by Carol Caiton
Her meals, she learned, were prepared ahead of time, then heated when she was ready to order. Apparently the majority of RUSH's clients wanted to eat outside today because several tables were available inside the restaurant. So she ate a quiet lunch by herself, explored a little more afterward, then spent a good part of the afternoon people-watching. She freshened up before dinner, decided to take the south gate out of the R-link complex, and found herself facing a path that led to the side entrance of the training center.
Following that path, she pressed her palm to the scanner, made her way down a long corridor with closed doors on either side, then emerged into the training center's lobby. Exiting again, she walked around the long structure that was to be RUSH's shopping mall. It was still a bit early, but when she reached the food court again, all the tables had been fitted with white linen tablecloths, each corner secured to a corresponding leg, and tightly bundled silverware, wrapped in red linen napkins, had been positioned at each place setting.
The late afternoon sun was still warm, so she sat outside, some distance from the fountain this time, and a hostess promptly appeared, menu and tablet PC in hand.
Nina's meal plan had been programmed into the system, so she had only to choose what to drink. As she had anticipated, the meal was savory and, considering the small portions, surprisingly filling. She dabbed her mouth with the red napkin and sat back to enjoy an icy glass of chai tea.
Most of the tables were occupied by couples now instead of single men. Polite courtesies were observed, table manners were correct, and quiet conversation resonated softly in the air. For all that RUSH was a sex club, she might have been sitting in an upscale restaurant.
When she went back to her apartment the sun was setting. A chill had set in, so she welcomed the warmth inside. Turning on the table lamps, she walked over to close the drapes, then pulled out a barstool at the breakfast counter. She didn't expect to find any messages in her voice mailbox, but she dialed her access number.
"You have two new messages," an automated voice told her.
Surprised because she hadn't given her phone number to anyone, she followed the instructions and listened.
"Nina—"
It was Simon Yetzer. She nearly dropped the receiver. But nothing more was said and the call was disconnected.
"Next message," the automated voice intoned.
"Nina, this is Simon . . . ."
She tightened her fingers around the receiver.
"Damn it!"
Frozen in place, she stared at the refrigerator. Again, the call was disconnected.
"End of messages," the pleasant voice articulated. "To replay this message, press 3. To erase . . . ."
Nina lifted the phone from her ear and pressed 3.
The anger in his voice shook her. No, it wasn't anger. It was frustration she heard.
She pressed 3 again.
It was a whole lot of frustration. But it didn't seem to be directed at her. At himself maybe? Was he frustrated with himself?
Well, that shouldn't surprise her. He probably frustrated himself every day of the week.
CHAPTER 13
Monday began the week with a whirl of nonstop activity. At seven o'clock Nina would normally have been getting ready for work, but not any longer. Dressed in a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, she swept her hair up in a ponytail, then walked at a brisk pace through the chilly morning air to Magnolias for breakfast. She could have used the tunnels and stayed relatively warm, but she would probably have gotten lost.
Shivering, she hurried through the doors of the restaurant, but when she inquired about her meal, the server looked surprised.
"You're the new R-link."
"Yes."
"Um . . . let me check and see if your breakfast is still here. All the other R-links have it delivered."
The girl turned away before Nina could ask how to have hers delivered as well. But it was only a minute before she returned. "Your name was automatically added to the list," she said. "So your breakfast was sent over with the others. Do you want me to take your name off the list so you can eat here instead?"
"No. Don't do that." She shivered once and rubbed her arms. "I'd rather have it delivered. I just didn't know the routine."
"Sorry for the mix-up. I'm surprised someone didn't tell you."
"Someone probably did." Nina gave a weak smile. "I guess it didn't sink in."
"Information overload? That happened to me, too. But we send breakfast over every morning at seven. Just scan your handprint on the warming unit and the turntable will rotate your meal to the front. Number thirty-two, right?"
"Yes. But where will I find the warming unit?"
