Home At Last Chance (Last Chance #2)(19)
Author: Hope Ramsay

“This happened to you?”

“Yeah. Miriam told me to search for a knight in shining armor—precisely the fantasy that had gotten me into very bad situations for most of my life. I wasn’t really ready to hear what she had to say.”

Sarah frowned. “Clay doesn’t give me a real knight-in-shining-armor vibe. A bad old redneck on a motorbike, yeah, but a knight?”

“It’s worse than it appears,” Jane said. “Clay is a Boy Scout who is ready to rescue me at a moment’s notice while simultaneously being the epitome of a sensitive, new age guy—in disguise, of course.” She smiled like a woman deeply in love.

“You really adore him.”

“He changed my life.” Jane let go of a sappy sigh and continued, “So, I’m telling you, resistance is futile. And, for the record, you and Bill Ellis are like a match made in Heaven.”

Five minutes later, Sarah found herself riding shotgun with Last Chance’s chief of police in his really impressive automobile. For a small town with limited resources, the authorities had obviously spared no expense when it came to Stone Rhodes’s cruiser. The thing was loaded down with computer and communication equipment that could rival any big city.

He had just made a right turn onto Palmetto Avenue when his radio burst to life with a female voice. “Hey, Stone, I got a report of trespassers down at Speed Demon.”

“Shit,” Stone said right into his mic.

“Yup. I’m thinking what you’re thinking.” The woman on the other end of the line had a low seductive voice and a broad Southern drawl.

“Thanks, Darlene. You tell Sheriff Bennett yet?”

“Nope. I reckon you got a fifteen-minute head start before things get out of hand.”

“I’m on my way, darlin’, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, Stony. You can buy me a drink next time you’re down this way.” The voice practically purred.

Okay, so maybe the grumpy chief of police was getting some action on the side. Sarah figured there was a lot about the tall, dark, and handsome chief that the church ladies of Last Chance probably didn’t know. Stone leaned over and flipped a switch on the dash, and his police lights started doing their thing.

He turned toward Sarah. “I reckon I’m going to need your help.”

“My help?”

“Mmm. See, that was a call about a disturbance over at the dirt track where Tulane and Pete used to run cars all summer. I figure we got us a situation where the spokesperson for Cottontail Disposable Diapers is raising hell and trespassing. We leave this situation alone, and Tulane will end up arrested by the county sheriff.

“So I’m thinking you and I have a strong mutual interest in rescuing Tulane before that happens. And, as they say, you can catch a whole lot more flies with honey than with vinegar.” He gave her a little smile that revealed a whole bunch of dimples and crow’s-feet. “And besides, I figure you are being paid to keep him out of trouble, and I’m just his older brother, who has been kicking his butt for years.”

And with that, Stone hit the accelerator, pulled a U-turn that threw Sarah up against the door, and then took off like a speed demon himself, right down the middle of town. Sarah reached for the “oh shit” handle and didn’t even blush.

She was coming to realize that all of the Rhodes men had a talent for breaking traffic laws.

Tulane took another slug of beer and swallowed it hard so it trapped the air bubbles in his esophagus. He held on to the incipient burp, and then began a slow release of it as he burped the words to the chorus of the old Tracy Byrd song “Watermelon Crawl.” He got as far as “drink don’t drive” before his burp gave out.

“Ha, I win,” Clay said from his place atop the pit-row wall at the defunct Speed Demon Racetrack. “I got all the way to watermelon.”

“Yeah, but Pete could burp the entire refrain. You guys are wimps,” Rocky said in a slightly slurred voice. She sat on the hard dirt at the base of the pit wall, wearing a pair of cutoffs and a tank top, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looked like the sister Tulane remembered from his childhood, not the kick-ass staffer for a U.S. senator. He didn’t get to see his sister very often these days. He missed Rocky.

But not as much as he missed Pete.

He turned away from his siblings, trying not to think about Pete, which was hard here at the Speed Demon dirt track, drinking beer and burping Tracy Byrd songs.

In fact, Tulane was well aware that his sister had suggested they all meet up here for the express purpose of remembering Pete. She had even persuaded Clay to bring his bolt cutters so they could get past the padlock on the gate.

This officially meant they were trespassing.

“Hey, ya’ll, is it worse for a senator’s aide to get caught trespassing or for the spokesperson for Cottontail Disposable Diapers?” Tulane asked.

“Cottontail Disposable Diapers,” Clay and Rocky said in unison.

Tulane turned and scowled at the two of them. “Why does it always work that way?” He gestured broadly toward Clay. “You come equipped with bolt cutters.” Then he looked down at his sister. “And you dream everything up and come with a twenty-four-pack of beer. I’m just along for the ride. But I’m always the one who gets the book thrown at me.”

“Usually by Uncle Pete,” Rocky said. “Here’s to the old guy. I’ll miss the way he used to bawl you out.” She raised her beer bottle and took a hearty swig. Then she wiped a little tear from her eye with the back of her beer hand.

