I know that sound…the click-click of high heels on the hard concrete floor. How could I forget the way they echo off the hard emptiness of the garage when she walks. But could it be? Could it really be her, back again? It’s been more than two years. I’ve heard the mechanics talk about her, they said she had a cub, that she’s a Momma now, and will never be back here again. They don’t know we listen to them when they gossip, but we all do. There’s twenty of us here at Ernie’s garage. He rents us out, that’s his business, Classic Car Rentals. Sports cars mostly, like me. Technically, I’m a resto-mod, I’ve got a newer souped up motor and suspension. And a new chameleon paint job that changes from blue to purple to black. There’s a Cadillac limo here also, and a Roller. That’s a Rolls Royce. He’s a Silver Cloud. They only go to weddings though. Me, I’m an Austin Healy 100-6. Really I should be a 100-8, on account of my custom motor.
I think it’s all because she lost that last race. I think she did it on purpose, we coulda taken that Mustang. I know it. Sure Shelby’s are always tough, but GT500s are front heavy, they just don’t turn like I can. Besides, I got just as much power with my small block motor bored and stroked out to 427 cubic inches.
You see, she’s a canyon racer. Not like those ham fisted wannabes that mostly show up here. No sir, she’s the real deal. Racer, through and through. She always takes the time to warm me up properly. Takes the long way out, through the hills, and the old stage coach road. Makes sure my oil, my gears, even my brakes are brought up to temp slowly.
I always knew when she was ready to get serious, she kicks her high heels off, tosses them into the back. I loved the way she caressed my shift knob, and stroked the lever. And the feel of her bare feet against my pedals, always so light and gentle a touch. I showed my appreciation too, arching the springs in the seat up, pressing against her. Then she’d rock her hips, pushing back. After a minute or two of that she’d pick up the pace. Then at the stop sign just before joining the highway she’d lift herself up, slide down her panties, and gather her skirt up. She’d spread it out over herself, all covered up and demure, for anyone else that might see. I would know though. I’d feel her soft skin naked against my supple leather, drink in the moisture dripping from her as we went faster and faster with every twist and turn. She said she got better feedback that way, improved her feel for the road.
That canyon road with her was always a spirited dance. Oh the way she waltzed on the pedals, fingers so light on the wheel. She made me move like no one else. We twisted and turned, dove and jumped, in perfect sync, a vigorous rumba with the canyon road. And like any good dancer she always let the guys lead. She would brake a little earlier, only by a car length or two, and not quite as hard as the other guy. They always thought they could take her because of that. The smarter ones thought she was doing it to be smooth so she could carry more speed. Really though, she was setting them up. She would let them lead, right up until the Antelope Curves. Then she would pour it in there, unbelievably deep, sometimes she even made me gasp. At just the perfect moment she’d flick the wheel, stand on the gas, and she’d be through. Then we’d really fly. They didn’t stand a chance after that.
All except that one time. I swear she let off just before the last turn climbing the hill out of the canyon and let him by. I think she wanted him. The guys bet big money to race her. All she ever bet was her body. She’d always tell me “Don’t let me down, boy. My ass is on the line tonight.” And then she’d slide into the seat.
I sat for the longest time when she didn’t come back. Then I got sent to the body shop for new paint. When I got back I heard Ernie tell one of the mechanics I’m going to be sold. But there’s that sound again. The click-click of high heels in the garage.
Has my magic Lady come back to get me?