In the Groove (19 page)

Blain Sanders came up behind Cece, putting his arms around Cece's waist. '"Bout time you two got back together. I was about ready to ask one of the other drivers to start flirting with Sarah just to get you off your you-know-what," he said with a smile.

"Yeah, well," Lance said, looking slightly embarrassed. "I was trying to give Sarah time to realize what a great guy I am, which, you two should be glad to hear, she does. She just told a bunch of kids what a great guy I am."

"Really?" Blain said. "Then you really do have her fooled."

"Blain," Cece said, elbowing her husband.

"Just kidding, just kidding," Blain said with a smile.

Two minutes later, Lance took her hand and led her away, Sarah feeling suddenly shy.

"You do realize, don't you, that you're covered in paint?"

"I do," she said with a glance down at herself.

"But I don't care," he said, stopping suddenly and pulling her into her arms.

"Lance—" she started to protest.

"I missed you," he said.

"Did you?" she asked, looking up in time to catch his eyes.

"You have no idea," he said earnestly. "When I picked you up in Illinois all I wanted to do was touch you. But I was afraid of scaring you off. I worried that if I pushed you, you'd shut me down."

"I thought you'd moved on," she admitted.

His big hands reached up to cup her face, his head lowering as he whispered the words, "How could I move on after I'd fallen in love with you?"

Her breath hitched.

"You're it for me, Sarah. You have been from the moment I first set eyes on you. Or did you think I slept with all my motor coach drivers?"

"I wasn't sure," she said softly, sudden tears making her vision blur. "I just wasn't sure."

"Well, you should have been sure. I'm not into men and even if I was, Frank, my old driver, really never turned me on."

"Oh, Lance," she said.

And then he kissed her, Sarah's laughter fading as he softly and gently pressed his lips against her own.

"Get a room," someone yelled.

They broke apart. Todd Peters passed by.

"You're just jealous," Lance said, putting his arm around Sarah and pulling her, if possible, even closer.

"Jealous?" Todd said. "Of you? When I can whip your ass on the track? Not hardly."

"Jealous that I snagged Sarah and you didn't."

Todd looked contrite. "Well, all right. I'll give you that. But if you ever change your mind, Sarah..."

Sarah laughed, knowing he was joking, but flattered nonetheless. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Are you kidding?" Lance asked. "She ain't gonna want nobody after having me, are you Sarah?" Lance asked, his southern drawl more pronounced whenever he put on that fake leer of his.

"Well, I don't know—" she teased.

He kissed her. Again. Only this time he pushed her into a little alcove she hadn't noticed before, Lance lifting his head long enough to say, "See ya," to Todd Peters before he went back to kissing her between two public phones.

"Lance," she hissed, embarrassed. "People are staring."

"So," he whispered back. "I don't care who sees me kissing you, Sarah. Not now. Not ever. They better get used to it, just as you better get used to
being
kissed."

As his lips covered her own, Sarah thought there were worse things to have to endure.

A lot worse.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Lance felt on top of the world.

After his second-place finish the previous weekend, he'd ended up on the pole at Pocono. Not because he'd suddenly mastered a track that had always eluded him in the past, but because of Sarah. Once again she'd managed to completely put things in perspective for him by reminding him that this one race would not make or break his career—and that (and this had made him smile) some kids repeated grades. He would be able to repeat Pocono next year if he failed to make the grade this year.

He just loved her teaching analogies.

But it had helped. She was right. Whatever happened, there was always next weekend—and next year. And so as he sat in his car waiting to lead the field out onto the track, he felt more relaxed than he could remember being in a long, long time.

Too bad Sarah didn't look that way.

"You're nervous," Lance said as he reached for his helmet, getting ready to strap it on, his words nearly drowned out by the thousands of people who'd come to watch the race, and who all looked down on him and his car while they were lined up on pit road. Sarah stood near the driver's side window, her eyes having never looked away from his own since the moment he'd crawled inside.

"I keep thinking this is a really small track," she said, looking up and at the grandstands, her brown eyes shielded by the bill of a Star Oil hat, brown hair poking out of the back like a horse's tail. He'd managed to get her into a Star Oil polo shirt, too, the orange star on her shirt pocket matching the one on her white hat.

"Nah," he said, giving her a reassuring smile. "It's not that small. Bristol, now that's small." .

"I suppose so," she said, still pensive.

"Hey," he said, motioning for her to lean down next to him.

"What?" she said, red-brown brows lifting beneath the ball cap.

"Whatcha gonna give me if I win this race?"

She drew back, but only a bit, her lips pressing together just before she shot him one of her Naughty Boy looks. "I'll give you another 'I told you so,' " she said.

