The Blue Link

by Carol Caiton

  Maybe she was more like her sister than she'd realized. Maybe she wouldn't have been so accepting of her parents' rules if not for the accident that had changed their lives. Maybe her teenage years would have blossomed into the same rebellious, independent streak her sister had been forced to rein in.

  Finally, just before dawn, she climbed out of bed and slid into a pair of jeans. Pulling a faded, peach-colored T-shirt over her head, she then donned the oversized sweatshirt of the previous day and bent over to brush her hair into a ponytail. When she straightened again, she secured it on top of her head and stared at herself in the mirror. It was time. This was it.

  Squaring her shoulders, she moved quietly through the house, opening the front door until it stood ajar. Then she made the first of several trips to her old Toyota, carrying an array of plastic Wal-Mart bags slung along both arms. She shivered, though the morning air wasn't too cold, and began filling the car.

  It took surprisingly little time to load the trunk. Both boxes fitted neatly side by side and she surrounded them with bags. When the back seat was filled as well, she went back for her jewelry box, a few art supplies, and, of course, the photos from RUSH.

  Reaching between the mattresses, she pulled the file folder out and slid it between the pages of her drawing pad. There was so much more she wanted to take. Years of memorabilia was stored beneath her bed and boxed up in her closet. She didn't know how much she should bring though, never having moved before and facing the unknown quality that was RUSH. She supposed she could come back for the rest at a future date. Just not today. Her parents were going to be angry and hurt and it would take time for that to ease.

  Walking back down the hallway to her bedroom, she was struck by an odd sentimentality. She noticed, for the numberless time, a section of carpet that had separated at the seam just a few feet from her bedroom doorway. This was the house she'd grown up in. It was an old ranch-style house in an old neighborhood of tired houses and it needed repairs. The interior was shabby, every wall wanted fresh paint, and the furniture had passed its comfortable look years ago. Still, she sat down on her bed and looked around. The outdated two-toned carpet, the faded curtains and matching comforter were suddenly symbols of familiarity, of warmth and security.

  Stop, she told herself. She wasn't leaving the state. She wasn't even leaving the area. RUSH was fewer than thirty minutes away and if she didn't move out now, she'd spend another twenty-two years living at home, helping her parents pay their bills. Lydia was right. It was time to pay her own bills. And she certainly had them now. She owed RUSH thousands upon thousands of dollars.

  Sighing, she wondered when the weight of her breasts would start to feel normal instead of unusual. Sliding both hands up, she lifted them as she had so many times, always enchanted by the reality of them. She loved their heavy, womanly fullness. Every time she turned or reached or leaned, her inner arms brushed or pressed against the new fullness there, reminding her almost constantly of the physical nature of her body. They made her feel feminine and pretty. Some people—probably a lot of people—would call her shallow for placing that kind of importance on the way her body looked. But she'd been nearly flat as a board before. Of course she valued her intelligence, her education, and the career she'd chosen. But now she felt . . . well, complete.

  Lowering her hands, she smiled a small, grimacing smile. At least she wouldn't have to hide them anymore. And starting next week she'd be taking care of herself and her body in a way she could never have afforded without joining RUSH. Already a diet plan had been prescribed based on her weight and blood type. Vitamins and supplements had been chosen specific to her body's needs.

  She'd been assigned an advisor—someone who would work with her on mapping out a personal schedule, track her monthly lab results, and keep her on course. There were a few required classes she was expected to attend along with an exercise program and a series of training sessions. Regular psych reviews were mandatory for R-links, as were strict daily appointments at a spa inside the R-link complex.

