." Felt abandoned, but maybe that was just the way she felt after her mom called. "Felt weird."

"I didn't want to wake you."

He'd told her that, too, she vaguely recalled. "I know. I remember now. I just forgot."

"Long night," he said, his voice low and sending shivers down her spine.

"Yeah, um, it was."

He chuckled, the sound raising an image in her head of Lance kissing her body, sinking lower and lower, a wicked little grin on his face...

Stop, she warned herself. Just stop.

"Lance, look, I've had some bad news."

"What's wrong?" And he sounded so instantly concerned that she felt like closing her eyes all over again and spilling her guts.

"Nothing," she said. "Well, not really
nothing.
My mom called. She saw me on TV last night and now she's thinking of coming to Chicago."

"Terrific. I'll have Mandy arrange credentials—"

"No," Sarah interrupted. "You don't need to do that. She can purchase tickets if she comes."

"Sarah, don't be silly. I don't want your mom to think I'm some kind of jerk."

"That's just it," Sarah said. "She can't know that we're um, er, seeing each other. That would be a disaster."

"A disaster?"

"She's... she's..." Sarah tried to formulate the words. But how to explain what Sylvia Tingle was like? Now that her mother knew that Sarah was involved in the racing industry she'd never leave her alone. It was like that when she got hired as a full-time teacher at the prestigious private school. Her mother had somehow gleaned that the position had come with a healthy pay increase (well, and why wouldn't it considering she'd been driving for County Transit before that) and she'd called Sarah every week asking for money.

"She's what?" Lance prompted.

"She's horrible," Sarah said. "I'm not kidding, Lance, she's not a good person. There were days when I was growing up that I wished she'd just tie me to a lamppost and leave me. No, don't laugh. That was a serious fantasy of mine. She's not someone you want around."

"She can't be that bad."

"She's
that
bad," Sarah corrected.

"Well, then I'll have her banned from the track."

"Can you
do
that?"

"No," he said on a huff of laughter. "I can't do that. But honestly, Sarah, if she's as bad as all that, why don't you simply tell her not to come?"

"For the same reason I don't tell the moon not to rise and the sun to set. For the same reason I can't stop the Earth from turning and the stars from shining."

"I get the picture. I have a dad that sounds a lot like your mom."

"Terrific. We should put them in a room together and see who comes out first."

Silence. Sarah was just on the verge of feeling uncomfortable when he said, "I missed you this morning."

Boy, that was an abrupt change of subject. "Yeah?" she asked.

Had that sounded too needy? Did he think she was fishing for compliments?

"You were out cold when I left."

"I was pretty tired," she said.

"You look adorable when you sleep. Did you know that? And that you snore "

"I what?" she asked, having been momentarily distracted with thoughts of a raspy chin rubbing the sensitive parts of her body.

"You're adorable when you're sleeping. I could stare at you for hours."

She dropped her gaze as if he were standing in front of her. She wished he was standing in front of her because then she could see if he was feeding her a line or if he really meant it.

"Will you fly out to meet me Tuesday night?"

"What?"

"I'll send my jet for you."

"Lance," she said. "I can't do that. I'll be halfway to Chicago by then."

"Don't drive. I'll stay in a hotel."

She smiled, her mother forgotten as she thought about what it'd be like to jump on a plane and meet up with him.

No.

No, no, no, she told herself. It was very important that she maintain her own identity. This... affair with Lance was tentative at best. She shouldn't go rushing into something.