(Authors Note: This is inspired by an unusually long and detailed dream I had, that I had unfortunately woken up too early from. It reads best if you start at the first chapter even though it starts slow. But to stay true to the story line and the characters I felt it best to wait for the action instead of rushing things. It's worth the wait, and unlike my subconscious, I won't keep you hanging for long.)
CHAPTER 1
INTRODUCTION, A REASON TO BE PARANOID
"How many?" She asked.
"Two. I have an appointment with the Manager." He said. She smiled to herself.
"Very well, follow me please." She seated him in an area of the restaurant where they could have some privacy when she had a chance to join him. "She'll be with you in a moment." She pondered his look of surprise when she would later return. Most people didn't know her, or if they did there was always speculation about her and her boss. Anytime she happened to be recognized for her efforts by the media, it inevitably turned to gossip. As if that held any importance. She found it funny that they would twist facts to become fiction, truth to seem like secrets. If they ever founds hers she wouldn't survive the fall out.
The fear was always there, eating at her, driving her paranoia. First it would unravel on magazines, a freak of nature, less than human, a mutant. No one would believe it, but once the seed was planted, truth would sprout and she would never be free again, hunted down for her unnatural gifts. So she never used them, hid them, hid herself, hid her family. She planned everything she did, had escape routes for everywhere she went, it involved every aspect of her life, including what was left of her family.
She was grateful her boss understood. He was the only one who knew the truth, and he was the one the public saw as a monster. She almost smiled. Miquel was an exacting man. He was a business shark, but he was also resourceful, and considered valuable employees a treasured resource. He valued and cared for such treasured resources, but the public never saw the good in him. In the business circuit he was feared and speculated on. Being the manager of the Algonquin, his most famous restaurant put her in the public eye, and in the midst of speculation as well. But she never cared because no matter what they would say it would never be close to the truth. A secret that only Miquel knew, and only by accident. She literally trusted him with her life, and was thankful he never held it over her.
"Your dinner sir, I apologize for the wait." She put his plate down then sat across from the handsome stranger, smoothing the long skirt of her silk oriental style dress as she sat down. She had been born in Russia, immigrating to the United States with her parents when their work was bought by the government. She was taller than most women even without heels. She kept her honey blonde hair artfully coiffed in a half up-do of curls that framed her pale face and lovely caramel colored eyes. Her grace and confidence showed in every movement, every turn of her head, every subtle, sexy, swing of her hips. She had always been every inch a lady, a head-turner, if not a heart stopper. It wasn't that she was model beautiful, but she carried herself with a certain poise that coupled with her looks made people take notice. She was always warm, congenial. The restaurant was her home and these were her guests. But the few that pressed for more were met with polite but icy rejection.
"I would have ordered you something but I expect you know better than I do what you would like." He said politely. She merely waited, noting his lack of surprise at her identity as manager and not hostess. But nowadays most locals knew who she was to some capacity. "I'm Kyle Sutherland." He introduced himself, smiling warmly revealing a dimple tucked in the corner of his tanned face and the soft glow of pale green eyes. He was the epitome of tall dark and handsome, comfortable with his large lean frame in a crisp charcoal suit with a plain back tie. While he looked polished something about him was rugged, from his short naturally spiked and curly hair to the broad shoulders that filled out the suit. She was sure there wasn't much but muscle under the suit but she still didn't quite trust his smile.
"Ioana Musca. How can I help you." She jumped straight to the point, skipping niceties with a polite tone.
"I have a strange offer for you. We desperately need your help."
"All charities are screened by legal first-" She started but he shook his head.
"No, your help."
"Me? Why?"
"We've discovered you have an innate ability to blend in with your surroundings at will."
"Who is we?" Her voice got colder as her face got paler but her gaze reflected no weakness, sharpening to sparkling steel.
He chewed slowly, "I work for the NSA, now we don't-" He started in a reassuring tone but she already moved to get up. His hand gently covered hers, halting her retreat. "Just a moment."
"There's only one reason why the NSA would be interested in me. And that's the reason I have no interest in dealing with them." She said politely. "I would suggest a dessert, but under the conditions I would feel more comfortable if your skipped it. Have a good evening sir, consider your meal on the house." She said coldly and pulled her hand away. She walked straight to her office and sat down for a moment, shuffling papers around, mindlessly neatening up. Somehow they knew. How long had they known her secret, and what lengths would they go through to exploit it? On impulse she called Miquel. He was busy but she got his answering machine.
"Miquel, the government knows. I'm not sure how much or how they know, but I knew this day would come. I need your advice, your reassurance that you're not somehow involved in this. Please call me back." She hung up, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. She couldn't run away. She had to get through the night. Just because she was different they couldn't force her hand. She hadn't done anything wrong. She always paid or contested any tickets she received, she paid her taxes, donated to charities.
Her thoughts went to her two aunts, both with Alzheimer's. Neither would remember her as even in the same hospice they periodically didn't remember each other. But they were her responsibility. Even Miquel didn't know about them. They were probably safe. She had taken every precaution to alienate herself from their lives and care while making sure they were well cared for. She had always been so paranoid about that, down to every last detail hoping she would never have a reason to be so paranoid. She took a deep breath, steadying herself. With one final check in the mirror she stept out of her office and back onto the floor. The show must go on.
-
Once everything was closed and locked up, and everyone had gone home she sat in a vacant booth and called Miquel back. She hadn't wanted to talk to him when others were around.
"Are you alright? What's happened?" Was his first response. No emotion. Just facts.
"I was approached by an agent for the NSA for assistance. He said his name, that we works for the NSA and that they know."
"What did he want?"
"I didn't let him tell me, he just said they needed my help. I told him I'd cover his dinner but not to stay for dessert. They know! Oh Miquel!" She wrung her hands.
"I swear to you I never breathed a word to anyone, not even my own mother. Never wrote it down anywhere, nothing." He said. He could feel the relieved sigh that rippled through her.
"I just don't know what to do."
"Don't do anything you're not comfortable with. Because you'll have to live with the consequences. You have nothing to lose, they can't make you do anything, they can't hurt you. You're a citizen, they can't deport you. You want to be left alone, that's what they'll have to do. You know I'll vouch for you in a heart beat."
"Everybody can be hurt Miquel, even you." She said softly. He laughed dryly but she was calm at this point. He didn't know about her family.
"It's the NSA, whatever they want to do is not going to be up your alley. Don't get me wrong, you're brilliant and dedicated and athletic, but they don't need you to be an analyst, or to write reports, or fix a hard drive, or a stove that's on the fritz, and you're not a spy. You're a civilian. What they think they'll find in you isn't like you. I'm not saying you're not capable of defending yourself if you had to."
"I know."
"They can't turn you into a scientific experiment either. Not just physically can't, but legally."
"Miquel-" She warned.
"I'm sorry, I'm just trying to let you know they do have limits."