  She'd never been to a spa before, but she'd been told her body would be wrapped—whatever that meant—exfoliated and waxed, moisturized, plucked, bathed, oiled, massaged, and exquisitely pampered. Her nails—fingers and toes—would be shaped, filed, moisturized, and polished and not a single callous would develop anywhere on her body. Her hair would be professionally maintained, and even her pubic region would be conditioned, shaped, and trimmed to a specific length and style. Medical Services would keep track of and administer her monthly birth control shots, and before each encounter, she'd be bathed, massaged, and prepped. Compulsory etiquette classes would teach her a full range of social skills and she'd be able to conduct herself in any situation, among any class of people. She'd be fitted with the most feminine clothing she'd ever seen in her life, taught how to carry herself properly, and how to model some very brief, very exquisite pieces of lingerie. She'd learn how to take care of herself, to respect her body, and she'd acquire a wide range of extremely intimate, very womanly skills to please a man.

  She rubbed both arms to chase off a chill. There had never been anyone special in her life. She'd dated a few times, but guilt kept her from forming emotional ties. She'd tried. But she found herself unable to enter into a lasting relationship while Lydia was stuck in a wheelchair, celibate. Maybe it would have been different if she herself hadn't been the one to put her sister in the wheelchair, but she was.

  So sexually, she was in the dark. At twenty-two years old. She'd been kissed, of course, but there hadn't been any real passion in those kisses, no spark of lust or yearning. Had that been guilt? Or was she one of those women who had a low libido?

  She was afraid she wouldn't like sex. Heck, she was afraid of everything right now. But anything new and daring was scary until you'd done it, and she'd been absolutely honest when filling out RUSH's incredibly long, incredibly personal application. Their linking system wouldn't pair her with someone who was into kink. R-links, she'd been assured, were paired with compatible individuals in the same way as color links.

  She heard someone moving down the hall and a few seconds later, the soft clang of her mother's warped griddle. Her father would wake up with the smell of breakfast cooking, so this was it.

  Reaching across the bed for her purse, she stood, took a last heart-twisting gaze around her bedroom, then started down the hallway.

  "You're up early," her mother noted, reaching for the salt, then the pepper, and sprinkling both onto the eggs she was frying.

  "I know."

  Her mother gave her a curious glance, rolled up one faded pink sleeve of her robe, and turned back to the stove. "You look like there's something on your mind."

  "There is." Most definitely.

  "Well?"

  "I'm waiting for Dad so I only have to go through it once."

  This time her mother turned around all the way, eyes narrowing as if to discern the mystery topic. "He was awake before I got up so you won't have to wait long. Do you want some eggs?"

  "No, thanks. I'm not hungry."

  Her father emerged from the hallway, a thin white T-shirt tucked into a pair of flannel pajama pants. "Morning," he said, reaching for the jar of instant coffee as he turned on the hot water tap.

  "Nina has something to say to us."

  "About what?"

  "I don't know. She was waiting for you."

  He adjusted the flow of water and held his cup under the spigot. "Well, if it's bad news, can it wait until I drink my coffee?" He quirked a brow toward Nina.

  "Sure, Dad. Go ahead."

  He scowled then because she'd as good as told him that what she had to say wasn't going to be pleasant.

  "Great," he muttered.

  She sat at the table with them while they ate and, twenty minutes later, coffee drained and breakfast finished, her father leaned back in his chair and said, "Okay, let's have it."

  Nina clenched her fingers together in her lap. She glanced from him to her mother, the
n back again. "I'm moving out."

  Her father blinked a couple of times, then resignation entered his eyes. "When?"

  "You can't move out," her mother interrupted.

  Nina refocused on her mother. "Mom, I'm twenty-two years old. It's time."

  "What does that mean—it's time?"

  "It means I want my own home. I want to—"

  "You can't afford your own home. Do you know how much it costs to run a household?"

  Nina pressed a hand over her stomach. "Yes, I think I do."

  "No, you don't. And what about us? Have you thought about that?"

  "Marion—" her father broke in.

  But her mother was caught up in a very real worry. "We can't get by without your paycheck," she interrupted, her tone bordering on anger.

  "That's the point, Mom. Are you still going to need my paycheck when I'm thirty years old? And when I'm forty?"

  "That's not the point."

  "Yes, it is! What would you do if I was getting married?"

  "You're not getting married. You don't even date."

