In the Groove (22 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"Give her some time," Sylvia Tingle said as Lance watched her go, a pain in his stomach so great it made him feel ill.

Or was that his heart?

"I'm not sure that will help," Lance said, thinking he might puke.

"It'll help," her mother said, placing a hand on his arm. "She's smarter than me. Always has been. You just need to give her time so she can see the forest through the trees."

"I don't think she sees a forest," Lance said, his eyes on the spot where Sarah's VW had disappeared from view. "I think she sees a jungle, one with tigers and crocodiles."

"Then it'll be your job to cut through that jungle," she said. "Give her a glimpse of the paradise beyond."

"Kind of hard to do when she won't return my calls."

"Lance Cooper," Sylvia Tingle said. "You're a professional athlete. You telling me you're gonna walk away?"

And he almost smiled—almost, because the truth of the matter was, he might be a professional athlete, but even pros knew when to throw in the towel.

"I guess not," he said, but the words were more for Sylvia's sake than anything else. He'd seen the look in Sarah's eyes. It was over. She wanted him to leave her alone.

It was long past time that he did exactly that.

It was funny, really, because after Sarah drove away, she got mad.

Really, really mad.

So far, every man she'd ever met had messed her up. Okay, so Lance was the one notable exception, but everyone else had messed her up to the point that now she was such a basket case she was afraid of her own shadow.

It pissed her off.

Yes,
pissed,
she told herself, feeling yet another surge of emotion at the use of the vulgar word. Pissed, pissed, pissed.

She found the bar where her mother hung out, Cowtown Bar, same place she'd been coming to for years. Hank was right where she'd known he would be—sitting at the bar, his back to the door, black leather vest immediately marking him. There were other people in the bar, too, mostly locals. The bartender gave her a glance as she entered.

"You're a total piece of crap," Sarah said, coming up behind Hank and pushing him on the shoulder.

"Hey," he said, his eyes meeting hers for a second. And then his face lit up. "Sarah," he said.

His face lit up.
As if he hadn't done anything. "Hey, nothing, you low-down piece of horse manure."

His gaze lifted, looking behind her. "Is Lance here?"

"No," she said. "And you better be grateful that he isn't because if he was, he'd sock you in the face." And at his look of surprise she said, "I know about the pictures, Hank. My mom told me what you did. But what I want to know is where you got copies of the photos."

"Hey look, Sarah. No need to get mad at me. Your ex-boyfriend Peter told me he was going to publish the photos. I just hooked him up with the
TATTLER.
"

Peter had been going to publish the photos? "Peter? Are you sure it was
Peter?"

"Yeah. He called looking for you and when you weren't around he told me what he was going to do. Just so happened I have this friend who works at the
TATTLER
and so I hooked him up."

And Sarah didn't know what shocked her more—that Peter had lied to her or that Hank seemed to think there'd been nothing wrong with "hooking him up."

"Why didn't you try and stop him?"

Hank shrugged, his complete lack of remorse causing Sarah's temper to flare again. "Needed the money," he said when he finally noticed her outrage.

Still, it took Sarah a second or two before she could speak again. "You're a real piece of work, you know that? Don't you ever come near me again, you hear? Ever. If you so much as go to a NASCAR race, I'll make sure you get booted out."

"You can't do that," he sneered.

"Yes," she said. Never mind that she herself was through with the racing industry. It sounded good. "I can."

"Yeah, right," Hank scoffed. "You'll be lucky if NASCAR lets you back in the garage. Then again, maybe they don't mind a bimbo or two parading around."

Something snapped, something Sarah had no clue was within her. She clocked him, right in the face, and oh, how good it felt—and oh, how much it hurt. She gasped in pain at the same time he roared in anger and clutched his head. "My nose," he said. "You broke my fuckin' nose."

It felt like she'd broken a finger or two herself, but Sarah didn't care. "I'm going to break a lot more than that if you ever, and I do mean
ever
call a woman a bimbo again. Got it?" she asked, pushing against his shoulders and sending him reeling back over the bar. "You're a total piece of crap and you didn't deserve my mother."

