Chapter Two
A First Date and the Black Forest
Rory stood at the front door of the Gellar mansion in anxious anticipation. Fear, desire, longing – all swirled through her unsettled heart. She rang the doorbell again and continued to wait. Damn, she thought to herself, what’s taking so long? Her face was set tight. She glanced down nervously at her watch. The time was precisely 4:30 p.m.
The door swung open. Rory raised an eyebrow. She had expected Paris’ nanny, Rosa, to answer. But it was Paris herself.
“Hi, Rory. Come in.”
“Paris.” Rory replied.
Rory stepped inside and Paris closed the door behind her. Rory’s heart was pounding as she stood next to Paris in the vestibule. This was a Paris she had never seen before. She looked gorgeous! She was wearing a two piece navy blue pant suit. Immaculately tailored. Her long flowing blonde hair was combed back in a ponytail. Expensive diamond earrings graced her ears. And she smelled of fine perfume. Chanel Rory guessed to herself.
Paris, knowing she was terrible at picking out clothes for herself, and knowing how much this “date” meant to her, had asked her nanny to help her. And boy, did Rosa get it just right. Paris looked simply stunning.
But as much as Rory wanted to, she didn’t compliment Paris on how she looked. To do that, she knew, would be ruinous. After all, this was a “date” that wasn’t suppose to be a date.
Paris, in her turn, was equally impressed by Rory. Her eyes poured over Rory askance, and what she saw was Rory dressed in a simple but elegant white dress that tapered off at the knees. She was wearing long crystal earrings, with her hair tufted back in a bonnet. All of this accented the necklace around her neck. The second Paris laid eyes on that black pearl necklace, she knew what it was and its history. She remembered her mom telling her about it when she was a kid. Her mom, of course, ran in the same circles as Emily Gilmore, and she had heard its history, and past on the story to her daughter. And now, here was Rory standing before her, wearing that fabled necklace. It was a breathtaking moment, a moment Paris would never forget. Paris knew what it meant for Rory to be wearing that necklace. She decided that instant that she would make Rory hers – forever. And this was precisely the effect Rory had hoped it would have on her.
Paris placed her hand on Rory’s arm. A simple movement that sent a shock through both their systems.
“My room is upstairs. Shall we?”
“Sure.”
Paris led her up the stairs to her bedroom. They entered.
Rory sat down in a chair at the desk. Paris sat on the edge of the bed.
“You can sit over here. Make yourself comfortable.” Paris said. Rory rose and sat on the bed next to Paris.
“What’s wrong?” Paris asked.
“Nothing.” Rory responded. But Paris could see the nervousness in Rory. It mirrored her own.
Paris took out her calc book, Advanced Differential Equations, and opened it. She also took out her notes.
“You didn’t bring your book?”
“Nah, I don’t need it,” Rory said. “We’ll share.”
Rory leaned her face in right next to Paris’ face as Paris started thumbing through the pages. Rory was so close their cheeks almost touched. Paris noted how close Rory was by staring her right in the eye and letting out a half smile. She then drew back.
“Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Paris said.
And they did. A half hour passed quickly. A half hour filled with hammering out the answers to various differential equations, gentle brushes up against each other, cheeks nervously almost touching, and askance looks filled with longing.
“So how did you do on the last calc test?” Paris asked.
“A ninety-eight. I would have gotten a hundred, but I missed the last question… Oh, it was so embarrassing.”
“What happened?”
“Well, I mean, the question was hard, if you remember. But I knew the answer. It’s just that I was so tired - I had been up half the night studying - and I was hungry, and my stomach was growling, and it was almost lunch time, and my mind went completely blank, so I just wrote down ‘pi’.”
“What!”
“Hey, I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t my fault… And Mr. Benson, he drew a little dunce cap next to my answer, like you idiot, what the hell are you doing!”
“Oh, God…”
They both had a good laugh.
Paris followed Rory’s eyes over to a book on her bookshelf. Rory reached over and grabbed the book.
“So you’re into cold fusion?” Rory said, as she read the title, Nuclear Transmutation: The Reality of Cold Fusion, by Tadahiko Mizuno. “I know Professor Mizuno’s work.”
