baby,” Kelly admits in breathless ecstasy, “but this is as far as we can go- I love my husband… Let’s just enjoy this…”
Rory feels disappointed, and the mention of Kelly’s husband makes this whole encounter seem suddenly alien. Despite his pleasure, he now has this emptiness flowing through his body from the back of his mind.
“Think about the time before all of this happened,” Kelly states with heavy pleasure as he plunges his fingers deeper inside of her.
Rory decides to take her advice, and with her gorgeous breast halfway in his mouth, her hand on him, and his fingers deep inside her, he allows himself to go back. His mind lets go of the past few months and he enjoys the pleasure of imagining how life used to be, and how it could have been…
IV. Back to the Start
Two Years Earlier
Rory takes a deep breath of the fresh California mountain air, letting his mind relax for a moment as he waits for his clients to finish resting. He is wearing a red and orange flannel shirt over his salmon colored loose fitting undershirt.
“How close are we to the summit again?” Artie Southwick asks as he hands a canteen to his nine-year-old daughter.
“We’re about a thirty-minute hike to the summit,” Rory replies as he shields his eyes from the sun, gazing up toward the top of California’s Mount Baldy.
Rory smiles to himself in the cool spring breeze; his years of experience telling him that this group doesn’t have the legs to reach the summit despite taking the ski lift up The Devil’s Backbone, drastically cutting the amount of hiking needed to reach the summit. He lifts his right leg and rests it on top of a large boulder near the trail, feeling the soft material of his off-white cargo pants as he rests his hands on his elevated knee.
Artie’s wife, Janie Southwick, looks miserable in the mild heat as she brushes back her fine black hair. She has some delicate Asian features and fair skin that is covered in sweat from the short hike. Although, in her white blouse and jeans, she is doing far better than Artie who chose a black Nike® sweatshirt and dark brown khakis for the hike. His golden, curly hair is drenched with sweat and his white face is on the verge of sunburn.
Little Rosie Southwick is wearing a spring dress with walking shoes, which Rory advised against before they ventured into the mountains. She gives the canteen to her mother after one final drink, and then brushes her long, black hair backward with her small hands, enjoying the shade from the large pine trees.
“Thirty minutes, huh?” Artie asks in a defeated tone, pulling uncomfortably at the black sweatshirt that is sticking to his upper body from perspiration.
“We don’t have to go to the summit,” Rory says in a reassuring tone, “you can get some good speed right from this spot.”
Artie looks down at the ground where his stylish MBS Mountainboard is waiting amongst a group of backpacks. As he glances at the Mountainboard, his face immediately turns a pale color and Rory senses that the young man has never used an off road skateboard before.
“What the hell,” Artie agrees with a macho rhetoric, wiping the sweat from his face, “we’ll do it from right here. Where is the best place to start so that I can get a killer run?”
“I would start by riding the inside of this ridge,” Rory says with a smile using his left hand to demonstrate a potential path down the side of the mountain.
“As long as that gives me a killer run,” Artie snaps back in a cocky tone. “Lets do it,” he says briskly, grabbing the backpack that holds his helmet and kneepads, and hoisting it over his right shoulder.
“Sounds good,” Rory agrees, picking up the Mountainboard and carrying it over his shoulders.
“We’ll wait here for you,” Janie says to the men with a tired smile, then looks at her daughter who seems content watching flies buzzing around the pine trees.
Artie nods to his wife and daughter, then shuffles arrogantly up the mountainside ahead of Rory. They hike about one-hundred and fifty yards from the shade of the pine trees to the flat curve of the ridge that makes up part of The Devil’s Backbone. This part of the mountain is covered in dry brush and large patches of tall grass. When they reach the top of the ridge, Artie unzips the backpack on the ground and begins to put on his helmet and kneepads.
“Okay,” Rory begins as he examines the terrain, “what you’ll want to do is ride along the edge of the ridge and pick up speed gradually. The key to this is to stay calm and make sure that you don’t go over the ridge. You want to stay around ten to twenty-five miles an hour max.”
