Holly was a naturally gifted rider, probably the most proficient rider to ever compete in the Vegas Outlaw Cup. She had cut her teeth on the battered road courses of the Atlantic Mid-North circuit. She was no stranger to competing head-to-head with men. Internal combustion, she had found, was the great equalizer in the battle of the sexes. And what’s more - she didn’t care - not about men and not about women. She liked or perhaps disliked them equally. She had found sex, all of life for that matter, was really just a grey void between races. Sam had come into Holly’s life during a rather dark summer. Holly had had a spate of poor finishes and consequently lost a number of key sponsors. Without the financial backing of these critical accounts and the absence of any purse money, she was desperate. Racing, upon entering the blood stream, is the most virulent of diseases, only to be held in check with large sums of liquid cash. She toyed with the idea of dancing - a quick way to earn enough money for a few more races. It was never going to be anything more than a couple week endeavor in the anonymity of Vegas. Just enough to pay for some new rubber, a top end rebuild, and a little hi-test. Sam knew a thing or two about racing, second hand anecdotes mostly, gleaned from the drunken motosport clients her off-the-strip club attracted. Sam herself was not a racer, she was a hustler, and as a hustler she knew there was money to be made in racing or more specifically off of the backs of racers. Enter Holly. A cute girl with a naive air that could twist a throttle with the best of the boys. In Vegas, Lady Fate is fickle. But on rare occasions she’ll give a half smile, some brief eye contact, a quick brush back of the hair, and that, Sam had learned, was your only chance to beat that bitch. And so it was with Holly - with a little luck, a lot of manipulation, and handful of well planned lies Sam could ride the Holly train straight to the major payoff.