Paris almost fell off the bed. “You have got to be kidding me,” Paris said, taken aback. “You know Doctor Mizuno’s work?”
“Yeah.”
“Besides me, I thought maybe five people in the entire Western world had read his work. He’s like one of the leading Japanese researchers in cold fusion. He’s a genius... Forgive me. I just never imagined you’d be interested in something so arcane or controversial as cold fusion.”
“Well, I am. I’ve read just about everything written on the subject… all the theoretical papers…”
“Wow… I’ve got my little lab down in the basement… I toy around.” Paris said.
“What kind of catalyst you using?”
“I started out using palladium. But now I’m experimenting with different kinds.”
“Cool… I’d like to see what you’ve done sometime.”
“Sure… This really interests you?”
“Yeah... I mean, I think it’s all a bunch of crock, but it does interest me.”
Paris raised an eyebrow, confused. “Why do you say it’s crock?”
“Oh, come on, experiments that nobody else can reproduce… It’s crock.” Rory responded, laughing.
“It’s not crock. Lots of people have achieved cold fusion, albeit only for a few nanoseconds… I mean, it’s like the Holy Grail. We’re talking about unlimited power here, Rory. Think about what it would mean if -”
“Yeah, yeah, I know the story… I’m not saying it’s not possible. I just think there are a lot of hoaxsters surrounding this cold fusion thing, that’s all.”
“You know, there’s going to be a cold fusion symposium at Columbia University in New York weekend after next. Why don’t you come with me?”
“Sure.” Rory said. She then sighed. Her eyes narrowed cynically.
“What?” Paris barked.
“I just think you need to open your eyes about what this is really about, that’s all.”
Paris’ lips curled with sarcasm. “I know I’m going to regret this, but tell me what this is really about, Ms. Smarty Pants.”
“I’d be more than happy to give you the scoop… Let’s take this symposium as an example. How much are they charging?”
“A hundred dollars a head.”
“And what, a couple hundred people are going to attend?”
“Probably a thousand.”
“So we’re talking a hundred g’s at the box. That’s good money.”
Paris’ face tightened. She could see where this was leading.
“And I suppose they have these symposiums all across the country. Right?” Rory asked.
“Yeah.”
“So we’re talking big bucks here. And I’m sure they put on a really good show… Now there’s this other organization, and they too travel all around the country, and people pay good money to see them, and when it’s over, people feel all warm and giddy inside, with fresh hope for a bright future. And like your cold fusion symposium, this organization puts on a really good show. As a matter of fact, they put on the Greatest Show on Earth, as in the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus. ‘Barnum’ being the key word here. As in P. T. Barnum. As in there is a sucker born every minute…”
Paris burst out laughing.
“Rory what is it with you? What have you got against technological progress?”
“Oh, please!”
“I bet if you have been there when that first cave man lit that first fire, you would have snuffed it right out!”
That last crack was too much for Rory. She wrapped her arms around Paris and tackled her to the bed. They both broke out in uncontrollable laugher.
It took them a while, but they finally calmed down. They stared uncomfortably into each other’s eyes. The mood suddenly turned very serious. Paris stretched out on the bed next to Rory. She undid the top button on her blouse. She checked her watch.
“Hey, would you like to go for a drive? There’s this place I go to when I want to get away, which is quite often nowadays, with my home life the way it is, if you know what I mean. We can make it there before it gets dark if we leave now. Would you like to go?”
“Sure.” Rory said.
Paris jumped up. She took the book from Rory, making sure she brushed her hand up against Rory’s hand as she did so. She felt that shock again. Damn! What’s it going to feel like if we ever kiss? Paris thought to herself. But did she dare to even think such thoughts?
Paris put the book back on the shelf. She grabbed her keys and they left.
* * * *
Paris thought back to that exciting day her Porsche Boxster was delivered. She thought of the thrill she felt as the flatbed truck pulled up to the house and unloaded that gleaming white car, that paragon to Teutonic engineering. She bought the car brand new, then had it shipped from the dealer to a customizer. The customizer had promised delivery in six weeks, which became two months, and finally three months. But it was worth the wait.
