Soul to Soul (RUSH, Inc. Book 2)

by Carol Caiton

  "No. I've never been here before."

  "Not a problem." He reached toward a desktop tray and withdrew a sheet of paper. "You're required to sign a nondisclosure form," he said, placing it on the counter and spinning it to face her. "It states that privacy is a top priority at RUSH—yours along with everyone else's. Signing it assures us you won't share anything you see or hear once you leave the property."

  He reached toward a granite pencil holder that matched the granite countertop and handed her a pen. "And you won't be permitted beyond this point without signing it, so go ahead and read it, then I'll witness your signature."

  It wasn't a long document, but it was comprehensive. By signing it she agreed to surrender her cell phone along with any photographic or recording devices. She also agreed to give a drop of blood to be tested for the presence of drugs, STDs, and for pregnancy. Her driver's license and palmprint would be kept on file for purposes of identification, and at the bottom was a place for her signature. Unless she wanted to turn around and leave, she had no choice but to sign.

  It occurred to her that RUSH would have quite a bit of personal information on file before she even left the checkpoint. She reached for her wallet again, removed her license, and passed it over. The guard notarized her signature, stamping the form, then signing it himself.

  "Have a seat beside one of the scanners and I'll explain the rest of the process as we go along."

  He gestured farther down the counter where several biometric scanners were mounted in the granite. She walked over and slid up onto the first barstool. The guard on the other side produced what looked like a narrow cuff bracelet with a gap that enabled it to slide onto someone's wrist. In his other hand he held a disk about the size of a thick quarter.

  "This is a replica of the security bracelet you're required to wear," he explained. "I'm going to measure your wrist so that one of these bands will fit around it snugly."

  He slid one end of the bracelet into a slot on the disk, then snapped the other end in as well. "The disk is a sensor," he told her, holding up the completed circle for her inspection. "It'll rest against the underside of your wrist and it's programmed to let us know if your pulse rate exceeds a predetermined range."

  "Am I allowed to ask what would make my pulse rate exceed the range?"

  He smiled and his eyes crinkled at the corner. "Ms. Brosig, you're allowed to ask anything you want and I'll try to answer."

  A fair portion of her nervousness melted away and she smiled back. "Okay. What would make my pulse rate accelerate like that?"

  "As a guest, probably nothing," he said. "As a client though, you might engage in activities that have the potential to reach high levels of agitation. If that happens, we put safety above modesty and respond."

  She thought about that. "But how do you know when it's . . . I mean . . . "

  "How do we differentiate between sexual excitement and genuine distress?"

  She shifted a little and nodded. "Yes."

  "There's a clear difference in the rhythm of a passionate encounter and the sharp, intense spike that sends up an alarm."

  It had never occurred to her that anyone might want to make a scientific study of someone's heart rate during sexual intercourse. All the same, as bizarre as it was to be having this conversation, she was intrigued. "Do you keep track of everyone's heartbeat while they're . . . involved?

  "No. The sensor is a precautionary measure. We have some venues at RUSH that cater to exotic sex play. The sensor is a backup device to ensure everyone's safety."

  He indicated the biometric scanner on her left. It was identical to the one she'd seen at the elevator except for a circular depression below the bottom edge of the glass. "The bracelet will feel like a close fit," he said, "but it won't be tight. When I snap it on, you'll put your hand on the glass and line up your wrist so the disk slips into the circular hole at the bottom." He demonstrated by pressing the disk into the depression. "The computer will gradually tighten the fit until it's snug so it can monitor your pulse. Then it'll pair the sensor's UPC code with your palmprint and we'll swipe your driver's license to attach your name to the file. Any questions?"

  "I don't think so."

  "It sounds more complicated than it is."

  He reached beneath the counter for another band, this one wrapped in cellophane, and handed it to her. Then he produced another disk, also in cellophane, and removed its UPC sticker. He attached the sticker to a zipper-lock plastic bag and said, "The UPC code will identify this as yours. You can put your cell phone and any other device you have with you inside and we'll hold it in a locker for you."

