by Carol Caiton
Taking all that into consideration, she hoped it wouldn't be long before she lost those inhibitions altogether. The classes she was required to take would prepare her for the training sessions to come, and the training sessions . . . well, between working naked with an instructor on a regular basis and being aware of the semi-revolving door on the observation booth, she was pretty sure she'd glide right through all the embarrassment without incurring too many bumps along the way.
Today, however, wasn't that day. She drove toward RUSH, wiping the tears from her face every few seconds, angry at herself for putting such a high value on her self-image, angry at God for giving her a boyish figure, and angry at RUSH for accepting her application even though she'd never had sex in her entire life. And she was angry at Lydia, too. Lydia was the one who had started this, planned it even, rambling on and on about the membership packages RUSH offered and how on-property housing was provided with the resident link package. Her eyes had sparkled with excitement, along with a mischievous gleam that reminded Nina of the years before her sister lost the use of her legs. And seeing that gleam, that sparkle of excitement, naïve pitiful Nina would have been the last person to discourage it.
So yes, she had listened. Of course she'd listened. Not a soul in the world would blame her for wanting the weight of her guilt to relax and become a little lighter for just a few minutes. And it always lifted when Lydia was happy. So, if her sister wanted to talk about RUSH, Nina listened. If she wanted to go to the library and Google information about the mysterious organization, Nina drove her there. If she wanted to talk about what a creative lover Tommy Eismann had been at the age of seventeen, then Nina was all ears. And when Lydia's eyes went dead every time Nina handed over the lion's share of her paycheck to their parents, then yes, after two years of hearing about RUSH, Nina was willing to listen when Lydia said it was time to leave the nest, time to move out and get a life.
"There's no other way," her sister had lamented. "You know there isn't. And you know you've always had a really good time when I've pushed you to try something new. Take a chance, Nina. At least go check it out."
Well, Nina had taken a chance and look where it got her. She was homeless—RUSH didn't count. And she was without a family—her reckless, daredevil of a sister didn't count either. Approaching sex as a recreational pastime was a concept Lydia might entertain, but Nina should never have embraced it. The thought of being paired with a strange man three days a week was . . . God, she didn't know what it was.
But Lydia wouldn't let it go. Like a perennial weed, it found its way into their conversations, cropping up here, then there. And each time it did, she turned the idea this way and that until the shock value diminished little by little until, after months of talking about it, laughing about it, then eventually wondering what it would be like, the notion began to take on a dangerous sort of fascination.
Then one afternoon, Lydia had exploded in a burst of anger. "Will you stop taking responsibility for the hand of fate! Geez, Nina. You'll be in your forties before my medical bills are paid off. That's as old as Mom!"
Nina had stared. As old as Mom? She'd been too startled to respond.
As old as Mom . . . .
The thought of that grabbed her attention like no other. For all her sensible, clear-headed thinking, it hadn't occurred to her that she might be living at home, plodding along the same guilt-ridden path, ten, fifteen, or even twenty years from now.
"Well, thank God something finally got through!" Lydia bit out. "Now what are you going to do about it?"
Do? For heaven's sake, what could she do?
"It wasn't your fault, Nina. What happened could have happened to anyone. I'm so tired of saying that. Stop looking down at the floor, damn it! You have no idea how demeaning it is to watch you hand over your paycheck every week. I'm a grown woman! Me! Lydia! I don't want my little sister taking care of me anymore. Let me grow up, will you? Just let me grow up!"
Lydia had burst into tears then. "Get out of my bedroom, Nina."
"Lydia—"
"Go away! I wish you'd just go away so I can breathe!"
Staring at her sister, not knowing what else to do, Nina had backed away and stepped into the hall. Standing there for some time, hand on the doorknob, she tried to make sense of the resentment Lydia felt. If anything, she would have thought her sister resented her because of the accident, not because of her contribution to the household. Instead, it was the other way around and it had been chipping away at Lydia's pride, humiliating her for heaven only knew how long.
But there was no alternative for Nina. Lydia might think RUSH was the perfect solution, and if Nina's personality had been patterned after her sister's she'd agree. But she and Lydia balanced one another because Nina brought stability to Lydia's live-in-the-moment need to stir things up. And Lydia provided the assertiveness and spontaneity Nina had to struggle for.
This time, however, Lydia had gotten Nina's attention. Pointing out that life was passing her by, that she'd be living at home throughout her twenties, thirties, and into her forties, had pressed a lot of uncomfortable buttons.
Nina decided she had a lot of thinking to do. And after that, she should sit down and talk with her parents about—
The brass knob jerked out of her hand as the door was swept open from the other side. Across the threshold Lydia glared up at her through tear-filled eyes. "Don't go talking to Mom and Dad about this either!"
"Lyd—"
"If you breathe a word about RUSH to them, they'll be all over you until you swear you'll never go near the place."
Then the door slammed shut.