And then she turned and left because to be honest, she was a bit worried he'd retaliate. And her hand hurt so much that she had tears in her eyes.

All right, maybe she had tears in her eyes for another reason because suddenly she was so tired, so damn tired of feeling like everyone else's punching bag. Lance might have been one of the kindest, sweetest men she'd ever met, but those people who called themselves his fans, those women who lusted after him, they were cruel. As were the media, the article that had accompanied her photo so demeaning and sick she'd run to the bathroom and almost thrown up after she read it.

Life wasn't fair. But she wished with all her heart that it was.

Which was probably why she started to cry. She started her car, drove a half mile down the road, then had to pull over because the tears had started to come so fast and so thick that she couldn't see.

It wasn't fair.

She wanted Lance. She wanted him like she'd never wanted another man in her life. But she couldn't have him. She was too battered, too bruised to trust that things would work out between them. Best to end things now because if she were to trust Lance and something were to happen she wouldn't be able to survive.

Ah, heck, she thought, scrubbing at her wet cheeks. Who was she trying to kid? She was barely surviving right now. Obviously this was one of those cases where the cure might be worse than the disease. But she had to cure herself of Lance. She'd have to, because there was one thing she refused to do and that was to end up like her mother, bruised and beaten down by life and the men she'd dated.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The next week Lance fingered a battered sandwich bag, the crumbs inside turning the plastic a powder-gray.

The last cookie.

It was dumb, really. He should have tossed the thing out. But for the same reason he wore purple underwear on race day, he couldn't bring himself to throw the cookie out even though by now it was nothing but crumbs.

Ah, hell, who was he kidding? He couldn't toss it out because it's the only thing he had to remind him of Sarah.

"Lance," Blain said, peeking his head in the lounge's door. "Practice starts in fifteen minutes."

Lance nodded, not looking up. He felt, rather than saw, Blain standing in the doorway.

"Did you get through to her?"

"No," Lance said.

His friend came in, placing a hand on his shoulder. "She'll come around. Look what I had to go through for Cece."

"Yeah, well, at least Cece understood racing. Sarah can't stand it."

"Then maybe she's not the right woman for you."

But as Lance stared at that bag, his eyes suddenly burned. "No," he said. "She was perfect for me."

And now she's gone.

"Cheer up," Blain said. "At least you won the race last weekend."

Yeah, but only because he'd been so furious, so mad, that he hadn't cared what happened out on that track. As a result he'd made a new enemy out of Dan Harris when he'd bump drafted the man out of the way. And later, he'd caused a ten-car pileup when he'd moved around the forty-eight.

NASCAR had
not
been pleased.

"And if we keep this up, you might just make The Chase."

But for some reason making The Chase didn't matter any more.

"C'mon," Blain said. "Let's go racing."

Sarah heard the announcer's voice coming from the black-and-white set in her mom's tiny family room. She rolled her eyes at the sound being turned up so that she could hear every word.

Rick Stevenson, sometime print reporter, sometime TV journalist, was talking to someone.

"How does it feel to be so close to making The Chase when you started out the season so poorly?" he was asking someone.

"It feels good."

Sarah ducked her head, trying to cover her ears with her hands.

"Surprising, but good," he added, the sound so loud now Sarah could hear every word. Her mom had turned it up.

"I see you've got your cookie with you," Rick asked.

Cookie?

Sarah's head popped up.

"Yeah. It's a little battered, but I still have it."

"Think you need to get your girlfriend to make you some new ones?"

"I've been trying," Lance said. "But she won't return my calls."

"Did you hear that, ladies?" Rick said. "Lance Cooper appears to be single again."

That did it. Sarah shot up from her chair, the paper where she'd been circling Help Wanted ads falling to the ground.

"Where are you going?" her mother asked.

"Out," Sarah snapped.

Her mom shot up from her chair, stepping in front of the door before she could escape. "He still loves you," she said.