Artie nods his head with irritation, the shiny, black helmet now fixed tight against his scalp. He uses his fingers flamboyantly to signal Rory to continue his instruction as he puts on his black kneepads.
“Anyway,” Rory instructs again, showing more than a little visible irritation, “if you get into trouble, just turn the board slowly until you level off with the mountain. Or if you find yourself moving too fast you can always hop off and use your kneepads in an emergency.”
“Yeah, bro, I don’t think I’ll be using kneepads,” Artie states with his chin jutted out in defiance as he steps onto the Mountainboard and puts his shoes into the bindings. “After you watch this run,” he says with a smirk, gripping the handbrake with his right fist, “we’ll see who should be wearing kneepads.”
“Cool,” Rory says dismissively, looking down at the Mountainboard, “you should be ready to roll.”
Up on the Mountainboard, Artie is feeling claustrophobic in his sleek black helmet. His hair is drenched with thick sweat and the extra gear has increased his body temperature in the already warm spring sunlight. He releases the handbrake and the board starts to roll, but he soon applies the brakes again and comes to a stop, letting his head droop for a moment.
“You’re a terrible guide, Rory,” Artie declares in a somewhat panicked and cracking voice, “this run doesn’t look safe to me; I think the grade is too steep and there are a lot of rocks.”
“Naw, you should be okay,” Rory reassures him, “I’ve made this run with dozens of people; it’s pretty tame.”
“Look, bro, I just… I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Artie counters quickly, sounding more like a young boy with every sentence. “I can’t do this, asshole, okay!?” Artie finally explodes. “All I wanted was to get some cool pictures for Facebook and Twitter.”
“Okay, no problem,” Rory says with only a faint degree of surprise, “we can get you some great shots for your Facebook and Twitter. I can make it look like you’re riding the ridge, kicking ass, and taking names on The Devil’s Backbone.”
Rory pulls out his camera and spends the next hour helping Artie to setup amazing looking shots of him enjoying the extreme sport of mountainboarding in Los Angeles, California. As he is taking the photos, he thinks to himself how many of his clients start out wanting to participate in an extreme sport, but when they see the danger staring them in the face, their sense of self preservation takes over. As the owner of X-Face L.A. Extreme Sports, Rory has experienced nearly everything a thrill-seeker in California could ever desire. After all, his company’s slogan of ‘Every Hardcore Adventure in California Right at Your Fingertips’ has provided clients with: street luge, snowboarding, surfing, skydiving, bungee jumping, base jumping, rock climbing, and so many others.
After the opportunistic photo shoot is over, Rory finds himself sitting in the driver seat of his Toyota Tacoma waving t
o the Southwick family as they drive away from the Mount Baldy scenic parking area. When the family departs, Rory checks his cell phone and sees over a dozen missed calls from an unfamiliar number. With a sudden curiosity he decides to check his voice mail to find out if some emergency took place while he was in the mountains.
Soon he is listening to the most recent message, and it is from an excited man with an accent that he doesn’t recognize: ‘Mr. Chambers, this is Doctor Yahmir at the Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center; we would like to talk with you about your recent blood donations to the hospital… Something has come about, and I’d first like to draw a sample of your blood to confirm that you are the right person. We will need to do this before I have any further discussion. Please call me back when you have a moment.’
Rory’s face now bears an expression of concern as he listens to the rest of the message that contains the doctor’s contact information, including his home telephone number, cellular phone number, and personal email address. Now completely baffled, Rory immediately calls the doctor’s cell phone number as he starts the engine of his truck.
“This is Doctor Yahmir,” the same man’s voice answers with a professional tone, “who am I speaking with?”
“Doctor Yahmir, this is Rory Chambers, I just got your-“
“Mr. Chambers, so glad to hear from you,” the doctor interrupts with a somewhat urgent voice. “Have you been donating blood at The Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center, Sir?”
“Yes… I have.” Rory responds, feeling a bit uneasy by the doctor’s sense of urgency. “My Father’s life was saved by a