Prompts: catalyst, cranked, catty deviation, flickered, curve
Time taken: 8.20pm to 9.00 pm
I caught her on the downslope , at the moment that all the extra power from her six cylinders was held in check by the very sane desire not to shoot down the mountainside the hard way.
She didn't see me until the last minute, the curve of the negative camber blocking of our line of sight before I shot around the corner, the wheels playing out a four-way tread shuffle before locking back to the road surface.
Childish.
But then again, I'd been on the go for thirty hours without sleep, and that always makes me catty.
Kit had elected to take a flight back to Manchester since, as he put it, I wasn't going to trust him with driving the WRX anyway.
"Besides, it's not like you can get lost on the way home, is it?"
And Lane had sent me back by the long route.
"Just pick up an item for me, will you? I know you've a fondness for these mountain roads."
Well, yes I do boss, but not right after another job and no time to sleep.
Going to be one sodding long day.
I'd found a layby at the top of the ridge-- just an unofficial widening of the road, enough to stop and take in the view. Also, from my point of view, just enough to pop an ephedrine tablet from my stash and wash it down with coffee. .
A Porsche convertible was already there, roof down, a silk scarf threaded through the shafts of the headrest, green and gold clashing harmoniously with the red leather of the seats.
Wonder where the driver is.
I leaned over the door, noting the Getrag five-speed manual shifter, the rubbed leather of the steering wheel cover, and the worn patch in the carpeting where the driver's heel rested. Someone used this car; used it a lot.
"Have you a fondness for cars, mister?" I translated from the French as I turned to face the speaker.
"Very much." I watched her wince; I can speak four languages and rave in two more, but I make no guarantees as to accent.
"English?" Switching languages now.
"Only on my passport."
"And fond of cars?"
"Exotic European body work, in general."
That bought me a near-smile; a quick twitch of carmine lips under celebrity shades that flickered humour across her face for a single frame in time.
"And do you seek permission before the appreciation?"
"Only to touch. Seeing is fair game."
"And what are you doing here?"
She stepped past me and leaned over the sill to pull the scarf out.
"Staying awake." I waved my coffee can by way of punctuation. "Admiring the ... view."
"I hope," she said, straightening, "that you are fond of the back view."
"As much as any other."
"Good." She began tying up her hair. "Then you will not mind when that is all you see."
"You don't think I can keep up with you in your Carrera?"
"Not a chance."
"If you want to make it a challenge," I finished my coffee. "I'll give you a twenty second head start."
"Thirty seconds, and you won't catch me before the bottom of the canyon."
"Bring it on, lady."
Her head twitched twice, a classic double take, before she firmed her grip on the wheel and cut to the inside of the curve, forcing me to the outside.
I slung out, pushing the limit of the grip into a mild understeer before easing off, closing up the gap as she was forced to slow down, both of us heading into the straight.
She hit the gas as we exited the turn, not quite pulling ahead as we switched back, hitting a turn in the opposite direction, as I pulled level to her left and looked over at her clenching her jaw--
She's not going to slow down.
She wasn't going to lose; she wasn't going to give in. She wasn't going to deviate from her chosen line even if she had to push the engine into the red.
And then she'll go round the bend.
And the 911's famous tendency to oversteer so hard that you ended with your crankshaft through your skull was going to come up and bite her in the backview.
No. No way. Nobody is that insane.
Says the man taking up a touge race while running on fumes.
We came up to the switchback neck to neck, her engine howling all the way up to the redline, her bared teeth white against her lips in the light of the rising sun, entering the turn at too high a speed to make it if she didn't ease off--
Shit.
I slammed on the brakes, as she shot on past, the rear end of her Porsche swinging out, way out, in a killer oversteer--
And then she spun the wheel the other way, dialing away the oversteer into the controlled turn she'd been planning from the start, and the Carerra disappeared round the bend.
I started laughing. Couldn't help it. When you're dopey and cranked at the same time, everything becomes funny.
She was waiting at the bottom of the slope, pulled over to the side of the road with her shades on her forehead and her scarf around her neck.
"Like I said, mister. Not a chance."
"Fair enough."
"You should have pushed for the turn. Someone who drives one of these," she patted her wheel, "is either good at driving it or dead."
"Wasn't going to take the chance."
"Chivalrous."
"Maybe."
She laughed. Her eyes, I noticed, were a smoky grey.
"The world doesn't have a place for people like you any more, mister..."
"Lee."
"Of course it is." She slipped her glasses back over her eyes. "Hold this for me, Lee."
I took the proffered scarf with its monogrammed Vasilieva in the corner picked up in threads of cerulean blue.
"Maybe we'll meet again, Lee."
"Maybe... Vasilieva."
She gunned the engine, making me leap back.
And then, with a salacious wiggle of the Carrera's hips, she was gone.
I lifted the scarf to my face. Scented, barely, the faintest touch of cinnamon and spice perfume clinging to the silk.
Suddenly the day was looking up.
Suggested prompts: Smoke on the water
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