He shook his head, motioning her to lean closer. She tried to appear stern, but he could see the way her lips twitched a bit.

"How about a kiss?" he asked.

"That
I'll give you even if you
don't
win the race."

He smiled just before she leaned down and gave him a kiss, Lance thinking that it was really true: she didn't care. She wasn't hung up on his winning the championship, or about his fame—or anything to do with racing, except for him.

"Time to break it up, you two," Allen, his crew chief said.

Lance pulled back, wondering why it was that some drivers preferred not to say much to their girlfriends or wives on race day. Frankly, he counted on Sarah to calm him down.

"Let's blow this taco stand," Lance said, smiling up at Sarah one last time before putting in his earpieces and donning his helmet.

But before they put up the window net he tapped the side of his car, catching Sarah's attention. She turned back, clasping the hand he held out, Lance giving her a squeeze. She smiled and squeezed back.

And that, Lance decided as he started the car, was the way he wanted to start every race of his career. And by God, just as soon as this race was over, he would make sure that's exactly what happened.

Just another day at the track.

That's what Sarah kept telling herself. It was just another day at the track with Lance doing what he loved to do most in the world, the forty-three car field just then rounding turn four sounding like a swarm of angry locusts. Just another day of biting her nails and praying he came home safe.

"He'll be just fine," her mother said after catching up with her near pit road. Sarah resisted the urge to shield her eyes whenever she glanced in her mother's direction. There were so many rhinestones sewn onto her mom's shirt, she looked like a walking explosion. Typical Sylvia attire. And typical of her to crash yet another race. Sarah mentally winced at the word "crash."

"I know he'll be fine," Sarah said, something clenching in the pit of her stomach as she said the words. Fear? It sure felt like that. "I'm just in a hurry to get back to the motor coach. I don't want to miss the start of the race."

"Why don't you watch it with Hank and me in the pits?" her mother asked, her penciled brows lifting.

"Because I don't want to be in the way."

"Then get up on top of the pit box. Lance told you that'd be okay—"

"Mom," Sarah said, stopping to turn and face her. "I don't want to watch the race from pit road," she said. "Now, you can either come back to the motor coach with me—" please, God, no "—or, you can stay here. But whatever you decide, I'm going back to the coach."

"Fine, I'll watch it with Hank," her mother said, sounding petulant. "If you change your mind, you know where to find us."

As if she would ever seek her mother out.

Sarah!
She mentally chastised herself. She is your
mom.

Yeah, but she didn't have to advertise that fact

"I'll see you after the race," her mother said.

"Yeah," Sarah said. "After."

"From the winner's circle," Sylvia called.

"I hope," Sarah muttered.

She very nearly missed the start. Sarah arrived back at the motor coach just in time to see the green flag drop. Lance fell back immediately, which Sarah knew by now was all right. There was plenty of time to fix whatever might be wrong with the car, though she was disappointed for Lance's sake as he sank back in the field.

"Damn," she said into the empty motor coach, back in service after Stalker Fan's sabotage. "Just relax, Lance," she told him, reaching for the scanner that sat on the kitchen counter and flipping it on.

"It's looser than Sarah after she's had a few drinks," Lance was saying.

"Hey," Sarah said, wishing she had a headset with her so she could counter that remark. But her boyfriend knew well and good she was watching... and listening.

Boyfriend.

For a moment she allowed herself a moment of wonder that she'd somehow managed to catch the eye of a race-car driver, one who claimed to be in love with her.

Claimed?

Well, all right, after the past few days, she was pretty certain they were both head over heels. The things he'd said to her... the things he'd done to her... her cheeks lit up like an OPEN sign, no doubt as red as her mother's lipstick.

Outside, she could hear the cars picking up speed again as they exited turn three.

"We'll try and get a handle on the problem during the first pit stop," Allen said, "Just sit tight for now, driver."

"Tight is what I wished I was," Lance said. "I'm telling you, Allen. This thing is bad loose. I'm gonna have to back it off some more."

And on the TV, Sarah watched, her anxiety mounting, as Lance faded back a couple more spots. The further back in the field you were, the more likely you were to get caught up in something, and her stomach clenched again, Sarah wondered if she were coming down with something. It wasn't like her to feel sick while watching Lance race.

"Outside," came the spotter's voice.

On TV Sarah watched as a brightly painted car passed Lance on the outside.

"Damn," he said. "Maybe I should pop the floor-board and stick my feet out like Fred Flintstone. Might help."

"Just be patient, driver," Allen said. "We'll get her fixed."

Another lap passed. Then another and another, Sarah wishing they'd show more of the entire field so she could watch Lance's car in action. But there was no need to see what was going on; the live leader board showed Lance falling farther and farther back.

