DISCLAIMER: Standard issue. I don't own rights to Billie or the Bullitt car. Never pretended I did.

By Zenobia

"Yo, Billie, that car ain't no girl. You don't have to pet it quite that much to get it revved up." He stood at the edge of the car pool, fondling his silver plated handgun as he pretended to polish it.

"Like you would know what it takes to get a woman revved up?" she said without looking up from her task. "And put that gun away. I don't want anyone having any accidents around here. I just got all the bullet holes out of the 'vette from Van's last premature release." The dark green Mustang Fastback shone beneath the bright Candy Store lights. Billie ran her hand over the long sleek body, enjoying the slide of her fingers along the metallic flesh. The wax still vaguely warm, reminded her of the silky moisture of the last woman she'd lavished her attentions upon.

"Look, if you don't come up with something for us to do pretty soon, shooting up the place might start to look pretty good. Either find us a job, or Van and I are out of here. Must be some play someplace we can hook up with."

"Go. Twenty-four hours. And don't make me have to come bail you out." She'd wanted them out anyway. She had so little time by herself. During a play, she might spend hours in the Candy Store, but that wasn't alone. Working the angles, planning for the next shot, setting up the backup plans for the backup plans that didn't work meant hours upon hours when she wasn't in herself, wasn't a part of her own world. Too cool, too calm to be aware of herself walking through time, breathing. But in the space between arrest and approach, between end and beginning, she wanted nothing more than to feel the air in her lungs, the wax beneath her fingers, the pulse and vibration of life.

Forty minutes later her thigh tightened as she accelerated deliberately up the first steep incline of Mulholland Drive. Ocean vistas were for sunny afternoons, dark glasses and leggy blondes. Heavy August nights were meant for the city, for hills, her weight leaning slightly as the car carried around a sharp turn. The lights below grew less distinct as she climbed.

Her hand on the stick, the knob firmly in the hollow of her palm, she shifted often. The slightest flex of her thigh, the tinge of pressure from her foot, and the engine responded with a throaty growl. More than the feel of the road she knew what the Bullitt needed by the sounds it made straining against her leash. The growl, the rumble, the groan. The V8 wanted to conquer the hills and turns, to claim them. The Bullitt seemed always just about to jump out of its skin. But that wasn't part of Billie's plan. She held the reigns, and she'd take them both there when she was ready.

Her leather pants melded with the dark chocolate leather of the bucket seat, the warmth softening them both until she could barely feel the friction as her leg shifted. The low sweet vibration radiated up, through the soles of her feet, through the warm soft bucket seat, through the stick in the palm of her hand. Her fingers tingled.

The trees flew past as they gained speed up a rare long straight stretch. She could see the lights of Los Angeles spreading below her. The temptation to let loose, to open full throttle and soar, to let go of control tickled around the edges. She fought the urge. Getting there was more than half the fun and letting go wasn't something she allowed.

The car climbed further. Only Billie could hear the slight strain in her purr. The air was drier here. The wind through the open windows lifted the fabric of her black tank top, cooling her skin and raising the hair on her arms. The muscles of her back tightened and relaxed as the she arched into the sensations running up her spine. She shook her chestnut bangs out of her eyes with a flick of her head. The Mustang had her own wiles, her own tricks.

The road grew more treacherous here. Tight curves challenged their speed. Billie held the car close to the inside, her eyes searching the dark intensely, her senses tightening. Below, the red lights of the highways flowed across the valley like streaks of blood. Left then right then left again. Too fast for sense. But sense didn't enter into the equation. There was nothing but sound and air and the pull of her muscles in the dark holding the power of the car bay. Nothing mattered but the razor thin edge of control and the ease with which she might let go.

The rhythm of the tires on the road matched her breathing. Quicker, shallower. Her heart pounded; the pulse in her ears fighting the wind and the moan of the engine. Her grip tightened. Once before the Mustang had flipped her, it wouldn't happen again. Higher and higher they climbed, turns coming closer and the incline steeper. The engine strained, the suspension taunt, holding to the curves, pulsing with each pump of the gas. Every muscle in her legs clenched tight; her fingers tightened on the wheel. One final hairpin curve, and the horizon was suddenly nothing but inky black and stars. Billie drew a sudden breath and held it. The tires seemed to leave the road, and the Mustang hung suspended between climb and descent. Time held still. All sound faded away. Every nerve in her body seemed to buzz with an unknown current. Billie threw her head back and screamed.

In an instant it was over. The tires bounced against the pavement, the sweet burble of the engine returned. Billie's fingers flexed on the shift knob. Her breath returned in deep even draws. The long steady descent did not erase the smirk on her face, as she pointed the car towards home.

The End

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