Judy was laying back on the setee reading a bodice-ripper when the door to the motor-home slammed open and Ronnie stomped in.
“God damn Enzo Ferrari.”
That was all he said as he unzipped his fire suit, then pulled the Kevlar undershirt over his head and threw it in the corner.
“Damn those assholes, anyway.”
She didn’t understand – today wasn’t a race day, not even a practice day – all they had to do was make themselves available for the media. If it were anything else she would have been out there next to him, standing by her man so to speak, but he was so well-spoken and so confident she didn’t think she had to do the adoring girlfriend number.