  She reached inside her purse and slid her cell phone into the plastic bag. Then she opened the cellophane and slid the bracelet onto her wrist, turning it back and forth while he got the disk ready.

  She rested her arm on the counter and turned it over so he could slide the ends of the bracelet into the slots on the sensor. Then she placed her palm on the scanner and adjusted her wrist until the disk slipped into the depression.

  "So," she said, "does the bracelet serve any purpose other than monitoring my heartbeat?"

  A detailed image of her palm and fingerprints appeared on the wall monitor behind the guard. He slid her driver's license along a slot in the scanner and her name, along with all other identifying information joined her palmprint on the screen. Beneath it, in large clear type, was the sensor's UPC code.

  "The disk will allow us to pinpoint where you are if we need to locate you," he said.

  She felt the gentle tightening of the band around her wrist and when the fit was snug, a green light blinked on at the top of the scanner.

  But she was focused on the monitor. RUSH, Inc. had an exceptionally thorough record of her visit and it wasn't a comfortable feeling.

  "Almost finished," the guard said, breaking into her thoughts. She hadn't even realized he'd made his way out from behind the counter.

  She lifted her hand from the scanner as he gestured across the lobby. "This way."

  Sliding off the barstool, she followed him to a door with a sign that identified it as a lab.

  "Place your palm on the glass," he instructed, pointing toward a scanner embedded in the wall beside the door. "It'll identify you and you'll hear the lock release."

  She entered a small clinic where the on-duty nurse swiped her finger with an alcohol wipe, pricked it, and squeezed a drop of blood onto a small glass slide. After placing her hand on yet another scanner, an electron microscope read the small sample and sent her pathology to a place called Medical Services and up to Security Central. The entire process took less than two minutes and she was free to go.

  Outside the small clinic a different security guard waited for her. "Ms. Brosig, I'll be your escort while you're on property and show you the way to the administrative building."

  He was a short man, just an inch or two taller than she, wearing a Bluetooth headset over his left ear. The tag above his shirt pocket read A. Cosper and he looked to be in his mid-thirties. His blond hair was so pale, it would be difficult to tell when it turned gray.

  "It's nice to meet you." She held out her hand. "But if you'll tell me where to go, I don't mind finding my own way."

  He was shaking his head before she finished. "Guests are required to have a security escort at all times. It's company policy."

  "Oh. I didn't realize I'd be putting anyone out."

  He smiled. "You're not putting anyone out. I'll give you a mini tour along the way.

  That was exactly what she wanted, so she gave him a bright smile and said, "Thank you. I'd like that."

  They left the checkpoint lobby and walked through another short, wide corridor. At the opposite end, beside the exit doors, stood another guard.

  "The walls on either side of us have sensors that identify everyone who passes through," A. Cosper told her. "They locate the one on the bracelet you're wearing and others are in place to detect whether or not you're carrying a cell phone or any other el
ectronic equipment that should have been turned in at the front desk."

  "What would happen if I had a camera?"

  "An alarm would sound and the doors up ahead would remain closed so you couldn't pass through."

  She studied the walls on either side. Contemporary works of art hung in large frames and gave the impression of an ordinary passageway. Again, cameras had been mounted at a height and position to span the entire area.

  "You have a lot of security cameras here," she commented. "Are they trained on the couples you match while they're . . . sexually involved?"

  He chuckled. "No. The cameras are for security only."

  The automatic doors swished open and the sweet fragrance of fresh flowers drifted in with the warmer air. She breathed in the unexpected pleasure, passed through the doors, then came to a quick stop and stared.

  Flowers were everywhere, blossoming on trees, grouped in sculpted beds . . . . This was Florida's dry season. It hadn't rained for nearly three weeks yet she'd stepped into a beautiful, fragrant oasis.

  Once again the security guard chuckled. "We get that reaction a lot," he said.

