Эбби Луби - Nuclear Romance

“What about the pictures of the rupture inside the dome. Who took those?”

“Um, not sure, Chrissy. Could be our busy little whistle-blower, but he won’t be busy for long.”

“When you find him—or her—will you tell me who it is? Give me an exclusive?”

He chuckled. “Maybe. We’ll see. How about grabbing a cup of coffee, or a drink maybe?”

“Oh, gee. I’d love to, but I have to file my story. Rain check?”

“Ouch.”

She turned to a clean page on her pad and looked around for any last interview opportunities.

“By the way,” Bob said. “Any stolen glances between our lovebirds?”

“Not really. If they are involved, they seem to be good at covering it up. I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“Good girl. Why an attractive lady would go for a jock reporter like that…. Well, see you.”

He took off, skirting the unlit perimeter of the parking lot and dissolved into the darkness.

A jock reporter? For a second Chrissy forgot that Lou was primarily a sportswriter. His stories on nuclear power were so well-crafted. She got into her car, a small silvery compact, and jotted down some last minute notes. Just then she saw Lou getting into an SUV that was a metallic, burnt-orange color. That wouldn’t be hard to follow, she half chuckled to herself.

Just as she put the key in the ignition, Diana came whisking out of the building and headed toward Lou’s car, quickly looking around before she got in.

Here we go again, thought Chrissy. Wonder where they’re headed?

“File your story?” Diana asked Lou as she got into the car.

“Just e-mailing it in now.”

“Did you hear that stupid politician? ALLPower is one of his main campaign contributors. I’m sure Stalinksy made a note of that. Did you see him lurking there in the back?”

“No. No I didn’t.

Does he want to talk about the meeting? About his story?

As Lou pulled out of the parking lot she tried to hide her nervousness about where they were headed. He joked about some kind of “sexual adventure?” Was it at the hotel type of place to which he’d alluded in his writings? She wanted to please him, be a fun mate into adventures and not play the prude. But was she ready for this?

A few weeks ago Lou started another erotic story about a couple who liked group sex, either a threesome or with another couple. Diana held back, confused. What did he really want from her? Did he really imagine her with another man while he looked on? Or he with another woman, while she looked on? Deep down she knew intimacy between two people could never be replaced by recreational sex.

He treaded carefully, and noting her hesitation, he stopped writing the story. He talked about it a bit after they made love, gently pressing his intent, coaxing her into the scenario: What would you want him to do to you? What could both of us do? It can be the ménage à trois of your dreams, Diana. Imagine, enjoy.

He encouraged her to live out her fantasies through words and see how it felt. She still wasn’t keen on the idea, so he didn’t press her and, again, let it slide. Would she write some more of her wonderful horti-erotica? She was flattered, and yes, she would love to do that—that was different, more like poetry. Every few days she sent him a short verse inspired by her few little dabblings in the garden and likened it on some level to their lovemaking; both were passionate and sensuous. He readily responded, praising her for words that moved him.

One night Diana reread Lou’s story about a group-sex encounter at a sex house. Could she write about it and perhaps consent to the experiment? The man was persistent, and she wondered what happened to the sense of adventure she had when she was younger. So why not now? If she agreed, it would be with a man she knew and trusted, someone she was falling in love with. She poured herself a large glass of red wine and started to compose a scenario of a woman with two men. She sent him her first paragraph. It was all he needed. He added on to the story with another paragraph, matching her mood and tone, trying not to be too explicit. Diana reciprocated. The co-authorship became fun.

Meanwhile, Lou did his research. He logged onto the “Bearded Iris” website to search for people looking for provocative sexual encounters, and who would show some sensitivity to novices like Diana.

He searched for couples, single men, single women. A man named David responded, and they exchanged e-mails for a few weeks before they spoke on the phone. They would meet for a drink at the Bearded Iris, giving Lou a chance to get a feel for the man and for the place. If Diana accepted a ménage à trois with two men, perhaps one day she would go for a three-way with Lou and another woman.

Finally, satisfied that David was savvy and could handle the “surprise” rendezvous, they agreed to meet and take it from there. Diana and Lou’s erotic story was about to become reality.

As he headed to the highway he was vaguely aware of a small silver car in his rear window, turning when he turned, stopping when he stopped. Now’s not the time to be paranoid, he thought. After a few miles, right before he approached the bridge, the same silver car lagged behind. He slowed, hoping the car would pass him, but the car directly in back passed him instead and the silver car was at his tail. He didn’t say anything to Diana; it would ruin the mood. He intermittently checked his rear view mirror. Sometimes the car slipped back, then it would catch up.

Why would anyone want to tail him? Thugs hired by ALLPower? Stalinsky? Catching him with Diana could be fodder for all sorts of blackmail, for both of them.

A school administrator with a guy at a sex house? A guy who’s a newspaper reporter?

It could jeopardize their jobs, their credibility. The works. If I have any sense I should just turn around now and stop thinking with my gonads. He saw a sign for a rest stop.

“Hey honey. Let’s stop for a quick cup of coffee, okay? I need a little hit of caffeine.”

“Sure. We’re in no rush. Right?”

They pulled off at the rest stop, and the silver car pulled in also, but it kept a safe distance behind. Lou pulled around the far side of the parking lot and backed in a parking space facing out. Where the hell was he?

“Lou? We getting out?”

“You know, Diana, let’s skip it. The coffee can wait. Just got a second wind.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Lou pretended to look for a bottle of water in the back seat, stalling for time. He surveyed the parking lot again. The driver might be waiting at the entrance ramp where he won’t miss us. He coasted toward the ramp but didn’t see the car. He hit the gas like he was kickboxing, and the car lurched forward.

“Hey—where’s the race?”

“Just want to get where we’re going, Sweetie Pie. Hold on.”

He cut out onto the highway and swerved into the fast lane. No car. He lost them. Whoever it was…

Chrissy never planned to follow Lou very far, but once she started it was hard to turn back. Her curiosity got the better of her. Wasn’t being a journalist like a detective? Spying on another reporter wasn’t quite the same, and her sense of ethics was gaining, but not enough to make her quit the pursuit.

When she followed Lou to the rest stop, she debated her next move. She pulled around to the gas station and parked to the side with the exit ramp in view. Suddenly she caught the glinty orange car racing past her onto the highway. Leaving her scruples in the dust, she started her car, lurched around a slow moving van and sped onto the highway. For a while she was sure she had lost him and was about to give up. It was dark and harder to see the shiny SUV. Harder, but not impossible. I’ve come this far….