  Nina bit back a sob. "Look at me, Mom." She pulled at the bulky front of her sweatshirt. "I buy my clothes at the Salvation Army store. Men don't look at me and I don't blame them."

  "You look fine."

  "Fine?"

  "And what about Lydia? What about her medical bills?"

  That was the cut that went deep. It was the same issue she and Lydia had argued over so often. "Mom, I've been helping to pay Lydia's medical bills since I turned sixteen."

  "And the bills are still there. They aren't going to disappear just because you want to move out. Lydia isn't going to get out of her wheelchair and start walking because you want a home of your own."

  Nina knew it was fear that drove her mother on, but the words still hurt.

  "Marion," her father cut in, his tone firm this time.

  "Then say something! Make her listen!"

  Her father looked at her and said, "Do you already have a place picked out?"

  "Robert!"

  "Yes."

  "Where?"

  Nina was going to throw up. She tried to swallow, but it got caught in her throat. She took a shallow breath, then another. "I've joined RUSH, Incorporated," she murmured. "I'm moving into one of their apartments."

  Silence.

  Not even the refrigerator hummed in the background.

  Her mother's lips parted in shock. Her father stared. Then his jaw clamped and dark angry color swept up his face. A moment later he shoved to his feet, overturning his chair, and before she could guess what he was about, he drew back a hand and his palm struck her face with a snap so hard, her own chair tipped back and her head smacked the wall behind her.

  Crying out, grappling for balance, tears sprang from her eyes and poured down her cheeks.

  Her mother gasped as Nina grabbed the edge of the table, pushed an elbow against the wall behind her, and righted her chair. Vaguely, she was aware of her father leaving the room. The force of his slap burned her cheek and left the side of her head throbbing. It had been years since her father had hit her, not since she was a child, and never in the face.

  "Nina."

  She looked at her mother through blurry eyes.

  "You don't realize what you're doing."

  Nina didn't answer. Couldn't answer. She could hardly get a full breath of air.

  "They beat those women over there. They tie them up and men take turns on them."

  Nina buried her face in her hands, crying and shaking and wishing she could just drop out of existence.

  "Sweetheart, don't do this," her mother begged. "Don't do this."

  When was the last time her mother had called her sweetheart? When was the last time any of them had been able to shake off the weighty burden they carried and enjoy being together as a family?

  On a sob Nina pushed out of her chair and rushed around the table. Her mother opened her arms and Nina slipped right in, soaking up all the maternal emotion in that comforting, protective embrace. All of her plans to leave vanished. She was needed here and that outweighed Lydia's resentment. It wouldn't be forever. She could apply for a grant, take some night courses and work toward a bachelor's degree so she could bring in a better income.

  Suddenly, inexplicably, the arms encircling her went stiff. From one moment to the next, the loving tenderness that enveloped her became rigid and cold.

  "What have you done to your breasts?" her mother demanded.

  A chill feathered down her spine.

  Her mother pulled back and dropped her eyes. They widened with disbelief, as though she didn't expect to find what she saw. "When did you do that?" she wanted to know. But she continued without pause. "You had it done at that place, didn't you?" She gave Nina's shoulders a shake. "Didn't you!"

  Nina didn't even think about lying. "Yes."

  "How long have you been going there?"

  "Six months," she managed to say, completely unprepared for the conclusion her mother drew as her eyes widened yet again, horrified.

  The hands on her shoulders shoved her away. "Get out," her mother ordered, taking a step back as though Nina might spread a contagious disease.

  "Mom—"

  "Get out of this house!"

  "Mom!"

  "Now! Get out!"

  Nina backed away, tears streaming down her face, caught up in someone else's nightmare. She made it to the sofa and fumbled for her purse. When she stumbled outside through a haze of tears she heard the lock turn in the door and was too overwhelmed to do anything more than breathe.

  So fast.

  It had happened so fast.