“Well, I suppose not having Pete bawl you out is something to be grateful for, huh?” Clay said.

Rocky snorted. “Clay, you need to quit with that positive stuff. I mean, it sucks that Uncle Pete is dead, so don’t go finding silver linings, okay?”

“Sure, Rocky,” Clay said. “Anyway, I reckon Tulane’s got a new nursemaid now. And, boy howdy, she’s a lot better looking than Pete.” Clay let go of a drunken laugh.

“Oooh, Tulane, does she yell at you like Pete? That would be real entertaining, because I got a feeling Sarah doesn’t know any cuss words. And Pete sure did know how to cuss. In fact, I probably learned every dirty word I know from Pete,” Rocky said, raising her bottle again. “I’m gonna miss him. You remember that time he nearly blew up the house when he got an idea to deep-fry a turkey for Thanksgiving? I swear I learned seven new cuss words that day.”

“Yeah.” Clay’s voice wavered, and he snuffled a little—in an entirely manly way, of course.

Tulane turned away again. Someone really needed to do something about this situation, or they would all be bawling their eyes out. So Tulane took another swig of beer and swallowed down on the bubbles. He turned around and this time, instead of trying to sing “Watermelon Crawl,” he began reciting the Lord’s Prayer. He’d seen Pete burp the entire prayer from beginning to end one time. Pete was a really impressive burper.

He got as far as the word “temptation,” even though Clay cracked up and ended up spewing Budweiser from both nostrils while Rocky howled with laughter.

That was more like it. No tears. He didn’t want to cry. Pete wouldn’t want a bunch of tears either.

“Hey, ya’ll, remember the way Pete blared that watermelon song over the loudspeakers of the store every year at festival time?” he asked.

“Don’t remind me. That man had a thing for that song. He even asked me if I was ready to crawl on my hands and knees and wiggle and jiggle that year I was Watermelon Queen.”

Clay snorted. “I sure would have liked to see you crawling around in that dress. As it is, everyone’s saw you wiggle and jiggle, girl, so I wouldn’t worry none.”

“Thanks. And the next time Bubba Lockheart tries to carry me off, I hope you are the guy who talks him down. I really don’t know what I would have done that time if Pete hadn’t interceded. Damn, I’m gonna miss him.” Rocky’s voice cracked.

Clay hopped down from the wall and sat beside her, putting his big arm around her shoulder. He gave her a hug, and then she completely fell apart, leaning over on him and bawling all over his shoulder.

Damn. She was getting snot all over Clay’s T-shirt, and Clay was doing his best big-brother routine.

The party was coming apart at the seams. Tulane needed to do something quick. A guy like him, who was forced to ride around in a pink car and kiss little babies at his personal appearances, did not need to cry in public. A guy like him needed to have some really stiff rules about emotional stuff like that.

He polished off his beer and headed toward Stone’s old pickup, which Tulane had driven down here after taking Rocky to the Buy Low to get the beer.

This seriously weakened his argument about how he had been hanging with his siblings and was completely innocent of any premeditated trespassing. Although in his favor was the fact that Clay had driven himself and supplied the bolt cutters. So Clay bore the lion’s share of the responsibility for any trespassing that might have happened.

Not that it would matter if they got caught. Clay always managed to wiggle out of any blame that might be assigned.

Tulane got in the truck and fired up the engine. Man, that old pickup sounded good. Stone knew how to take care of a motor, all right. Pete had taught him good.

Tulane pulled the truck through the gates they’d unofficially unlocked and onto the old track. Clay and Rocky had both gotten over their grief and hopped up onto the pit wall. They watched as Tulane floored that baby and headed toward turn one.

The truck handled great as he power-slid around turns one and two and headed into the straightaway. The dark dirt slid under his wheels, and even though the lights weren’t on and the track had been closed up for four years, Tulane swore he could smell the funnel cakes and hear the roar of the other cars.

A million memories assailed him as he reached turn three and power-slid through it, like one of the old boys who had invented stock car racing as a by-product of bootlegging. He doubted many of today’s pretty-boy drivers knew much about power-sliding a pickup through a turn on a dirt track.

He could almost hear Kenny Lewicki in the back of his head, telling him how unimportant Pete’s lessons about driving and cars were. Well, damn Kenny Lewicki. And damn NASCAR. And damn National Brands. And damn Pete…

The tears filled his eyes and blinded him for a moment. He took the turn too fast, and the truck spun out. His instincts—honed over years of driving this track—kicked in. He guided the truck to a safe stop facing the wrong way, with the front pointed toward the pit entrance.

Where, right at that moment, Stone’s Crown Vic police cruiser made an appearance, with lights flashing.

Dizziness assailed Tulane, and the cruiser lights smeared in his vision. His chest felt like a pressure cooker that had been left on for too long. He was about to detonate. He needed to punch something, or he might…

Oh, crap, he was going to lose it. He hadn’t cried since he was a little kid. He sagged his forehead onto the steering wheel as the first sob hit him. After that, it was all he could do to catch his breath.