"Oh. Sorry. It's next to the elevator on each floor."
"I wondered what that was. Okay. Thanks."
"Anything else I can help you with?"
"Yes. Is it possible to have a large regular coffee sent over with it?"
"Absolutely. I'll make a note of it in the computer. Would you like one now? To go?"
"Yes. Please."
Hurrying back through the cold, she rode the elevator up to her floor and sure enough, the door of the warming unit slid open in answer to her palmprint. Apparently hers was the last meal left inside, but when she slid the tray out, it was still hot.
The rest of the day seemed to follow the same pattern of bumpy progress. After eating she met up with Libby in the corridor. Several other doors opened as they started toward the elevator, and Libby introduced her to the other girls.
The first thing she noticed, other than the fact that all of them wore drawstring gi pants with their T-shirts, was the soft array of feminine fragrances. A hint of floral, maybe some spice, a sweet tang . . . . Delicate and light, these girls smelled fabulous.
They welcomed her into their circle, asking questions as they rode down to the tunnels. On the short trek to the training center, Geneva—the girl with the monkey—openly talked about her training session the Friday before. From what Nina gathered, it sounded as though the dark-haired, exotic-looking girl had expanded her sexual repertoire to include a second partner for a threesome. She'd been inside one of the turrets with someone named Benedict and another man named Dalton. At the mention of Dalton's name, every one of the R-links oohed and ahhed with melting envy. But Nina was stuck on the fact that she'd just met someone who had engaged in sex with two men at the same time.
She tried not to appear as innocent as she was, hoping she merely looked interested in the conversation. But it took a fair amount of effort to shift her mind away from the images in her head.
Tai chi, she decided, was perfect for learning balance. But the low impact ease of movement was visually deceptive. Following the instructor, she found herself using and strengthening muscles that weren't accustomed to being used or strengthened. And what was once her center of balance was no longer accurate. The weight of her breasts had changed that and continually distracted her.
Still, as the class progressed, she began to grasp the dynamics and figure out how to correctly shift and distribute her weight. By the end of the hour, she felt refreshed, alert, and calmly energized. The downside would come later, she knew, when she paid the price for using muscle groups that had gone lax from working at a desk job.
The following three hours at the R-link salon undoubtedly helped. Soaking in a honeysuckle- and rose-petal bath, she listened to the music of delicate wind chimes. Then an all-over body massage loosened up the muscles that had started to kink. Special attention was given to her calves and thighs when she told the masseuse her legs weren't accustomed to the workout they'd had.
But all that luxurious pampering had its downside, as well. Hair wrapped in a towel, a thick pre-warmed terry robe enveloping her lethargic body, she was ushered into Marguerite's private office and introduced to the woman who supervised the therapy program of each R-link.
Somewhat younger than Nina expected, the reigning queen of beauty police—so nicknamed by the other R-links—appeared to be
in her late twenties or early thirties. Elegantly dressed in a gray business suit, auburn hair swept up and away from her face, she got right to the point, starting with Nina's ponytail, and fully embracing the nickname she'd been given.
"You aren't twelve years old," the woman stated, walking around her ornately carved desk. "You've elected to live in an environment that exploits femininity, not sporting events. Beyond the fact that a ponytail damages the roots of your hair, few women can wear one with success. On you it appears casual . . . girlish . . . and R-links are neither casual, nor girlish. They're glamorous. They're seductive. They're bewitching. So no more ponytails. Not even on your free days." Then she narrowed her eyes and gave Nina a quelling look. "Where are your earrings?"
Nina had yet to put them back in. But the omission had been intentional this time. "I didn't know if I should wear earrings to an exercise class."
It was a reasonable explanation, but the other woman disagreed. "If you have pierced ears, you don't go without earrings. Ever. Wear something simple. Posts. Nothing that dangles. But don't leave your apartment without earrings. And what have you done to your face? You have exceptional skin. Had exceptional skin. Your complexion is dry and chafed today."