"Something's really wrong now," he said a moment later. "Vibrating like crazy."

Vibrating? What would make a car vibrate?

And then there he was on TV, or rather, there his car was, Lance's helmet nothing more than a fuzzy blur behind the windshield. The television announcers were talking about Lance's handling issues, and how close he'd come to wrecking a few times, and that he might have a problem.

As if the announcer's words were a portent of things to come, Sarah watched in horror as the back end of Lance's car began to spin around. One of the cars behind him checked up, but it was too little, too late. Unable to stop his forward momentum, the driver plowed into the side of Lance's car.

"Oh shit."

Lance knew it wouldn't be good the moment he felt the ass end lift. Years of racing had given him an intuitive sense for what would happen next and sure enough, he felt his car roll sideways, flipping into the air like a kite whose string had been cut.

Boom.

It was all he heard, all he felt, the crash jarring every bone in his body and straining the helmet harness. Then he flipped again. And again, through the windshield loomed blue sky and then grass, blue sky and then grass and then... grass.

And then silence.

She wanted to vomit, except she couldn't—she had to run.

He'd wrecked.

Sarah had known it could happen, but watching his car flip over and over and over again, and then waiting to see if he would climb out... She truly felt sick as she ran toward the garage.

By the time she found the Star Oil hauler, she could barely speak. "Where is he?" Sarah asked the first person she could find. A tire changer named Tony, she thought.

"At the Infield Care Center," the burly man answered.

"Where's that?"

"Over by the Media Center."

"And where is
that?"
Sarah replied, her hands shaking so bad she could barely swipe away a lock of hair that had fallen out of her ball cap on her mad dash over.

"C'mon," a soft voice said. "I'll take you."

Sarah turned. Cece Sanders.

"Thank God," Sarah said in a rush. "I don't know what to do or where to go, I'm so worried. Is he okay? Do you know? What did the paramedics say?"

"He's fine, Sarah. Got into the ambulance by himself and walked into the Infield Care Center." She frowned, blond brows drawing together. "The question is—are
you
okay?"

"No, I'm not okay. Seeing my boyfriend roll his car makes me most definitely
not
all right. And how can he be okay after crashing like that—"

"Sarah," Cece said, grabbing her by the shoulders, giving a squeeze that was meant to be reassuring. "He's fine. Really. He climbed out of the car and walked to the ambulance all on his own. Scout's honor."

"Are you sure?"

Cece gave her a stern look. "Yes. I'm sure."

Sarah wilted then, her shoulders sagging like wet paper towels. Actually, she could use some paper towels right now because suddenly she was crying so hard she could barely stand.

"I was so scared," she sobbed.

"You shouldn't have been. You'll see in a moment that he's fine."

They were almost the exact same words Sarah heard Lance say the moment they entered the single story Infield Care Center, a blast of cool air hitting her square in the face when she paused near the entrance of the off-white room.

"Sarah," he said in relief when he spied her standing next to Cece and Blain, Lance giving them a welcoming smile, too.

"Lance," she echoed softly, her eyes darting over him. No cuts. No bumps. No bruises. At least none that she could see.

Maybe he really
was
all right.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said. And then, "Come here," when he must have seen how hard she fought to hold back tears. "You look worse than me."

"I was so scared," she murmured as he crossed the linoleum floor and drew her into his arms.

"I'm fine," he repeated softly. "Despite what the doctor says."

She drew back. "And what, exactly,
does
the doctor say?"

"That he appears fine on the outside," said an older man who stood near the middle of a room with two curtained cubicles that were obviously used for exams. A row of white cabinets stretched along the wall behind him. "But he's severely dehydrated. He's complaining of dizziness."

"I just need to drink some water," Lance said. "It was hotter inside that car than the fire Cece started on Thanksgiving Day."

"Hey," Cece said. "That turkey ended up being just fine."

"That's what we let you
think,"
Lance said, turning to Cece and giving her a teasing smile.

His boss's wife came forward, opening her arms so that she could give Lance a reassuring hug, too. "Yeah, right," Cece said, saying in a softer voice. "But I'm glad you're okay."

"Thanks."

Blain came forward then, slapping Lance on the back. "Good to see you up and about."

"Are you kidding me? Takes more than a roll down the backstretch to keep me off my feet. Now, a roll in the hay—"

"Hey. Excuse me. I think you guys are missing the point," Sarah said, slipping between the two of them and directing the conversation back to where it should be: Lance. "He's not okay. I can tell by the look in his eyes that something's wrong. And the doctor says he's dehydrated." She turned to the fatherly-looking man. "Does he need to go to a hospital?"