The Blue Link

by Carol Caiton

  Eventually the puffiness around her eyes began to recede. She kept at it, though, until her eyes appeared almost normal. Her cheeks were rosy, but it was a healthier, fresher color than before. Even the swollen side of her face wasn't as noticeable. At least that's what she wanted to believe.

  Turning off the tap, she blotted away the dampness with a few paper towels, then checked the mirror again. Better. But the front of her sweatshirt was soaked so she pulled it over her head and took it off. Fortunately, the pullover beneath remained dry.

  Setting the sweatshirt down on the countertop, she walked over to the circular alcove and stood in its center. Turning her head one way, then the other, she was able to see herself from every angle. Her jeans looked as well worn as they were, but they fitted nicely over her hips and thighs. The peach-colored top was stretched across her breasts and was actually too small, but today it would have to do.

  She pulled her shoulders back as she'd been taught and the difference in her posture was the difference between a mousy slouch and healthy confidence. It was somewhat surprising. She took a last look then walked back to the sink. She slid her sunglasses inside her purse, folded the sweatshirt over her arm, and walked out.

  Approaching Checkpoint 2, she reminded herself to think positively and lifted her chin. On the other side of the automatic doors stood a tall, dark-haired man dressed in black slacks and a gray T-shirt. He lifted his left hand with an impatient twist and glanced down at his watch. Probably waiting for someone, she thought. And sure enough, his head jerked up as she neared the entrance.

  When the doors slid open those eyes stared directly into hers. She blinked, startled, and shifted her gaze away. That's what people did when their eyes accidently clashed, if only out of courtesy. Apparently, however, he felt no obligation to show her the same courtesy. Instead, his eyes locked on her as though she was the person he'd been waiting for and she hesitated, remembering that someone was supposed to meet her here. Then she discarded that thought. Whoever met her would be dressed in a security uniform.

  She stepped to the side, intending to walk around him, but he moved as well, deliberately blocking her path and she was forced to stop or walk into him. Confused and a little wary, she met his eyes again then took an instinctive step back.

  He was quite tall and a little intimidating. He had too much presence. Too much confidence.

  He, in turn, took his time looking her over. His eyes traveled up to the lopsided ponytail she hadn't thought to straighten, then moved back down, narrowing to thoughtful slits when they settled on the swollen side of her face.

  She felt herself grow warm. Then she angled her chin defensively. Who was this guy?

  But he wasn't finished. His gaze skimmed down her body to her second-hand jeans and beat-up sneakers before drifting back up to linger on her breasts and the tight fit of her stretchy top.

  Heat flaming now in her cheeks, she had no idea how to respond. No one had ever scrutinized her so blatantly. Should she lift the sweatshirt to cover herself? Or should she try to act sophisticated, as though a full-on sexual assessment was something she experienced every day? She felt young and gauche and flustered and confused.

  "Excuse me," she finally choked out.

  Tearing her gaze from his, she jerked away and stepped to the side.

  "Nina."

  Her eyes shot back to his and she froze. He knew who she was.

  "I apologize," he said. "That was completely inappropriate."

  Still a little off balance, she gave a small nod.

  * * *

  Simon found it difficult to keep his eyes on hers. He wanted to study her, wanted to figure out what it was that set her apart from other women. Her clothes—jeans, old sneakers, a pullover top—were casual and suitable for packing boxes and moving. Millions of young women dressed exactly that way every day.

  But he'd spent a number of hours staring at her near-naked, professionally groomed image. Her makeup, for example—or lack of it, rather. Women of his acquaintance wouldn't consider appearing in public sans makeup. Yet this young woman wore her natural God-given skin with apparent ease. And her hair . . . . Haphazardly off center, it was as though she hadn't taken the time to look in a mirror and get it right. For all he knew, maybe she hadn't. And that should annoy him. It should provoke his perfectionist tendencies. It did provoke something, otherwise he wouldn't be standing here trying to figure out why it appealed to him when it shouldn't. Which pricked his curiosity all the more.