  Just a few minutes before she'd been sitting at the table, watching her father eat the breakfast her mother cooked. Now she stood outside the locked front door, her face throbbing, and her mother's hateful tone echoing in her mind.

  In an odd, disjointed reality, it occurred to her that she would have had nothing but the clothes she was wearing if she hadn't already packed her car. She had a house key, but she wouldn't be allowed back inside. Not now. Maybe not for a very long time.

  Climbing into her car, she drove halfway down the street before steering the Toyota toward the side of the road and turning off the engine. Unable to stop the flow of tears, she grabbed her purse and dug around for the balled-up strip of bathroom tissue she kept stuffed in one of the pockets. She'd expected hurt feelings and anger, but she hadn't expected rage. And she certainly hadn't expected to be thrown out like a bag of unwanted trash.

  An altogether new emotion pushed its way to the forefront of her mind. An emotion she hadn't anticipated at all. Panic.

  She was alone. Completely alone. She had no one to fall back on if things went wrong at RUSH, nowhere to go if her daydreams turned into a fantasy gone bad. Her future—the only place she could call home—consisted of twelve hundred square feet owned by a group of men at a sex club.

  She'd made the most horrific mistake of her life.

  CHAPTER 6

  In the shadow of swaying palms, amid sculpted shrubbery, and lush tropical plants, a ten-foot-high stucco wall surrounded the entire perimeter of RUSH, Inc. The top of the wall was crowned by a brief overhanging ledge and on each evenly-spaced support column, large and graceful white globes absorbed energy from the sun during the day, then emitted a soft glow of light after dark. Each globe provided sufficient light for the multitude of cameras that generated a digital recording of the individual arcs they surveyed. In turn, a group of security personnel manned the numerous monitors lining the walls in the hub of Security Central.

  Nina knew about the cameras. She knew they were just about everywhere, so she knew there were few places at RUSH where complete privacy was guaranteed. She knew, as well, that the microchip she was about to have implanted in her wrist would allow RUSH's security people to pinpoint her exact location at any given time. From the moment she drove through the gates, all manner of personal information would be collected through the chip, recorded, and
made available to a select but disquieting number of people.

  Initially that lack of privacy had given her pause. Big Brother wasn't anything new. There were cameras mounted all over the city—in stores, at the bank . . . . She hardly dared drive through a caution light anymore without wondering if she was setting herself up for a traffic ticket. But this was a heck of a lot more invasive than worrying about points on her driver's license. This was her body. Nudity. And during her training sessions, sex.

  Actual encounters, she'd been assured, were not subject to observation. Encounters were conducted in the privacy of a staged room at the Carnelian Jade, or in one of the many secluded alcoves scattered throughout the property. In that respect at least, guarding the privacy of its clients was one of RUSH's top priorities.

  But those training sessions were another matter. While not open to the general population, training sessions could be observed by an assortment of people. Medical personnel had automatic clearance, as did the upper tier of security, the board of directors, other instructors, and pretty much anyone who had a legitimate reason for wanting to watch and obtained permission to do so. Which seemed like an awfully wide audience so far as Nina was concerned.

  Her unease was natural, she knew. She also knew it was compounded by her innocence and sheltered upbringing. Her inhibitions. The first time she'd ever undressed for anyone other than a doctor had been during preparation for that photo shoot. She'd gone to RUSH feeling high-strung and ready to run. But the experience hadn't been the mortifying exhibition she'd expected. Undoubtedly, all those visits to RUSH's medical center had inadvertently eased the way. How many times had she bared her breasts for countless injections, watched while she was measured over and over again until she finally reached the cup size required for R-link membership? By the time she'd stepped in front of the camera, she'd already spent a couple of hours being bathed and groomed so that when she walked onto the set to pose for the photographer, her body had been in contact with numerous unfamiliar hands. Cupping her own breasts and parting her thighs had been a relatively minor exercise. She'd simply responded to the instructions of yet another professional. And maybe her inhibitions had taken a back seat for just a little while because, for the first time in her life, she was darned proud of her body and the way she looked.