This time Nina didn't answer. She knew her face was still a little chafed. Crying did that. Especially on-again, off-again bouts that stretched over an entire weekend. But a response from her didn't seem to be required. Marguerite simply continued with her diatribe.
"You're going to be scrutinized every time you leave this complex. An R-link is every man's fantasy and incredible sums of money are being spent to ensure the image you project supports that fantasy."
Her tone was calm, her expression composed, but every word conveyed the message she intended. "You'll spend between two and five hours in this building every morning and when you leave, you'll have been transformed into a temptress. You'll attend specialized classes and learn how to carry yourself with grace and awareness, to entice with a mere glance, to walk with a sensual sway and feel your femininity shimmer from every pore. You'll wear some of the most suggestive and carnal clothing ever designed, flaunting every curve of your body in celebration of womanhood. Which means an R-link doesn't stroll the grounds of RUSH in a pair of running shoes."
One perfectly shaped brow rose meaningfully and Nina knew the other woman had seen and noted her appearance the day she'd moved in.
"Did Ming Ue provide you with a list of beauty products from Olida Laboratories?"
"Yes," Nina answered, suppressing the urge to snap to attention and salute. If this woman spoke to all the R-links as though they were soldiers at a boot camp, it was no wonder Libby had been alarmed at the thought of being late. "It's in my locker," she said. And the list looked more like an instruction manual. She might have thought the vanity in her bathroom would remain largely empty, but she'd been wrong. Four parcels had been shipped to RUSH, neatly packed with a variety of small white boxes. From sunscreen, to shaving gel, to conditioner, face cream, night cream, scented oil, hair spray, body wash, lotions, cosmetics, and two or three dozen other bottles and jars, she'd have trouble remembering what should be used for which purpose and when.
Marguerite nodded. "Each of those products has been specially formulated to work in harmony with your specific body chemistry. You're to use nothing that isn't manufactured by Olida. No store-bought cosmetics of any kind."
"I understand." More than that, she was eager to try them. Even now, the light, scented oil with which she'd been massaged teased her sense of smell with a barely-there fragrance of honeysuckle and, she thought, a tad of cinnamon. Or maybe it was allspice. It tempted her to lift her arm, press her nose to the inside of her elbow, and breathe. Perhaps it appealed to her on such a visceral level because it was meant to complement her own biology. And every one of the concoctions made exclusively for her would carry that same fragrance. No wonder all the R-links smelled fabulous.
"Study the list and attend the Beauty Management classes. You'll learn how to apply the various products and you'll learn how to care for yourself whenever you spend time away from RUSH. It's a six-week course with a refresher class every quarter."
"I don't remember seeing it on my schedule."
"Then I'll touch base with your advisor and see that it's added. Any lingering discomfort from your breast enhancement?"
"No. None."
"Good. Wear only the bras supplied to you by Wardrobe. They're designed with excellent support. But don't forget—full coverage is only for exercise class and those occasions when you go off property. At all other times, the under-breast shelf bra offers the best exposure."
"I'll remember," she said. She didn't understand the mechanics, didn't understand how a bra that only covered the undersides of her breasts could offer the support she now needed. But the one she'd worn during her photo shoot had been extraordinarily comfortable and she looked forward to having that support again.
"All right then," Marguerite concluded. "I'm going to ask your advisor to fit five extra hours of salon time into your schedule this week." She made a note to herself on a flowery pad. "And Nina?" She looked up. "Don't skip breakfast again. A cup of coffee in the morning is no substitute for the healthy meals prescribed for you."
Nina sighed and allowed her shoulders to droop. She couldn't help it. "Is there anything that gets past you?"
Surprisingly, Marguerite smiled. It softened her face and warmed the coolness in her pale green eyes. "I sincerely hope not."