  But he had pricked something in her as well when he focused on her swollen cheek. She'd lifted that proud little chin in the air, practically daring him to say something about it.

  Well he planned to say a great deal about it. He wanted to know who hit her. He wanted to know why. And then he'd make sure the bastard understood exactly what a blow to the face felt like.

  Something peculiar shifted inside him. He recognized it, felt the transition. Then he gave himself a moment to adjust from the casual enjoyment of an amber match to this unusual exercise in proprietary rights. Nina Millering didn't know him from Adam and he already had one foot aimed toward the altar.

  "My name is Simon Yetzer," he told her. "I'll walk with you to Medical Services."

  * * *

  Nina didn't want him to walk with her to Medical Services but she'd been told someone would be waiting for her. It was her mistake in assuming it would be a guard.

  Without much choice, she extended her hand. At least he'd had the courtesy to apologize. "Hello, Mr. Yetzer. I'm Nina Millering."

  "Simon. Just Simon."

  He reached for her hand, but something about the way his fingers closed around hers made the gesture seem like more than an introduction. She pulled her hand away and took a step back. He really was a little overpowering.

  "I think a security guard is supposed to accompany me," she said, hoping he'd accept that she was happy with the usual arrangement and leave.

  "A guard will be with us."

  She looked up at him, confused. "Then I don't understand."

  "I know. I'll explain on the way."

  His response only added to her unease. Something must be wrong. Whenever she'd visited RUSH in the past, a security guard had been assigned to her, no one else. Still, if this Simon Yetzer had shown up to tell her she couldn't move into the R-link complex, that a mistake had been made and her application had been rejected, then he wouldn't be walking with her to have a microchip implanted in her wrist.

  She gestured toward the front desk. "I'd better go check in."

  Turning away, she prepared again to walk around him, but he stepped aside this time and she walked with renewed purpose toward the uniformed guard.

  "Good morning," she said, stopping in front of the long, bar-height counter. "I'm Nina Millering. I'm here to have a security chip implanted at Medical Services this morning."

  She tried not to notice when Simon made a place for himself beside her. Leaning slightly forward to block him out of her peripheral vision, she looked for the name tag on the guard's white tailored shirt.

  P. Kerber.

  She didn't recognize him, but other than that first day, she'd never been here this early before.

  "Good morning, Miss Millering," he greeted in return. His eyes slid to the swollen side of her face, then tactfully away. "Morning, Simon."

  "Peter."

  "Spell your last name, Miss Millering."

  She did and he began typing on a keyboard behind the counter. He looked up with a smile. "You're our new R-link."

  "Yes."

  "Let us know when you're ready to move into the complex. We'll show you how to access the tunnels and do the work for you if you'd like."

  "Thank you." She returned his smile. He was quite a few years older than she, probably in his late thirties. But he was a handsome man with wavy, light brown hair and friendly eyes."

  It occurred to her that she might well end up in bed with him some day, and the reality of that, the shock of it, set her
heart pounding in her chest.

  This was happening. It was really happening.

  She stared at P. Kerber, tapping away at his keyboard, and tried to imagine running her fingers through his hair. He was a stranger. She'd never seen him before this very morning. Oddly, although her heart continued skipping along, the idea of touching him didn't repulse her. Shouldn't she be recoiling in horror?

  Tilting her head, she studied him further. Mentally, experimentally, she ran imaginary hands up his chest and was surprised to feel a mild stir of curiosity. Now wasn't that a most unexpected revelation?

  He cleared his throat.

  She jerked her eyes to his . . . and froze.

  Oh, God.

  God!

  A knowing smile curved his mouth and she squeezed her eyes shut, then forced them open again. "I beg your pardon," she murmured, mortified.

  "Not a problem," he said, and his own eyes mirrored the interest she'd shown.

