CHAPTER TWO

 

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"WANT TO FOOL around in the shower?"

Travis suppressed a groan. Lorna Steele—dressed in her Green Hills Rangers cheerleading outfit brushed her hand across his sweaty chest. In Lorna speak, fool around meant no holds barred and don't forget the condom.

Lorna didn't care if other guys wandered in and out of the locker room. Or if any of them stopped to watch. The danger of getting caught was half the thrill.

After an hour in the weight room followed by five miles around the outdoor track, Travis wasn't interested in playing water games with Lorna. Or that was what he told himself. His body—led by his dick—had different ideas.

Down, boy, Travis cautioned.

Lorna acted as if she only wanted a good time. But if she had her way, when he left town, she'd go with him. The proverbial June bride. Orange blossoms danced in the cheerleader's head. Along with dreams of her life as a baseball superstar's pampered wife.

"Aren't you dating Duncan Cornwall?" Travis asked as he peeled Lorna's short, but sharp nails from around his wrist.

"Duncan is sweet," Lorna purred. "But I prefer a little more… meat on my man."

"Consider my meat off your personal menu, Lorna." Stopping at the locker room door, Travis blocked her entry. "Go play with somebody else. I'm not interested."

"You were last summer."

"We had fun."

"More than fun," Lorna insisted, used to getting what she wanted. "You said I was the best you ever had."

"Did I?" Honestly, Travis couldn't remember.

"Please, Travis?" Lorna pouted, her heavily mascara-coated eyelashes batting up a storm. Despite what she believed, the look wasn't a good one for her. "Once more? For old time's sake?"

Warning bells sounded in Travis' head. Danger! Danger! If this was her attempt at a trap, too bad. Whatever Lorna had planned, he didn't want to find out.

"I thought we were friends."

"We are," Lorna insisted.

"Then don't ruin some really good memories by doing something we'll both regret."

"But—"

"Go home, Lorna." Travis backed into the locker room. "Give Duncan a call. He's a good guy."

Duncan deserved better, but the guy was obviously smitten with Lorna. Setting him straight wasn't up to Travis.

As he opened his locker, Travis glanced at the shower. Why tempt fate? Or rely on Lorna to do the smart thing? Deciding to wait until he was in the safety of his own bathroom to clean up, he grabbed his jacket and headed out the back way.

Clouds filled the early evening sky, threatening rain. For once, Travis had his motorcycle in running order. If he was lucky, he'd be parked in the garage before the first drops hit the ground.

Travis was about to pull on his helmet when he paused, the faint sound of music reaching his ears. Cocking his head, he listened, trying to figure out the name of the song. His dad loved anything classical, playing his old records during dinner.

Without realizing his brain had been infiltrated, Travis had acquired an appreciation for the genre.

The music room at Green Hills High, located in a converted maintenance building, wasn't large. Or particularly well equipped. A dilapidated drum set. A few brass instruments that had long ago lost their luster. And one used, upright piano donated to the school so long ago nobody could remember the name of the generous benefactor.

Travis walked by the building almost every day on his way to the gym. But he'd never had a reason—or inclination—to enter the dented, metal, west-facing door. Turning the handle, he supposed curiosity was as good a motivator as any.

The room was dark, the only light coming from a small gooseneck lamp sitting on the top of the old piano. The piano sat in the far corner of the small, rectangular room.

At the piano, hunched over in what seemed to be her natural position, sat Delaney Pope.

Travis had expected to find Mr. Leech, the science/music teacher. Or perhaps Marianne Rogers, the only student he knew for a fact played the piano on a regular basis. There were dozens of people he would have expected to see, fingers running expertly over the keys, other than Delaney Pope.

How could such a quiet, introverted little mouse play with so much emotion? How could she hide this part of her so thoroughly? The feeling she put into every note.

Who could have guessed that all this passion lay hidden under a tent-like dress and sensible shoes?

Afraid to break the spell, Travis gently closed the door. Slowly—careful to keep Delaney's back to him—he moved further into the room. The soles of his sneakers made no sound on the linoleum floor, allowing him to close the distance without disturbing her concentration.

Though Travis doubted Delaney would have noticed if the building began crumbling around her. She was in a world all her own. A zone that he recognized from when he was at home plate, a bat in his hands, his mind totally focused on one thing. Hitting the ball into the gap. Or out of the park. Anywhere the defense wasn't.

Sometimes—more often than not—when Travis focused, he could shut out everything around him. The sound of the crowd disappeared. The taunts from the opposing catcher were useless. Even the calls from the umpire were muffled. Nothing existed except him and the pitcher. A one-on-one battle that, more often than not, Travis won. Handily.

Who would have guessed? Watching Delaney, Travis felt a surprising tug. A connection. A new understanding—on some level—of who she was and what made her tick.

The music helped. Travis stopped a few feet away, closing his eyes, processing exactly how the melody made him feel.

Sad was the first word that came to mind. But sadness was only the surface. A little deeper, he encountered wistfulness. Travis wanted to believe hope might lurk somewhere in the piece—he couldn't say.

Suddenly, as Delaney's hands finally stilled, Travis understood. Each note. Each passage. They would stay with him long after tonight. Part her, part something elusive. Hauntingly beautiful.

All leading to a question Travis had to ask.

"Who wrote that?"

Delaney jumped, her only sound a muted gasp. Spinning around, her eyes wide, she blinked several times before her hand went to her face, feeling for something that wasn't there.

