The blazing sun scorched the desert terrain, heating up the snake like ribbon of asphalt. The black color lay in stark contrast to the tans and browns of the sand and rocks of the desert.
The race crew had shed their jackets and sweaters that they had worn to battle the early morning cold, two hours ago.
Still they waited. The crew chief shielded his eyes as he approximated the sun’s position, as it rapidly approached its zenith.
“It’s eleven-thirty, according to my watch,” the sarcasm revealing the frustration of this professional auto racing mechanic, whom did not like to be kept waiting.
“Yeah, well you’re getting paid, aren’t you?” The rhetorical question was made without ever looking towards the mechanic.
“Who is this rich bitch, again?” One of the other crew-members joins the conversation.
“Some high fashion dame,” realizing that answer just wasn’t enough, the crew chief adds, “she used to race for Jake Rhoad, Jake says she’s fast!”
“Well, I’ll be, I guess God decided to have pity on us.” The mechanic’s tone caused all to look towards the road. Coming from the highway, a black limousine was pulling into the track.
“Daddy done bought this little rich bitch a racing car,” the banter was typical race team jargonistic crap, spewed out by good-hearted fellows suddenly thrust into a situation that they can’t control and faced with an unknown.
“Yeah and Daddy done bought her some motorsports peasants to tinker around with that racing car.”
“Peasants?” What’s that?”
“He means us, dummy!”
The limousine pulled over to the pit road wall in front of the John Hartman Garage. The driver opened the rear door and two extremely attractive women stepped out, the slits on their dresses revealing their gorgeous legs.
The crew feasted their eyes and had the appearance of convicts that had been denied the company of women for a decade or perhaps more like a pack of ravenous dogs, anticipating a hunk of meat.
Sandy stared towards them, pulling her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, looking into the shadowed garage interior, over the top of her glasses.
“Beautiful, just beautiful,” Sandy’s voice sounded excited.
“Which one? They’re all such hunks!” Suzanne also sounded excited.
Sandy looked to her partner smiling, showing those perfect white teeth against those red lips, “The racecar, silly.” Sandy strutted up to the car and looked into the cockpit. “Get her warmed up while I go change,” she flashed a smile, her sunglasses hiding her menacing eyes.
The crew chief never answered. Squinting in the harsh noonday light, as he watched Sandy walk away.
“Fire it up!” He commanded.
Sandy was lashed into her seat, which was a little too tight to suit her bottom, as the crew chief gave her some last minute instructions.
“Now, this engine has a nine thousand RPM redline, your tires are cold and this last turn down here,” he points to his right, “it can be quiet tricky, so watch it through there.”
Sandy’s eyes close to narrow slits as she stares at him, to judge if he was trying to be funny. Was he referring to her crash while driving Havoc, Sandy wondered? She decided he wasn’t. “I’ve heard about that turn,” deciding not to reveal her intimate knowledge of that particular part of racing real estate.
On the fourth lap, Sandy decided to stand on it. The car felt good, it went where she wanted and it went there fast. Down the front stretch, they put her on the clock.
Blasting into the left hand turn one, almost too fast, but the car gripped and she made it through, perfectly.
As Sandy drove the perfect line out of turn nine, the crew chief watched, as did Suzanne and the rest of the crew.
“Guys,” the chief stated matter of factly, “this gal may be a rich bitch,” he clicked his stopwatch, as Sandy blasted her new race team’s car past in a blinding flash, “but she is definitely, FAST!”Sandy’s face had a serene look of contentment on it, as she downshifted, and then punched the throttle, her engine screaming, as she drove out of turn one.
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