And Sarah realized something. Since she'd moved back home not one cross word, not one snide comment, not one derogatory remark had passed her mother's lips. Not only that, but she was wearing her hair differently, too. Less poofy. And less makeup. And looser-fitting clothes.

"Mom," Sarah said. "What's happened? You look... different."

"You're just noticing now?" her mom asked, swiping a lock of dark-blond hair off her face—a more natural blond.

"What happened?" Sarah asked again.

"Well, it was kind of funny, actually. I was watching a rebroadcast of a race we attended and I saw myself on TV, only at first I thought 'who's that fat woman on TV and why doesn't she do something with her hair?' "

Sarah's mouth dropped open.

"I know. Horrible. But, see, I didn't realize it was me and when I did, well, whew, talk about an eye-opener. And then I noticed something else," her mom said, her eyes peering into Sarah's, something floating in their depths—regret, sadness, maybe even sorrow. "I saw myself lean toward you, say something in your ear. It took me a moment to remember what it was I'd said, something about how you needed to dress better or something. But the thing was, you looked away, and when you did I could see the hurt was on your face—"

And to Sarah's total and complete shock, she spotted tears forming in her mother's eyes.

"I saw the hurt on your face and how your whole body seemed to wilt. I knew right then I'd done something stupid. My thoughtless words had hurt you and I'm so sorry, Sarah," she said, clasping her by the upper arms. "I'm so, so sorry for taking the joy away from you."

Tears were falling down Sarah's face by now, too.

"I say things sometimes. Stupid things. I don't mean to hurt you, but I guess that I do." She straightened. "Anyway. I decided then and there to make more of an effort at being nice. And to change the way I dress." Her hand fell back to her side. "For God's sake, Sarah, why didn't you tell me I looked like that?"

And Sarah laughed. She couldn't help it. Her mother looked so outraged that Sarah had let her traipse around looking like a paintball dummy that Sarah could only laugh and shake her head.

"Mom," she said. "You're too much sometimes."

And then her mother's gaze softened. "I know," she said. "But I love you."

Sarah did something totally unexpected then. She leaned forward and gave her mom a hug. "And I love you, too," she admitted.

"Thanks for not holding what happened with Hank against me."

"You're welcome," Sarah said, smiling. "But you sure do know how to pick them."

"Hopefully, that's going to change," her mom said, laughing. "Maybe I can find myself a crew chief or something."

They both laughed then, Sarah realizing in that moment that, miracle of miracles, she and her mom might just end up as friends.

And if God could heal those wounds, maybe, just maybe he could heal others, too.

It started out as a nebulous idea, one that floated into Sarah's mind when she'd been talking to her mother. But it had taken shape in the ensuing weeks.

Men had been pretty miserable to her in the past—particularly the photo-faking Peter—and if she were ever going to take charge of her life, if she were ever to stop slinking away from problems, she needed to start standing up for herself. And so a few weeks after her heart-to-heart with Lance, she decided to do exactly that. Maybe it would make her feel better, since dodging Lance's calls sure hadn't done the job.

Peter Parsons lived four hours away, near San Jose State where Sarah had earned her BA. She really didn't expect him to live in the same place he always had—after all, it'd been a while since she'd last seen him—but when she'd called his old number, she'd been surprised to hear the same voice mail message he'd had for what seemed forever. Of course, he could have moved and had his number forwarded, but she doubted it.

Sarah drove to San Jose, figuring that at worst she could ask the neighboring tenant if he'd moved.

But he hadn't.

She knew the moment she spotted the dried-up and long-dead potted plants that still sat on the rail of his second-story apartment building. It was probably one of San Jose's oldest tenements, the narrow stairwell to the second story definitely not ADA approved. Two doors stood at the top of the landing, one to the left and one to the right. Peter's was the one to the right.

Well, now or never.

She took the first step, then another and then another, pushing the lighted doorbell button without giving herself time to catch her breath.

He opened the door.

That was a shock, because she hadn't really expected him to be home. She'd been prepared to wait for him out in her car. So when he opened the door it took her a moment to realize nothing had changed about his scrawny physique and narrow face. He looked like a little squirrel, right down to the gap between his teeth. Oddly enough, he didn't look all that surprised to see her.