  The man beside her straightened to his full height. She'd forgotten he was there. Then P. Kerber shifted his gaze to Simon and his smile vanished.

  Confused, Nina turned and looked up to find Simon Yetzer glaring down at her, his mouth a grim line. He'd witnessed that entire exchange. Was she in trouble already? Would he report her for flirting?

  P. Kerber now wore a coolly professional mask. "I've notified Medical Services of your arrival." His tone was polite and impersonal. "Follow me, please."

  She did so, walking parallel to the length of the counter. At the far end, she slid up onto a cushiony barstool and reached inside her purse for her driver's license. She knew the routine.

  "Do you remember your wrist measurement?"

  "Yes. Five and a half."

  He produced a narrow band wrapped in cellophane that resembled a cuff bracelet and handed it to her. It was a snug fit, though the two ends didn't meet. She stretched out her arm, palm up, and rested it on the counter.

  On a stainless steel plate mounted to the wall the guard keyed in a numbered combination and a metallic sensor slid into the scooped slot below. It, too, was wrapped in cellophane and he tore the wrapper, revealing a circular disk the size of a quarter but three times the thickness. He slid each end of the cuff bracelet into a slot on either side of the sensor until she heard dual clicks. Then he swiped her driver's license and the information it held appeared on the wall monitor behind him.

  The flat side of the disk pressed firmly yet not uncomfortably against her inner wrist and, without needing to be told, she turned her hand and pressed her palm to the biometric scanner imbedded into the countertop. Immediately an image of her palmprint appeared beside her driver's license information on the monitor. Next, she fitted the sensor into a circular depression, and the UPC code on the disk was matched to her identification.

  "Just the lab work now," P. Kerber said.

  Ever at her side, Simon Yetzer watched as she slid off the barstool. "I'll wait for you here," he told her.

  She nodded, avoiding his eyes, and walked across the lobby to the small clinic. The sign on the closed door read, simply, LAB, and she pressed her hand to another scanner, listening for the click that would allow her admittance.

  "Another guard will be waiting to escort you when you're done," P. Kerber said. "Have a nice day, Miss Millering, and let us know if you want help moving in."

  Nina smiled, but it was difficult to meet his gaze, as well. "Thank you."

  Inside the lab she gave the required drop of blood, scanned her palm again, and waited for her pathology to be added to the information in the computer. Why had the thought of intimacy with Peter Kerber stirred her to curiosity rather than fear? Was her fear ungrounded? Apparently thirty-one other R-links had no problem engaging in sex with men unknown to them. Maybe she need only study a man and look for qualities about him that stirred her curiosity or appealed to her.

  In all of two minutes she found herself back out in the checkpoint lobby.

  "All set, Miss Millering?"

  The new guard's name was A. Lotz and she was tempted to look him over in order to try out her theory. But embarrassment won out and she set the thought aside.

  "Yes, I'm ready," she said, sliding the strap of her purse onto her shoulder. Then her eyes collided with a pair of dark, observant ones across the lobby.

  "Do you know Simon Yetzer?" she asked A. Lotz.

  "Simon? Yes. But don't worry, you won't even know I'm there."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "I'll be within visual range, that's all."

  Then Simon was striding across the lobby, his dark gaze focused, mouth unsmiling. She had a feeling she'd done something wrong again, but she didn't know what it was.

  "Ready?" he asked.

  "Yes." The sooner they were on their way, the sooner he'd tell her whatever he had to say then leave her alone. She didn't like the way he made her feel young and naïve. She was neither young nor naïve.

  He gestured toward the exit and they passed through a corridor where sensors in the walls detected the presence of cell phones and any other devices prohibited beyond the checkpoint. Nina didn't own a cell phone so she didn't have to worry about that.

  She recognized the guard at the other end of the corridor and started to smile and tell him good morning, but a firm hand slid around her elbow and hurried her through the exit before she could utter a word.

  Simon withdrew his hand as soon as they stepped outside and she whirled on him. But before she could ask what his problem was, he took control.