Being a scion of the Gellar family and fortune, she had always known whatever she wanted, she got. But material things, especially ordinary material things, never really interested Paris. It was the rare, the exceptional, the unique, that had held her attention. Perhaps this was why she was attracted to Rory.
Paris remembered running her fingers along the Boxster’s body, marveling at its clean lines. Outwardly, it looked like any other Boxster. The only hint it had been customized was the customizer had signed his initials in small black lettering just above the rear bumper on the driver’s side: JC – Johnson Customizers. But the customizer had supercharged the powerplant of the mid-engine car, adding an additional 150 horsepower, for a total of 400 horsepower. All this pulling a curb weight of only 2800 pounds. In the interior, the only change was the old speedometer had been ripped out, and a new one put in. Paris remembered smiling when she saw the top speed on the new speedometer: 210 mph. Hot damn, Paris thought to herself, am I gonna have fun!
-- Paris thought about all this as she glided along at 80 mph on a dark stretch of highway with Rory by her side. The rain had long since stopped, and the pavement was dry. Paris felt confident she could really put the Boxster to the test.
Paris glanced across at Rory. She felt like pinching herself. Here I am, with the beautiful Rory beside me, the wind in our hair, this magnificent machine beneath me, driving along on this magical highway. Can this be true? This is almost like a dream!
This dark stretch of highway was known as the Black Forest. It was a narrow two-lane highway that had been cut out of deep forest. It began outside of Hartford and ran southeast towards Long Island Sound. It was used mainly by truckers hauling fresh fish from the fisheries along the seaboard. Their usual destinations were the vast markets of Massachusetts and New York. The Black Forest was a no-man’s-land where strong-willed men wheeled 30,000 lb. tractor trailers at frightening speeds. In the Black Forest the highway patrol was rarely to be seen. Truckers used the Black Forest to make up time they knew they would lose in the bumper-to-bumper traffic in New York and Massachusetts. But you were on your own here. One wrong move, a miscalculation, a momentary lapse, and boom! it was over. Just imagine the violence of two tractor trailers, each doing 90 mph, colliding head on. Or a tractor trailer and a passenger car, doing the same speeds, colliding head on. It had been known that trucks had spun off the highway and into the forest, carrying so much momentum, that it would be days, and sometimes weeks, before they were discovered. This was no place for little old ladies out for a Sunday drive or soccer moms in their SUVs with the tykes in tow. You damn well had to know what you were doing in the Black Forest. If not, the results could be fatal.
Paris glanced one last time at Rory. Before they had left, Paris had told Rory simply, “I like to drive fast.” Rory had responded just as simply, “I know.” Paris didn’t ask her how she knew. It was part of the unspoken bond between them. But what Rory didn’t know – or perhaps she did? - was that Paris had received professional race car training. Paris’ dad, during happier days, had hired an old friend of his, Swede Bjorn Johansen, a retired Formula 3 race car driver, to tutor Paris. After he retired Bjorn had settled in the United States, and had a magnificent estate just outside of Waterbury, Connecticut that sat on 45 acres of land. His garage alone was over 20,000 sq. ft,, where he kept his collection of 25 high performance and race cars.
Paris dad’s motives in hiring Bjorn were obvious enough. He knew Paris over her lifetime would possess many expensive cars - front, mid and rear engine - and he wanted Paris to know how to drive them properly. Of course he never dreamed Paris would drive the speeds she does and would have a heart attack if he knew.
It was Bjorn who introduced Paris to the Black Forest. For a period that was suppose to last one month, but stretched into two months, because Bjorn found Paris to be an exceptional driver with lightening quick reflexes and sound judgement, and also because he liked Paris’ blunt personality and drive and ambition, he had tutored her.
Bjorn loved the Black Forest because it was one of the few stretches of highway left in America where one could drive as fast as one wanted. It was an excellent teaching ground. He would take her there in his Aston Martin DB7 Coupe, his Ferrari Modena, his Mercedes Benz 600 SLC, and once – but only once – in his Porsche 959, a car he had smuggled into this country, and which was illegal to drive on the streets of America – and demonstrate to her what it meant when man and machine became one.