And once again, Nina stood in the hallway, utterly confused. Lydia couldn't think she would actually join RUSH as a means of moving out. Thinking about it was fun and daring, but it was only a fantasy. When Nina handed over her paycheck, it prevented their parents from having to work overtime or worse, two jobs.
Turning away, she walked the few steps to her own bedroom, went in, and closed the door. Toeing off her shoes, she stretched out on her bed and stared up at the ceiling.
Two hours later, RUSH seemed a little less like a fantasy and more like a possibility. Having talked about it so often during the past two years, she was familiar with its one-of-a-kind linking system that paired people—not just sexually, but psychologically—emotionally.
The idea lingered in the back of her mind all week. On the drive to work she wondered about the cost of a resident link membership and how the women who lived there paid for it if they devoted so much time to fulfilling it. During the ride back home she remembered that a college education was one of the requirements for joining. She wouldn't have to worry about that, but she wondered why any woman with a college education would apply for a resident membership. Wouldn't someone with a degree want to work at her chosen profession?
Nina considered asking Lydia her thoughts on the matter, then decided against it. Lydia would guess what she was thinking and Nina wasn't ready for that. So she wrote her questions down on a sheet of paper, then hid it in her underwear drawer. At night, lying in bed, she'd add to the list, then she'd wonder what it would be like to feel a man's hands glide over her body.
By Friday morning the questions on her list filled the front of the paper and half the back. If she was going to take this any further, she'd need some answers, which meant taking a step she wasn't sure she wanted to take. It would do no good to search online. RUSH's website offered only enough information to intrigue its audience, and surprisingly little could be found elsewhere. She'd have to drive through those huge wrought-iron gates and speak with someone.
On her way to work one morning she turned off the radio and contemplated that. What if someone recognized her car? International Drive—referred to locally as I-Drive—was a major thoroughfare and her old Toyota was hard to miss with its outdated avocado-green paint. Could she lose her job over this? RUSH was a controversial hot spot. General public outrage had taken a back seat to other issues, but RU
SH was in the news practically every other week. But I-Drive was a predominantly tourist strip. What were the odds of someone driving past the entrance to RUSH at the exact same time she did—someone who knew her car? Probably slim.
At five o'clock, however, she lost her nerve. She unlocked her car, got behind the wheel, and drove straight home. Which accomplished nothing.
She added another question to her list that night, then climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling. The following day was Saturday. Most people would take advantage of the weekend to sleep in.
Frowning, she fluffed her pillow and turned onto her side. All she wanted was some information. And if someone did see her car and recognized it, she could always say she and her sister had argued about it and she'd gone to RUSH to check something out for herself. Which wasn't an outright lie.
At eight o'clock the next morning she scooped up her keys and left the house. At eight-twenty she drove past the small group of protesters parading along the outer stucco wall. As she slowed and steered her car into the turn-off lane, several tagboard posters bobbed vigorously while muted shouts were aimed at her car. But no one stepped out to block her way, so she continued on, turning into the entrance.
A short, wide median lined with palm trees, shrubs, and flower beds divided the lanes leading to and from the majestic, twelve-foot-high gates. At its end a small guardhouse stood facing International Drive and a uniformed security officer stepped out carrying a tablet PC in one hand.
Acutely embarrassed, she slipped a pair of sunglasses onto her nose, slowed to a stop beside him, and lowered her window.
"Good morning," he said, offering a welcoming nod. "How can I help you?"
"I was wondering if I could speak with someone about RUSH's membership plans—if it's not too early, I mean."
He smiled. "You're not too early. Member Services is staffed twenty-four/seven. But I'll need to scan your ID before I can let you through."
Reaching for her purse, she sighed. So much for trying to keep her identity a secret.
He looked down at her driver's license, then slid the magnetic strip through a slot on the PC. "Just press your hand onto the screen," he said next, holding the tablet so she could easily reach it.
"My hand?"
"It's a biometric scanner. It matches your handprint to your ID."
"Oh." She did as he instructed and he returned her license.
"Thank you, Miss Millering. When the gate opens, follow the driveway to the parking garage. You'll see signs identifying guest parking and other signs directing the way to Member Services. All set?"
"Yes, I think so."
"All right. Enjoy your visit." He walked back to the guardhouse and a few seconds later one half of the wrought-iron gate glided open.
Enjoy her visit?
Slowly, she drove through. But the moment she was on the other side, it was as though she'd driven into a tropical paradise.
The posted speed limit read 15, and she was too surprised by her surroundings to challenge it. She crept along through a close, beautifully maintained jungle, thick with vegetation and opulent foliage that deadened the sounds of traffic beyond the wall. Both sides of the driveway pulled her gaze this way and that and she slowed to a snail's pace, trying to take it all in. Banana trees—here—and over there—and there—bore huge bunches of fruit that appeared too heavy and cumbersome not to have fallen to the ground. Palm trees waved their graceful fronds overhead, and enormous green philodendron leaves cast a semi-canopy over the shrubs and flower beds. Collectively, it created an ambience of close, quiet seclusion that bathed her in unexpected, lush tranquility.