  She felt like a child at a theme park, turning in all directions to take in everything at once.

  "It's wonderful," she told him. "I never expected anything like this.

  They walked under the canopy of a fresh, lush jungle to the main walkway and turned right. Gurgling water poured over a rock fountain, small paths branched off leading to places unknown . . . . She wished she could wander along and explore.

  Turning to ask if they could take a detour through one of the side paths, she barely had her mouth opened when he spoke sharply into his headset.

  "I'm right out front."

  Right out front of where? She looked over at the decorative gate to her right. Vibrantly gorgeous bougainvillea billowed over and down the stucco wall on either side and a brass plate identified their location with one word. Threshold.

  "Brosig," he said next, and she turned to look at him. He looked up and met her eyes. "I'll leave her outside the gate. Roger that."

  "What is it?"

  "We have climbers." He said, striding toward the gate.

  "Climbers?"

  "High school kids scaling the wall to get in," he explained. "Usually it's just two or three, but they're making it a group project today."

  He slapped his hand onto a biometric scanner and the gate opened. "Wait for me here."

  She nodded, but he'd taken off at a run.

  As instructed she remained outside the gate, using the time to enjoy her surroundings. It was as though RUSH stood apart from the rest of the city, caught in a time capsule of perpetual summer. She breathed the fragrant December air and everywhere she looked there was something new and wonderful to enchant her.

  She heard the sound of footsteps and turned to see a girl approaching from the opposite direction. Her hair was dark brown, selectively streaked with golden blonde to give it that extra flair of distinction, just like her own. Ali smiled as they took in each other's appearance, and the girl smiled back before passing by and continuing on.

  More footsteps sounded and she turned again to see a security guard approaching from the checkpoint. He met her eyes, held her gaze as though he planned to stop and talk with her, then jolted, stopping cold in his tracks. He cursed into his headset and his eyes locked hard on hers.

  She saw a moment of indecision. Then he took off at a run for the wrought-iron gate, slammed his palm down onto the scanner, and tore into the area called Threshold.

  Was he needed to help out with the teenage climbers? She watched his back until palm fronds and vegetation hid him from view. Then she stood wondering what to do. A. Cosper had told her to stay where she was. But the expression of alarm on the second guard's face, followed by his dash through the gate, worried her. What if they needed help? What if the group of boys who climbed the wall was determined to get inside? What if it was a large group—like ten or even twenty? Two men couldn't handle a pack of troublemakers by themselves.

  Making up her mind, she started toward the scanner. Would it let her inside? She'd probably end up getting hurt. She was only five feet, four inches tall. That wasn't much of a barricade against a gang of teenaged boys. But she couldn't just leave those two men in there alone.

  The scanner accepted her palmprint and the gate opened as though she held some sort of magic key. She hurried inside, then slowed because there were offshooting paths here as well and she had no idea where she was going.

  Deciding to stay on the main walkway, she followed one curve, then another, and came to a small three-tiered fountain. She circled around it, absently noting the curved concrete benches with cabriole legs surrounding the outer perimeter. She could hear shouting now. But it sounded more like cheering. And . . . clapping?

  Hurrying forward, she passed another side path, then another concrete bench, this one rectangular, and she heard it again. Much closer this time. Whistles . . . and yes, cheering.

  She followed the shouts until the jungle abruptly parted, revealing an L-shaped building to her left. But the unruly group of teenage boys she expected to find was nowhere to be seen.

  Instead, they were men. Lots of men. They were crowded around a raised platform in the center of the clearing where, right in front of God and all those bawdy cheers, a stark naked woman had been locked into an honest-to-goodness pillory. She was utterly immobilized. Her neck and wrists were secured inside holes that forced her upright and facing forward—like a criminal exposed to public scorn in some awful past century. Her legs were spread wide, manacled to the sides of each post and between her thighs a thick black dildo, affixed to the end of a long pipe, mechanically pistonned into her at such a speed as to make her breasts jiggle.