He taught Paris everything she needed to know to handle a front, mid or rear engine car, in any conditions, on dry or wet pavement, no matter what the circumstances. He found, like the teachers of Chilton, that Paris was a superb student. After it was all over, he told Paris flat out that he thought she could be a professional race car driver. Paris, not surprisingly, agreed. They both knew, though, Paris’ parents would never allow it in a million years.
-- Paris took her eyes off Rory and refocused on the road. The most dangerous stretch of the Black Forest was up ahead, and Paris would need all her concentration, and everything she learned from Bjorn, to make sure she and her precious cargo, Rory, made it through safely.
Paris glanced into her rear view mirror, and saw that there was a black tanker truck gaining on her at a high rate of speed. Paris had always hated the tankers because not only was there the potential for crashes, as with other tractor trailers, but also the fuel they were carrying made the tankers essentially huge bombs on wheels, ready to go off the moment anything went wrong.
She remembered one particularly bad accident she saw in the Black Forest a while back as she was heading home to Hartford. A tanker had careened off the side of the road and exploded in flames. Paris figures she got there about five minutes after the accident happened. Truckers had already set off flares, blocking the highway, and Paris took an exit a half mile up the road. From the exit she could see that the entire highway in both directions was engulfed in flames, along with huge stretches of the neighboring forest. No way in hell, Paris thought to herself, could anybody have survived that.
Judging by the skid marks she was able to see, Paris figured the tanker driver must have drifted over into the opposite lane, saw a truck or car coming, and then overcompensated by going too far to the right, and plunged off the highway and the truck burst into flames.
This pointed out an essential danger of the Black Forest: it was an elevated highway. Not only was it frighteningly narrow, but there was a seven foot drop from the right edge of the highway to the front edge of the forest. This embankment was about fifteen feet wide, mostly covered in grass, and dropped at a steep forty degree angle. What this meant in practical terms was that if you got even a few inches too far to the right, your right-side tires would leave the road and you took a plunge down the embankment. If you were a passenger car, more than likely you would plunge, hit front end first at the bottom of the embankment, and careen end over end into the forest. Paris had heard truckers tell stories of cars that had gone end over end hundreds of yards deep into the forest after careening off the road. Needless to say, your chances of surviving such an accident were nil. If you were a trucker, you didn’t have to worry so much about going end over end, but the sheer violence of leaving the road and crashing into the ground at those speeds meant you were looking at a fatal accident.Knowing all of this, Paris had long made it a policy of leaving tankers in the dust. She upshifted from third to fourth, and the Boxster surged ahead to 100 mph. Just then, a tractor trailer passed her going the opposition direction, and the turbulence was ferocious. Then another, and another. The Boxster shook a little from the turbulence, but held steady. Paris’ heart began to race just a bit. This is what made the Black Forest so exhilarating – and dangerous. There was just no other highway like it.
To Paris’ surprise, the tanker forged ahead, and now had drawn to within one hundred yards of her rear bumper. Damn, she cursed to herself, why the hell did he do that? Paris stared ahead, and realized she had another problem. She was gaining quickly on a tractor trailer about an eighth of a mile ahead of her, even as the tanker behind her was gaining on her. She eased off the accelerator just a bit, going down from 100 mph to 95 mph, hoping the tanker driver would slow down to match her, but he didn’t. He was now almost up on her rear bumper. Paris was ready to say the hell with it, I’ll just pass the truck in front of me and be done with it. But then she saw a truck heading in the opposite direction about a half mile up the road. She figured she had just enough time to make the pass if she left now. But just as she was going to slam down on the accelerator, the tanker pulled out in the opposite lane to pass her! Damn, Paris thought to herself, that guy’s got balls.
But he also had the same problem Paris would have had: the truck a half mile up and closing fast from the opposite direction. Paris knew it was essential to her and Rory’s survival that the tanker completed the pass in time. She eased down just a bit, from 95 mph to 92 mph, but couldn’t go lower than that because she discovered, glancing into her rearview mirror, that there was another truck behind her about 300 yards to her rear. She held steady at 92 mph, wanting to give the truck behind her enough time to stop in case something went horribly wrong.