  "Who hit you?"

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Talk about audacity. She stared up at him. "That was direct."

  "There's nothing indirect about striking a woman."

  "Look, Mr. Yetzer—"

  "Simon."

  "Simon." She released an impatient sigh. "Do you always ask personal questions as soon as you meet someone?"

  "Violence against a woman isn't personal. In the state of Florida it's called battery, and it's a crime."

  She pressed her lips together and stared. The door slid open behind them and a he reached for her elbow again, guiding her to the side of the path when two men emerged.

  "Why do you want to protect him?" he asked.

  Exasperated, she made a face and said, "You're assuming it was a man."

  "You fought with a woman?"

  "I didn't fight with anyone!"

  "Then why did you imply—"

  She planted her hands on her hips. "Look, can we just leave this alone?"

  "No."

  "Why, for heaven's sake?"

  "Because you’re small and you're female. No matter how chauvinistic it sounds, women are the weaker sex and we take that seriously at RUSH. It's part of what you signed up for." He gestured toward her wrist.

  She looked down at the security bracelet. The sensor pressing against the inside of her wrist would track her stress levels. It would send out an alert if she found herself in a highly charged situation.

  Tilting her head to the side, she looked up and gave Simon a half smile. "Touché."

  His lips twitched. "Are we sparring?"

  She was caught off guard by the amusement that warmed his eyes. It softened them, made him look more approachable. Friendlier. They watched her and she realized she was staring at her ponytail.

  Turning away, she started down the path. It took a moment to refocus on his question. Was she sparring with him? "I don't know. Maybe. But I'm still not going to talk about it."

  She stared straight ahead. She didn't want him to think she'd been flirting again, and certainly not with him. Having nowhere else to live, she needed RUSH right now. She couldn't afford to be reported for inappropriate conduct.

  Breathing in the fragrance of a million flowers, she turned at the end of the path. Trickling water spilled over several large boulders then flowed into a brook that ran along one side of the main walkway. The sun had now risen enough to cast shadows and give promise to a warm November day. Simon walked silently beside her an
d she was just beginning to relax when he ruined it.

  "Was it your father who hit you?"

  She stopped in the middle of the path and met him stare for stare. "I'd like you to go away."

  "No. You—"

  "The security guard can escort me the rest of the way."

  "We have things to talk about, Nina."

  "Then talk."

  The jerk actually smiled. But he changed the subject and took her by surprise again. "Why did you join RUSH?"

  "What?"

  "Why did you join RUSH?" he repeated.

  Her reasons for doing anything were none of his business. But something in his expression stopped her from telling him that. He wasn't purposely taunting her. He wasn't needling her for his own amusement. His eyes were genuinely curious.

  So she answered. "Opportunity," she said. "I joined RUSH for the opportunity."

  That was true enough. Then something occurred to her. "Do you work here?"

  "Yes. I'm an analyst."

  "You work with Dr. Zeman?"

  "No. Wrong kind of analyst. I'm a statistician. I look at numbers. Watch for trends."

  A statistician. What did a statistician want with her? "Was there something on my application that affected your numbers?" she asked. "Is that why you want to talk to me?"

  She didn't really expect him to say yes. She knew she hadn't skipped any questions.

  But he hesitated. And that made her reconsider.

  Something about her had caught his attention. Something outside the norm. But she was about as normal as they came. There was nothing special that would stand out. Although financially pressed, she'd grown up in an average, ordinary household. Her life had probably been dull by most standards. After graduating high school she'd worked as a cashier, attending college on a scholarship. Then, degree in hand, she'd applied for a job as bookkeeper at Property Concepts. She'd been hired within the week and had worked at the same desk right up until yesterday. Her sister was her best friend. One of the real estate agents she'd worked with was another good friend. Sometimes all three of them went out on a Saturday night, but they didn't do anything extraordinary. There were no wild parties, nothing excessive, no string of lovers.