All too soon she reached the parking garage and had no choice but to proceed into the softly lit interior. As far as concrete parking garages went, it was one of the nicer ones. Huge, lacy ferns overflowed a row of flower boxes that ran along the outer perimeter of each level. Backlit signs mounted on overhead girders directed the way toward Member Services and a place called Checkpoint 1.
Pulling into one of the slots marked for guest parking, she exited the car, turned in a circle to get her bearings, then made her way toward a set of glass doors.
It was during that first visit, probably from the instant she drove through the gates for the first time, that she comprehended how a single decision could change the course of someone's life. She'd made several important decisions over the years—going to college had been an exercise in life choices. But college was a time-honored path toward pursuing a career. The end result hadn't been a dramatic leap into an exotic lifestyle. It hadn't pushed the limits of her small, safe world or challenged her character.
So many factors had influenced the decision she made that morning. What started out as a brief visit to acquire information had turned into an all-day, twelve-hour marathon.
At Checkpoint 1 she had to go through another ID verification process. Then she signed a nondisclosure form that legally bound her from discussing her visit with any person, organization, or agency not affiliated with RUSH, Inc. After that, she'd been escorted into Member Services and introduced to a woman named Cybil Matheson.
Poised, well-dressed, and warmly professional, Ms. Matheson answered all the questions on Nina's list while at the same time painting a picture of RUSH that, by turns, fascinated, astonished, and enthralled her. When she hesitantly mentioned an interest in joining as a resident link, a private tour had been arranged, giving her a firsthand look at RUSH from the inside.
She spent nearly two hours in the company of a security guard, walking the main pathway that wove through a thick private jungle, breathing in the seductive fragrance of millions upon millions of flowers, and catching the sounds of trickling water as it cascaded over rocks in a brook or splashed in one of a multitude of fountains along the way. And with each step, life outside the huge stucco wall slipped further away. She found herself in an enchanted world of unexpected wealth and luxury where the smallest detail had been attended to, a world of secluded privacy where she might explore a side of herself she'd never be able to explore anywhere else.
She paid attention as the guard described one venue after another. She observed the people they encountered—a surprising number of men, couples, and employees for such an early Saturday morning—and noticed a consistent practice of common courtesies that also surprised her. It was surprising, as well, to realize there were no uninhibited sexual acts on display when she had braced herself for just that. Instead, the only form of physical contact she observed was the occasional guiding male hand on a woman's lower back as he maneuvered her through oncoming foot traffic. They could have been browsing the shops downtown on Orange Avenue instead of strolling the sidewalk of a sex club.
She asked about the classes RUSH offered and was permitted to sit in on part of a lecture. She asked about the medical center and spent twenty private minutes with RUSH's gynecologist, receiving answers to the questions that most concerned her. She asked about the spa. She asked about the shopping mall under construction. And when they passed what was pointed out as the R-link complex, she paused, taking a few moments to peer inside the narrow wrought-iron gate.
All of it—the beauty of the jungle, the amenities, the courtesy, the luxury, the ambience, the couples who drifted off the main walkway onto one of the many smaller, private paths before disappearing into the depths of the jungle—fascinated her. She wanted to explore those paths, uncover the mysteries, knowing she'd be intrigued by whatever she found.
Taken together, everything she saw, experienced, and learned tempted her. Leaving behind the strain she'd lived with every day of her life as though walking into heaven itself drew her further into the allure. Had she not, in the back of her mind, been sort of contemplating the idea of joining, that one visit would have caused her to give it serious consideration. As it was, when she returned to Member Services and Cybil Matheson, she no longer needed to weigh the pros and cons. She was enchanted. She was thrilled. That she, dowdy Nina Millering, could live in a place like this
, surrounded at every turn by beauty and luxury . . . it took her breath away. She was ready to take a chance. She was ready to do something daring, something dangerously thrilling, something utterly non-Nina. Because chances were, she'd end up back at her parents' house before long, helping out until she was in her thirties or forties. So she was going to do some living first.
Taking the seat across the desk from Ms. Matheson, however, she learned that an R-link membership wasn't as simple as filling out a form and being accepted. There were requirements to be met and conditions to comply with if her application was accepted. So she braced herself for the disappointment that always came when something sounded too good to be true.
Instead of disappointment, though, her pulse leapt as Cybil Matheson described the beauty regiment, the lifestyle and living arrangements that were required of RUSH's resident links. Rather than off-putting, everything the other woman described lured her further into a lovely web of fantasy. When she learned that one of those conditions involved a substantial breast enhancement, well, another girl might have lost interest. Another girl might have thanked Ms. Matheson for her time and walked away.
But not Nina. Not even close. Instead, she snapped to attention with pure, unapologetic delight . . . just before reality crashed down and swept it away. A breast enhancement, as fiercely as she wanted it, was the one contingency she couldn't comply with. It was the one thing that was too good to be true.