The tanker pulled along side her and began to pass her. The turbulence really buffeted the Boxster. It took all of Paris’ skill to keep the car under control. The tanker was so close she could literally reach out with her left hand and touch it if she wanted too. Not that she was about to take her hand off the wheel at a time like this! She could feel the heat generated by the tanker and smell the acrid tire rubber. She drifted – deliberately – about four inches to her right, to give the tanker driver a little extra room, but dared go no further. She knew all too well what would happen if she went any more to her right – a plunge down that frightful embankment and almost certain death.
The rear wheels of the unmarked, jet black tanker passed her front end. The truck from the opposite direction was closing in fast. Too fast. There was no time for a “clean pass.” The tanker had to get back over into his lane – now. So although only a car length ahead of her, the tanker driver swung right and got back in his lane, directly ahead of Paris. A second and a half later the tractor trailer from the opposite direction passed them, creating a vicious windstorm. It was like a mini tornado, and it was all Paris could do to keep the Boxster under control.
Paris continued to hold steady at 92 mph. The tanker truck, once back into its own lane, forged ahead for a few seconds, but then had to ease up because of the slower truck in front of him. Paris figured the tanker driver was going to pass the slower truck as soon as he could, but she was determined to pass both of them first. She eased a little to the left, to see what was coming in the opposite direction, and saw a truck a quarter mile up the highway. She let it pass. Then she took another look, and saw a truck about a half mile up the highway. She didn’t hesitate. She floored the accelerator, and was off. The Boxster quickly hit 100 mph, then 110 mph, 120 mph, and finally 130 mph. She roared pass both trucks and got back into her lane and had clear sailing. She cruised along at 130 mph as the trucks disappeared in her rearview mirror.
The late afternoon sun cast a fiery orange pall over the tree-encrusted highway, illuminating it with an eerie glow. This is what the Black Forest was all about. A place of overpowering speed, beauty, and every so often, violence.
Paris cruised along at 130 mph for about five miles, then slowed down to 70 mph and took an exit. The exit led to a truck stop tucked away in an alcove off of the highway. She pulled into the truck stop. At the heart of the truck stop was a takeout joint, Joe’s. She slammed to a halt in front of it.
“What would you like to eat?” Paris asked Rory.
“Whatever you decide is fine.”
“OK.”
Paris exited the car and stretched herself. She glanced over to the southeast. She knew that the most difficult part of the Black Forest, Dead Man’s Curve, was yet before them. She took a deep breath and entered Joe’s.
Joe’s was a greasy spoon frequented almost exclusively by truckers. The food was fresh, good and cheap. Paris looked around as she approached the order counter. As always, Paris was the only woman inside. Paris came here often, and couldn’t remember ever seeing a woman, even among the help. But Paris always felt at home here, this lone woman amid a sea of men. She had always felt a kinship with these truckers, like she was one of them. She scanned their faces. Their faces were stoic and hard. These were men made out of steel, men made out of stone.
“What will it be, Ma’am?” the order clerk asked, a husky, bearded, tattooed man in his early thirties.
“I’ll have my usual, Dave. And also a Number Three. And two Cokes. To go.”
Even though they knew Paris by name, none of the counter people ever used it. She was always “Ma’am.”
Paris’ “usual” was a red snapper sandwich, light on the hot sauce, with a side of fries. She ordered a hamburger and fries for Rory. Seven minutes later she had their sandwiches and was gone.
As she walked to the car the tanker driver was walking towards her, heading for the entrance to Joe’s. He had a twelve gauge shotgun strapped to his back. He was a muscular black man in his early forties with a grim, pock-marked face. He turned and looked at Paris as he passed, though he said nothing. Paris turned and looked at him and continued on.
The tanker had parked next to her, and beside the tanker’s passenger door stood guard another man with a shotgun cocked in the air. He was a slim, muscular man in his late twenties. Paris figured he must have been riding in the passenger seat. She thought they were probably private contractors hauling sensitive chemical or nuclear material to one of the Navy bases along the seaboard. That would be the reason the tanker was unmarked. This was not an unusual site for Paris. She had seen these unmarked trucks with armed drivers before.
Paris hit the highway and immediately got up to 100 mph. She figured she could reach her destination in ten minutes. She wanted the food to still be hot, since they had decided to wait until they were there to eat.