  CHAPTER 12

  Mason picked up his pace. He should have met up with her by now. He strode past the training center, glanced at his watch, and rephrased that thought. He should have met up with her before now.

  Something was wrong. The feeling was so strong, he almost tasted its bitter flavor in his mouth. Covering the ground in long strides, his suit jacket flaring out at his sides, he pulled out his cell phone. It was answered on the first ring.

  "Case here."

  "Jeremiah. I give me a fix on someone named Brosig." He spelled out her last name.

  Jeremiah came back in seconds. "I've got two Brosigs on property. Alison and—"

  "That's the one."

  "She's in Threshold. Central pillory—"

  Mason broke the connection and took off at a run. Threshold. Jesus Christ, she was in Threshold.

  He heard the crowd before he saw it. Dread flooded through him, surging up like a tsunami. He knew what he was going to find. He knew it because Threshold was a wild, unfettered circus. He'd find a woman, naked and shackled to the pillory. She might be blindfolded and there might be more than one man waiting to have a turn at her.

  Racing past the fountain, he jerked to a stop when he reached the clearing and stared for several seconds in bizarre fascination. A new round of cheers broke out, yanking him back to reason, and he snapped his head around, first to the right, then the left, and that's when he saw her. She stood utterly still, her face drained of color, eyes stricken with horror. And in that one split second, the hope he'd allowed himself to feel disintegrated.

  Goddamn it!

  He started forward and saw her dark frantic eyes scan the area, moving right past him. He was still several yards away when she clamped a hand over her mouth, whirled, and sprinted into the jungle.

  "Ali!" He started after her, trampling the flowerbed and pushing through the foliage. She couldn't have any idea where she was going.

  But he found her almost immediately and regret curled a knot in his stomach.

  One hand braced against the trunk of a tree, she vomited into the bushes, her big black purse discarded on the ground behind her. Even when she seemed to have nothing left inside, she gagged until finally, she rested her forehead
against the tree trunk and sagged.

  "Ali." He spoke her name quietly, but she jerked as though he'd shouted.

  "Go away."

  Another spasm gripped her and she bent to the side to spit into the shrubbery.

  He wished they had a relationship that would allow him to go to her, to slide his arms around her slight frame and support her until she could stand on her own. But they didn't have anything resembling that sort of relationship. She wanted him to leave her to suffer alone.

  "I can't do that," he told her softly. He reached for the inside pocket of his suit jacket. "Here, take my handkerchief."

  For a minute she didn't move. Then she stretched her arm out behind her and he put it in her hand. "Please go away," she repeated.

  "Ali—"

  "I can't be here," she broke in.

  She pushed away from the tree, turned, and shaky fingers swept her long hair over her shoulder. She looked for her purse, found it, and reached for it. When she straightened again she wobbled. She took two steps and stumbled and he reached out to catch her arm.

  "Don't touch me!" She jerked away from him. "Don't touch me," she said again, calmer this time, but choking the words out as tears streamed down her face. She took a step back and looked up. "I wanted you to be different. I came here—" She swallowed. "I came here with an open mind. I hoped—" More tears slid down her face and she wiped them with her hand. "This is an ugly place. A terrible place. And that woman . . . ."

  Her expression of revulsion told him exactly what she thought—of the woman, of RUSH, and of him.

  He grabbed her elbow, ignoring her struggle to pull away. "Don't," he bit out. "Don't judge that woman until you've walked in her shoes. Don't judge anyone here until you've walked in their shoes."

  She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. Eyes haunted and confused, she shut them tight and turned her face away.

  "Let me go," she murmured. "Let me go."

  He didn't want to. This was the first time he'd seen her since the day they met. She was everything he remembered and now that he knew more of her through the e-mails she sent to his son, he wanted more still. He wanted to know why she'd come to RUSH when it might jeopardize her job if someone here recognized her. He wanted to know what it was she'd wanted to say to him. He wanted to tell her that this, Threshold, wasn't who he was.