An Angel Under the Skin
Fallen Angels-Volume 3
Virginie T.
Translated by Nyuyse Ndze Yolande Kelly
© 2021. T. Virginie
Chapter 1
Alexa
I have always loved risk, danger, for as long as I can remember. I value life, like everyone else. However, I can't resist the adrenaline rush of extreme sports. I have tried everything from skydiving to bungee jumping to jumping off a cliff into the ocean. That moment between the wait and the start, that little moment when we are told that this is it, it's our turn, is my favourite of all. It is a mixture of stress, anticipation and impatience. The blood rushes through my veins, my pulse throbs in every fibre and my lungs are ready to explode with my deep, intense breathing. I’ll never get tired of this moment. It was no wonder I turned to motorcycle racing as I grew up. The pallor of my parents when I announced my career plan to them! Of Asian origin, our skin is naturally white. I never thought it could be any whiter! You can't say that it's part of our culture to expose or promote ourselves. Chinese people tend to be discreet and introverted, it seems. But my origins go back three generations and it seems that I have not inherited this trait, much to the dismay of my family. I was born and raised in the United States. I guess I picked up some of the mores and customs. Well, not all of them. All that spring break, collection of boyfriends and very, if not too, drunken parties never attracted me. That doesn’t make me a prude. Simply, with the example of my parents who were married for more than thirty years, I dream of living a true, passionate, unique love. A love like the one that gave birth to me. When I think of my parents, I always feel the same twinge of sadness. They, who always revered life and took great care to preserve it, unlike me, died in an ordinary car accident three years ago. Three long years of living each moment to the fullest, more aware than ever that anything can happen, that everything can stop in less than a second. A simple snap of the fingers and everything can stop forever. That's how long it took the drunk driver to run a red light at full speed and then hit the oncoming car head-on. My mother died instantly. My father died only a few hours later. It seems that even in death they didn't want to part. I crawl to chase away the tears that threaten to flow under this painful memory. This is not the time to be distracted unless I want to join them, which I am not ready to. The starting signal will be given in a few minutes. I mustn't be confused if I want to win the race. And I do. Oh yes, I do! I'm not short of money, but I don’t mind having a little bonus. I walk among the competitors in the dark street, only lit by a few car headlights. As a teenager, I never imagined that to indulge my passion I would have to break the law. I am for order and justice. I had always respected the rules. However, I quickly became disillusioned when I realised that girls were not given the same treatment as men in motorbike racing. No more than in F1, mind you. Why shouldn't a woman be able to drive at high speed? The excuse put forward by the big shots in the field is that it is a very physical sport. Indeed, every race requires extreme concentration, both mental and physical. Every muscle is put to the test throughout the circuit and you tend to lose weight under the intense heat and effort of a long race. Lose weight? Every woman's dream! These macho men from another age forget that today's motorbikes are no longer those of the 1950s. Or rather, they pretend to ignore it. Machines have evolved a lot. The technical prowess has made them much more accessible to all types of riders, including the frailest such as a woman. Moreover, simulator tests have shown that women perform just as well as men. To justify the rejection of women as pilots, the race managers then put forward the ultimate argument: the survival instinct. It is said that women only think about having a family and therefore are reluctant to take risks during a race, unlike the men who would not have this kind of priority. I get angry when I remember the smugness of the manager of the team where I applied when this idiot told me this nonsense. I am not a woman in need of affection who is desperate to get knocked up. I belong to this generation of independent women who are in love with freedom and going beyond themselves. Motorcycling is my breath of fresh air, my drug, and I am far from reluctant to accelerate to get through hairpin bends when many slow down for fear of an unfortunate exit.
In short! All this to explain my presence here, in this street, for an illegal race. I didn't want to give up on my dream and in order to indulge my passion and make a profit, I resorted to this subterfuge. I run my hand across the back of my neck to check that no strands of hair are sticking out. Everything is fine. My hair is completely camouflaged under my full face helmet. The organiser of these underground races agreed to give me a chance three years ago. After the death of my parents, I needed motivation to get up in the morning. The stables had all closed the door on me, so I looked for another way to practice my art than the official races and I came across Diego around a turn in a path. Well, OK, I kind of searched for him. I followed biker groups at night in the hope of meeting this kind of gathering. I had waited patiently for the various races of the evening to end, then I had walked towards him with a determined step. There was no way he would laugh at me like all the others.
— Hi.
— Hi, beautiful. Sorry, but the betting's over for tonight. It's time to go to sleep. But if you want some company...
No thank you. Diego’s quite the type. He's got a bad boy tattoo that I like, but I knew in advance that mixing business with pleasure would be a mistake. I wanted to have my chance for my talent and not for my ass. So I politely declined the offer. I had another one to make.
— No, thank you. I'm not here for that.
— What can I do for you then?
— I want to run.
Diego stopped counting his cash and stared at me intently.
— This is not a playground for little girls.
I didn't give in to his scepticism and sarcasm.
— It's a good thing I'm not one anymore. I've been riding a motorbike since I was fourteen.
— Riding doesn't mean running.
That's quite true. Riding a motorbike every day doesn't make you a racer.
— Race with me if you want to see what I'm capable of.
He shook his head, his face was serious. I'll never forget the fleeting hint of regret in his pupils.
— Nope. That's all over for me. Now I just organise the races and take the bets.
— Why?
— Because I value life.
I didn't need to know any more. Everything was said with that simple sentence. I nodded my head to signal my understanding. Some accidents are lifelong. But I didn't agree with his reasoning. I feel alive on a motorbike, more alive than ever.
— Test me in any way you like.
Diego bent his head to one side. I found out later that this was his habit when he was thinking.
— I have no time to lose.
— That's good, because neither do I.
His lip had risen slightly on the left side, proof that he was holding a smile.
— You won't give up, will you?
— I'm stubborn as a mule and I have a lot of time on my hands. I'll come back and pester you every night until you give in.
He then laughed outright as