Within three minutes Paris was at Dead Man’s Curve. It was a winding curve in the highway stretching for about three quarters of a mile. Skid marks littered the highway in both directions from trucks that had taken the curve too fast, and flew off the highway into the forest beyond. Paris usually took the curve about 50 mph, which was about as fast as she felt she could safely navigate it, although she had seen truckers take it much, much faster.
She started to slow down, hitting 80 mph. She then planned on easing down to 60 mph, then her usual 50 mph as she entered the curve. But there was a tractor - with no trailer -behind her, and he started to gain. Paris wondered if he was going to slow up. She went down to 77 mph, and he was right on her rear bumper. She thought he was going to try and pass her, but she realized it was too late, they had already started to enter the curve. Passing was impossible.
Paris thought she better give herself a little space, so she went up to 82 mph. She never dreamed she would ever take the curve at these speeds. She held a good line up until the apex of the curve. However, just beyond the apex she could feel the rear end start to swing out ever so slightly. Oh shoot! she thought to herself. She continued further, and the rear end slid out a little bit more. Paris now realized - to her horror - she was about to totally lose control of the car! Any spinout here would certainly be catastrophic.
But Paris kept her cool. She also didn’t wish to alarm Rory. She drew upon all her training and experience. Bjorn Johansen had taught her that in a front engine car, if you start to lose the rear end, you decelerate and brake. However, in a mid or rear engine car, if you start to lose the rear end, you decelerate but don’t brake. Braking would only increase the loading on the front tires and decrease it on the rear tires, causing a further loss of grip at the back end, where the weight of the car was concentrated. So Paris did as she was trained. She avoided the brakes, but ever so lightly lifted off the throttle, bringing the car down to 79 mph. She could feel the back end coming back into alignment. But she could also feel the phenomenal centrifugal forces working against the car. Those centrifugal forces wanted to pull the car right off the road.
She was three quarters through the curve. The car was right on the edge, both literally and figuratively. She watched with steely eyes as the front right end hugged the very edge of the pavement. Paris thought for a second maybe she should shift a little to her left, over into the opposite lane, giving herself more room. This in fact is what the trucker behind her had done. The only problem with that is that the curve was so sweeping she couldn’t see more than a hundred yards in front of her. If she edged over the center line and a car or truck suddenly appeared, there was no way she could get back across the line in time to avoid a fatal head on collision. The trucker was able to do it because he sat much higher in his cab, giving him a greater range of visibility than the low-sitting Boxster.
So Paris held tight as she neared the curve’s terminus. Yes, the Boxster had traction control, but there was no traction control in the world that could handle Dead Man’s Curve at these speeds, and Paris knew it. It took human skill and guts to get a person through this. And Paris had both.
She came out of the curve in fine form. Yes! She cried to herself, clenching her fist ever so slightly. She knew what she had accomplished in successfully navigating Dead Man’s Curve at those speeds.
She stared dead ahead and smiled. With Dead Man’s Curve gone, she now had miles upon miles of straight flat highway ahead. She immediately upshifted to 4th and hit 130 mph. She spotted a sleek black Ferrari Testarossa streaking at 150 mph a half mile in front of her. In the opposite lane, about a half mile in front of the Ferrari, a tractor trailer was speeding along, and about a quarter mile behind that another truck. Paris instantaneously calculated the speed and timing she would need to overtake the Ferrari. She upshifted to 5th and moved up to 160 mph and closed in fast on the Ferrari. She waited until the first tractor trailer coming from the opposite direction had cleared her rear bumper, then upshifted to 6th gear, slammed down on the throttle, and darted out into the opposite lane. The Boxster took off like a rocket. Paris’ heart raced as she was kicked back in her seat and felt the roar of the Boxster’s mighty engine and the rasp of its exhaust. She quickly overtook the Ferrari and darted back into her lane a split-second before the second truck reached her. Oh, what a beautiful pass! Paris kept the throttle wide open and watched as the Testarossa became a mere speck in her rear view mirror. By now the white road stripes were racing by at an almost dizzying pace. Paris glanced down at the speedometer: It read 200 mph.
