Jack let him go and watched with a mixture of cynicism and satisfaction as Baldwin staggered away across the flatbed. Obviously a disciple of the William Shatner/Captain Kirk school of acting, Baldwin stumbled and swayed, contorting his face, wrenching his back, calling out in staccato bursts as his audience gasped in alarm. Several women screamed as he finally collapsed onto the bed of the truck and writhed for another thirty seconds.
People rushed for the stage. Jack strolled across to the prostrate form of the preacher and calmly snatched up the microphone.
"Hey ever-body! Come on inside and douse those fires of hell!" he called, grinning like the devil. "Drinks are on me! Laissez le bon temps rouler! And tell 'em Jack sent you!"
The contingent of Frenchie's patrons who had been standing at the back of the crowd or lounging on the gallery sent up a wild chorus of hoots and cheers and made a mad dash for the bar. Jack hopped down off the truck. Laurel didn't even look up at him, but turned and started back for the Jeep.
"Hey, sugar, where you goin'?"
"Home. Please," Laurel said, emotion tightening around her throat like a vise. There was a pressure in her chest, in her head. She wanted-needed-to escape.
Jack caught her by the arm and shuffle-stepped alongside her. "Hey, hey, you can't run off, spitfire. T-Grace is gonna have the place of honor all set for you."
"What for?" She stopped and wheeled on him, her body vibrating with tension, her face set in lines of anger and something like shame tinting the blue of her eyes. "I failed. I lost."
Jack's brows pulled together in confusion. "What the hell are you talkin' about? Failed? Failed what?"
She'd choked. She'd lost it. If it hadn't been for his coming to the rescue, there was no telling what humiliation she might have suffered. She felt as if Baldwin had reached right into her and pulled out that part of her past to hold it up to his followers like a science experiment gone wrong.
"You stood up to him, Laurel," Jack said softly. "That was more than anyone else was willing to do. So you didn't deliver the knockout punch. So what? Lighten up, sugar. You're not in charge of the whole damn world."
His last line struck a chord, brought back a memory from her stay at the Ashland Heights Clinic, brought back Dr. Pritchard's voice. How egotistical of her to think that she was the center of all, the savior of all, that the outcome of the future of the world rested squarely on her shoulders.
She was overreacting.
She had come here to heal, hadn't she? To take control of her life again. If she ran now, from this, she would be giving in to the past when she had vowed to rise above it.
She looked up at Jack, at the concern in his eyes, and wondered if he even knew it was there.
"Thank you," she murmured. She wanted to reach up and touch his cheek, but it seemed a dangerously intimate thing to do, and so curled her fingers into a loose fist instead.
Jack eyed her suspiciously. "For what?"
"For rescuing me."
"Oh, no." He shook his head and backed away from her a step, raising his hands as if to ward off her gratitude. "Don' make me out to be a hero, sugar. I had a chance to make a fool outa Jimmy Lee, that's all. Me, I'm nobody's hero."
But he had saved her-several times-from her own thoughts, her own fears, from the dark mire of depression that pulled at her. Laurel studied him for a moment, wondering why he preferred the image of bad boy to champion.
"Come on, 'tite ange," he said, jerking his head toward the bar. "I'll buy you a drink. Besides, I've got a lawyer joke I just remembered I wanted to tell you."
"What makes you think I want to hear it?"
Jack slid an arm around her shoulders and steered her toward Frenchie's. "No, no. I know you don't wanna hear it. That's half the fun of tellin' it."
Laurel laughed, the tension going out of her by slow degrees.
"What's the difference between a porcupine and two lawyers in a Porsche?" he asked as they skirted around Baldwin 's truck. "With a porcupine, the pricks are on the outside."
They crossed the parking lot, Jack laughing, Laurel shaking her head, neither one aware that they were being very carefully watched.
Chapter Eleven
Savannah sat in a far corner of the bar, an aura of silence enveloping her like a force field, while all around her the air was filled with raucous sound. Filé was blasting out of the jukebox-"Two Left Feet." Billiard balls smacked together, people shouted to be heard above the general din. Savannah blocked it all out. Anger simmered inside her, hot and bitter and acidic.
The call from St. Joseph 's had broken in on her time with Cooper like an unwelcome news bulletin. Mrs. Cooper was suddenly having a bad spell, and couldn't Mr. Cooper please come? He had been there all morning and half the afternoon as it was. Selfish, greedy bitch. It wasn't enough that she had to hold on to him mentally, she had to drag him away physically, as well.
"I hate her," Savannah snarled, the feeling too strong to keep bottled up inside.
No one noticed she'd spoken at all. No one was paying any attention to her.
She took a gulp of her vodka tonic and did a slow reconnaissance of the room through the dark lenses of her sunglasses. The place was crowded for a Sunday evening. Thanks to Laurel. Laurel. Everybody's little heroine. Everybody's little savior.
The anger burned a little hotter, flared up as she tossed another splash of alcohol on the flames. The irony was just too bitter. Laurel was what she was because of Savannah. She was the chaste and pure one because Savannah had been her savior, her protector.
She stared hard toward the bar, where her Baby was being toasted and cheered by T-Grace and the regulars. And Jack Boudreaux stood by her side, the least likely white knight she'd ever seen. Baby was supposed to be home, brooding, hiding, weak, and in need of her big sister for comfort and support. Damn her. She was getting stronger by the day, by the minute, snatching away Savannah 's chance to be the stronger one, to play the role of protector again, to rise above her station of town tramp and be somebody important.
She picked up a matchbook off the table and mutilated it while she watched the way Jack hovered over Laurel, touching her shoulder, the small of her back, leaning close to whisper something in her ear then throwing his head back and laughing as she slugged him on the shoulder.
He had never whispered anything in Savannah 's ear, damn his miserable Cajun hide. She would have given him the ride of his life, but he'd never shown any interest in her beyond the casual flirting he did with every female on the planet. He was sure as hell showing an interest in Baby, and Savannah didn't like it one damn bit.
"Damn you, Baby," she muttered, polishing off the last of her drink.
"You talkin' to me, ma belle?" Leonce bent over her from behind, sliding one bony hand down over her shoulder to fondle her breast.
"Damn right, you jerk," she complained. "You're not paying any attention to me at all."
His scar repulsed her. It constantly drew her eyes to the grotesque lumps at either end of it and the misshapen end of his nose in between. She'd heard a story once that a woman had given him the mark with the business end of a broken bottle, but Leonce seemed to bear no ill will toward the gender. He came on to anything in panties.
"I'll pay anything you want if you get naked with me, chère."
Whore. You're nothing but a whore, Savannah…
Her anger spiked, breaking through her facade of boredom. She wasn't for sale. She did what she wanted when she wanted with whomever she wanted because she wanted to. Which made her a slut, not a whore. The bitter distinction burned in her stomach like an ulcer, and confusing, conflicting emotions twisted and writhed in her chest, the pressure building like steam in a radiator.
Needing to take it out on somebody, she grabbed a chunk of Leonce's beard and gave it a vicious twist, wringing a howl out of him. He staggered back the instant she let go and crashed into a pool player getting ready to take a shot, earning himself a jab with a cue stick and an earful of four-letter words.