She was plucked and moisturized, had experienced her first facial mask, and she finally learned what a body wrap was. Her feet were softened using a pumice stone, and all of her nails were treated and polished. A stylist shampooed, trimmed, and fashioned her hair into soft, frothy curls that now floated about her shoulders, shiny and vibrant. Her eyebrows were shaped, a touch of blush whispered across her cheekbones, and a light application of mascara and gray shadow somehow made her eyes appear larger and softer. Her skin had been exfoliated, her legs waxed, and her pubic hair conditioned and trimmed to a neat triangle. And however embarrassed she might have been, the girl who administered that particular service had developed her skill so professionally, Nina's discomfort had been minimal.
She looked different, and she felt different. Pampered. And maybe even a little special. She'd been immersed in the sort of lavish luxury few women of her income bracket would ever experience. She'd been meticulously and thoroughly indulged.
When she returned to the dressing room and removed the long terry robe for the last time, her shorts, T-shirt, and serviceable underwear had been removed. In place of her own clothing, a coral colored sweater, so soft it had to be cashmere, hung on a padded hanger. But the weave was so loose and the rounded neckline so deeply scooped, she decided it would take a second sweater beneath it to keep warm.
There was no second sweater, however, not even a little tank top to wear underneath. Instead, several white gift boxes had been placed on the velvet covered bench seat. Inside one, wrapped in soft tissue paper, was a dark, coral colored shelf bra, and just beneath it, a matching lacy thong. The second box held a pair of black, very low-rise cropped jeans, the shortened pant legs folded up in a cuff. Next, obviously a shoe box, contained a pair of raised sandals, the narrow brick-red straps wrapping over the instep, then around the ankle. And the last two boxes, small and hidden behind the others, held a pair of dangling gold earrings and a dainty ankle bracelet.
Lifting the shelf bra from its tissue, she ran her fingers over the silky cups and sighed. Message received.
Once dressed, however, she stared at herself in the mirror, at the size of her breasts supported as they were in the uplifting bra, and at the incredible amount of exposed skin. Her dusky nipples were visible through the weave, the stretchy waistband revealing even more skin around her middle, and the black capri-length skinny jeans rested so low on her hips, she checked the mirror behind her to make sure she was decently covered. She was, though it surprised her.
Sliding into the sandals, she fastened the little straps and stood up. Her freshly polished toenails peeked out from beneath the straps. The dainty chain around her ankle a perfect feminine touch. Gathering herself, she opened the door, stepped out of the dressing room, then stopped short.
Marguerite stood on the other side. Her green eyes swept Nina from top to toe, then back again. She lifted one hand, twirled her index finger in a gesture that ordered Nina to turn in a circle, then slowly nodded. "Yes. Very good." She met Nina's eyes. "Walk over to Magnolias, ask for your lunch, then sit at a table outside."
"Outside?"
"Yes. It's nearly eighty degrees right now and it's Monday so there won't be as many eyes following you as on a weekend. But every man who spots you will stare and you need to begin adjusting to that. I want you to avoid using the tunnels if it's not raining, and apply the sunscreen Olida blended for you. Every day will get easier if you spend time out on the grounds. And don't forget the cameras," she advised. "For the next few weeks everyone will be curious about the new R-link, so have a care. Don't slouch, don't hide away in a dark corner, and don't ever, ever cover your body from the bold stares. Remember—they wouldn't look if you weren't worth looking at. So consider it a compliment." Her gaze swept Nina once more. "The classes you take will help. But if your composure begins to slip, find a restroom and take a few minutes to stand in front of a circular mirror. You're a lovely young woman, and a quiet minute or two in front of a mirror will restore your confidence."
With a nod, she turned and started to leave.
"Marguerite?"
The woman turned back, one beautifully shaped brow arched.
"Thank you," Nina said. The queen of beauty police might rule like a drill sergeant, but her advice would help and there was warmth beneath the veneer. She cared.
Her pale green eyes softened again and she gave a brief nod. "You're welcome."