Elysian Park was nestled on the bank of a small lake just outside the picturesque city of Montville, Connecticut. This was the destination Paris was intent on reaching before nightfall. Paris and Rory sat on a blanket beneath a yellowing tree, eating their sandwiches, as the late afternoon sun reflected off the placid lake waters in golden waves. Paris had come here often, especially when the stress of her parent’s divorce was too much. But those were unhappy memories. Today couldn’t be more different. Today all was well with the world. Rory was beside her, resplendent in her white dress as she reclined on the blanket.
Rory for her part said very little while they ate. She tried not to show it, but the drive through the Black Forest had overwhelmed her. The implications for Rory were clear: Dean could build the car, Jess could drive it and crash it, but only Paris could deliver it where it had to be, in any conditions, at any speed. Only Paris could be entrusted with the health, safety, indeed, the very life, of America’s golden girl.
Even as Rory reclined there, even as she sipped on her Coke and finished off her hamburger, she had already decided that, like Paris had decided of her earlier, she was going to do whatever it took to make sure Paris was hers – forever.
They finished eating. They said nothing, though their movements and mannerisms said all that needed to be said. Paris knew that with it being dark soon, that whatever was going to happen between them had to happen now. Even Paris, with all of her skill, didn’t relish the prospect of driving through the Black Forest at night.
They stretched out next to each other, staring into each other’s eyes. The air was heavy with anticipation. Both their hearts quickened. Paris reached over an uncertain hand and ran her fingers along Rory’s black pearl necklace. Visions of mighty battles, vast empires, of Emperors and Empresses, Kings and Queens, flashed before her.
Paris shifted her weight and eased on top of Rory. Their breasts met. Paris moved her head gently forward to kiss her. Rory kept her eyes focused on her, ready to receive the kiss. But suddenly Paris stopped. Something wasn’t right. She seemed to sense instinctively that she shouldn’t be the one to kiss Rory, that Rory should be the one to kiss her. Perhaps the trip through the Black Forest made her think she had earned that right. Rory seemed to sense the same thing.
Rory shifted her weight and rolled gently on top of Paris. Her eyes were locked on Paris’ eyes. Paris’ lips were moist with desire. Rory moved her head forward to kiss her. Only a few inches away, Paris closed her eyes, expectant. Rory got within a hair’s breadth of Paris’ lips, then unexpectedly pulled back. Paris opened her eyes. She smiled. She didn’t expect that first kiss to come easily, but she knew it would come. Rory moved in once more to kiss her, but at the last second pulled back again. Paris opened her eyes and then closed them, her desire as great as ever. Rory moved in again, her lips so close to Paris’ lips they almost touched, but for a third time couldn’t kiss her. This time she rolled off of Paris and sat up. The transition from heterosexual to homosexual, from darkness into light, had been too great for Rory to make. Paris opened her eyes, saw that Rory had withdrawn from her, and exploded.
“Fine!” Paris yelled, inflamed. She leapt up. “Rory, I thought you wanted this!”
“Paris… Paris…” Rory exclaimed, trying to calm her down. She grabbed Paris by the arms. Paris wrenched her arms loose and slapped Rory hard in the face. Rory’s face flared with anger. Paris marched off towards the car.
Paris got in the car, which was parked just up the dirt road which cut through the park. She tried to start it, but was so distraught she couldn’t get the key into the ignition. By now Paris was near tears. She flung the keys down on the floor and got out the car and started walking up the road. Rory got in the car in the driver’s seat and started the car. She pulled up next to Paris as she walked along.
“Paris, get in the car.”
“I’ll walk home.”
“Paris, that’s crazy. Get in the car.”
Rory reached over and opened the passenger door. Paris stopped and took a couple of deep breaths, calming herself down a little. She got in and sat in the passenger seat. She slammed the door shut.
“Don’t talk to me!” Paris shouted. And Rory didn’t. But she did bury her head in the steering wheel, realizing she had totally screwed everything up. After a few anguished seconds, she gathered herself and pulled off for the drive home. And what a long, cold, silent drive it would be.
This was not how Rory thought this would turn out! But even Rory, this jewel in America’s crown, this modern day empress, had flinched. Her courage had failed her. And because of it, she knew she may have thrown away her chances of ever being with Paris. This first date had turned out to be a disaster.