"I saw you park your car."

"Good for you."

"It's the same one you've been driving for years. I recognized the sound."

She straightened, launching into her prepared speech that started with, "Give me the photos, Peter."

"What photos?" he asked.

"Put a cork in it, Peter Pan. I don't believe your whole roommate story. It was
you
who sold the photos to that magazine. I called and asked. I want those photos back, including the originals where I'm actually
wearing
something."

"Well surprise, surprise. So you actually figured it out."

"Yeah. I'm only surprised at how stupid I've been, believing your lies."

"No more stupid than I was about you. You cheated on me, Sarah."

She huffed in disbelief. "Is that what this is about? Revenge? Besides, I never cheated on you."

He didn't answer her, just said, "I'm not giving them back to you."

"Fine. Then my boyfriend and I are going to take you to court."

"You don't have a boyfriend."

"I do, too," she lied. "And he's famous. And he has lots of money."

"You and Lance Cooper broke up last weekend."

Okay, this was starting to get really creepy. "How do you know that?"

"I know a lot of things about you," he said.

Now she was
really
starting to get creeped out.

"Have you turned into a race fan?" she asked, trying to reassure herself. Maybe that's how come he knew about her and Lance. But a peek into his apartment revealed no lampshades with car numbers on them or throw rugs in a race team's colors. "How the heck do you know we broke up?"

"You want to come in?" he asked, sweeping his arm wide.

"Are you kidding me? I'm not going inside your apartment! Obviously, you're a total whack job. Jeez, I can't believe I didn't realize it before—"

He jerked her inside. Sarah yelped, pulled off balance by his sudden move. The door closed behind her and Sarah told herself not to freak out. Peter was a punk. She probably weighed more than he did. He wasn't going to do anything but try to bully her with words.

"You left me for Ron," he said.

But still, she eyed the door, knowing from experience that the only way out was that or the window.

"I know I left you, you little creep, and for obvious reasons. You're sick."

Okay, maybe insulting him wasn't a smart idea, but she'd had it. Just had it. He might be a pasty-faced geek, but he was still a bully.

"Give me the photos, Peter. If you don't, I'll tell the phone company about how you like to hack into their phone records in your spare time."

"And I'll delete my files so you'll have no evidence."

"I'm serious," she said, holding out her hand and wagging her fingers, her heart pounding so loud it boom-boom-boomed in her ears. "Give me the photos. All of them—the originals
and
the ones you stole the boobs from."

"You think I'm going to do that when I'm having so much fun seeing them displayed in public?"

"You little jerk," she said, lifting a hand.

He didn't move. She realized then that he wanted her to hit him, that if she did, it would give him power over her. He might be able to claim assault or something and then she'd never be rid of him.

Her hand dropped.

"Fine," she said. "My attorneys will be in touch."

He stepped in front of her, blocking her exit. "You don't have an attorney. You don't have anything. I made sure of that."

"Congratulations," she said. "I hope you feel like a
big
man at last." And she eyed his crotch in a derogatory way, telling him without words what she thought of his masculinity—just like she had the day she'd left him.

"I'll show you what a big man I am."

"Yeah, right," she said, trying to step around him.

He pushed her up against the wall and the funny thing was, she wasn't scared. Not really. She knew she should have been, but like an out-of-body experience, she wasn't.

"What's the matter?" she said. "Internet porn not doing it for you anymore?"

"Why stare at pictures when you can have the real thing?"

"Yeah, right."

He tried to kiss her.

Unbelievable. She shoved him away. But he took her by surprise, wrestling her to the ground.

That was when she realized just how dangerous a situation this might turn out to be.

"Let me go," she ordered, her hands held by his hand, his weight pressing into her so that she couldn't move. Yeah, he was small in stature, but he was still taller than she was.

"No."

"I'll scream."

"Like you did when I slapped the window while you were in the bus?"

"What?"

"I've had such fun following you from race to race."