"You aren't wearing your glasses."

Travis knew he'd stated the obvious. But he couldn't help himself. He'd never seen Delaney without the dark rims. She turned her face away, fumbling, her hand knocked the glasses onto the floor.

Kneeling, Travis retrieved the frames, holding the lens up to the light to check for any damage.

"What the—?"

Looking closer, Travis couldn't believe what he saw.

"Please." Delaney's hands twisted in her lap, a frown of distress on her diverted face. "I need those."

"No, you don't." Travis folded the glasses, setting them on the piano, well within Delaney's reach. "Those lenses are nothing but clear glass. Why bother?"

Caught out, Delaney's head hung lower, but she didn't speak.

"Talk to me. I promise I won't bite, Del."

"What did you call me?" Delaney asked, her chin lifting just enough so her gaze hit Travis mid-chest.

"Del? Do you prefer Delaney?"

"No. I—" Travis had to lean closer to hear her barely whispered words. "My father used to call me Del. Everybody else calls me Laney."

"You don't like Laney?"

Delaney shrugged. "I've heard worse."

Children could be cruel—especially when they perceived somebody as different. Bullies like Pete Doran used his physical superiority to lash out. But words could be just as hurtful. More so.

Travis felt a surge of protectiveness and a smattering of guilt. He'd never made an effort to befriend Delaney. Never given her a smile. Or spoken a kind word. Didn't that make him responsible? At least on some level?

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"For not seeing you before now."

Slowly, Delaney raised her head, her gaze wide with surprise. Travis looked into her eyes and felt as if somebody punched him in the gut—every ounce of breath rushing from his lungs.

Purple, he thought with wonder. The color of Delaney's irises was like jewels. Precious and rare. Why would she hide them behind a pair of ugly, unnecessary glasses?

"I have to go," Delaney broke the spell, fumbling to return the glasses to their usual place on her nose, masking her amazing eyes. Done, she jumped to her feet.

"Wait."

Travis grabbed her arm, and all hell broke loose. At least, Delaney's version of hell.

"Don't," she shrieked, violently pulling from his grip.

The momentum of the move caused Delaney to stumble, her feet tangling, her legs twisting. Travis reached for her, hoping to stop her fall, but his attempt to help only made things worse.

Delaney—seemingly more afraid of Travis' touch than hitting the floor—jerked her body to the left. As a result, instead of landing on her backside, she crashed hard into a group of music stands.

Helpless to prevent the disaster, Travis watched as Delaney landed in a painful heap, her legs and arms twisted at odd angles. But the worst was the sound of her head hitting the floor where, under the linoleum, lay nothing but unforgiving cement.

The dull thud made Travis wince.

"Stay where you are," Travis cautioned.

Delaney didn't listen, scrambling to sit up. Travis would have held her down, knowing if she was injured moving would be a huge mistake. But he was afraid of her reaction. One touch from him might make a bad situation worse.

"Home." Glasses askew, hair falling around her face, Delaney rose to her feet with the grace of a newborn colt. "I'm late. Can't be late."

For the second time in less than a week, Travis found himself trailing Delaney. Not too close—like the last time. He wasn't worried about a lurking bully. Instead, he was scared to death she was about to fall flat on her face.

"At least let me give you a ride."

"No!"

The panic in Delaney's voice did nothing to allay Travis' fears.

"Great," he sighed as they left the music room. The rain was no longer a threat. The skies had opened up. They were in the middle of a deluge. "My bike won't keep you dry, but at least I'll get you home before you drown."

Delaney didn't answer. She simply lowered her head and ran.

"Maybe she isn't as strange as I thought," Travis grumbled to himself, straddling his bike. "But something weird is going on."

Crazy? Travis dismissed the idea, revving the engine. The strap on his helmet firmly secured under his chin, he headed after Delaney. Trailing her was getting to be a way of life. Before it became a habit, he wanted some answers.

Travis knew a lot of girls and not one of them complained when he touched them. Just the opposite.

Maybe Delaney was a little touched in the head. A lot of geniuses were. He offered a helping hand. Pure and simple. What does she do? She acted as if he was after her virtue.

Travis snorted. Delaney Pope should be so lucky. Stunning purple eyes aside, that girl wasn't his type.

Following Delaney was easy enough—wet, but easy. She didn't take any shortcuts, staying on the main road. Travis kept the bike's headlight trained on her, almost stopping when she tripped, landing on her knees. But she scrambled to her feet, barreling on through the unrelenting rain before he could pull over.

Five minutes into their less than enjoyable adventure, Delaney turned onto Helton Street. The families who lived in this neighborhood weren't poor. Or wealthy. Closer to middle class—barely. Houses of the same design—not too big, not too small—built in neat little rows. Affordable, not fancy.

Delaney opened the gate of the third house on the right, the small, curtained, front window lit from within. In a few steps, she was on the porch.

"You're welcome," Travis yelled above the sound of his bike and the pouring rain.

Without a backward glance, Delaney disappeared through the door.

The girl really needed to learn how to say thank you.

Laughing at himself, Travis wondered if he was the crazy one. Delaney hadn't needed him. She made her way home safe and sound without his help. If she caught pneumonia, that was her problem. If he caught the malady, he had nobody to blame but himself.

Making a loop, Travis paused the bike at the stop sign, trying without much success to wipe the water from his helmet's visor. A fool's errand from start to finish.

Hitting the gas, Travis finally headed home.

Yeah. Crazy sounded about right.