Hollow Pleasure Ch. 03

*** Disclaimer ***

The following installment (in particular) contains themes of hypnosis, mind control, non-consent, public indecency, and elements of incest. You've been warned

This is a work of fiction. All characters depicted are at least 18 years of age. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

***

Hollow Pleasure chapter 03

***

Tenant 2B

***

The song on the radio was one that she never heard before. It sounded vaguely Irish— soulful and dark. The singer was raspy. His voice rolled from the speakers, belting out lyrics about sinners and drinking and doing lines. Between the wind in her hair, and the song pounding with the beat of her heart, she was feeling it after only a couple of blocks.

"This song is fuckin' amazing," she said.

"Reminds you of the Emerald Isle?" Captain Graver asked with an amused smile that made the scar beside his eye disappear.

"Fuck you, sir," she shot back. She ticked the points off on her fingers "'Galloway' is Scottish, not Irish. My grandparents were first gen immigrants, so even my parents don't have accents. And lastly, only my dad was Scottish."

"Right," Captain Graver replied. "Got it. Your mother was what? Italian?"

"Israeli."

"Close enough."

She snorted in derision. "Whatever, you Polish piece of shit."

This earned a laugh from her Captain. Technically he wasn't her Captain yet. She was still in training. And she had known Graver long before he was ever a Captain. They had been buddies. Otherwise, she wouldn't get away with half of the shit that she normally did. Like not wearing a uniform, for example. Sure, she wore the black multi-cam camouflage baseball cap with the insignia of her unit, and the black MOLLE vest with the ammo pouches and utilities, but that's as far as she'd ever go. She would never wear a full uniform ever again. Not after what happened...

"The song reminds me of Church. All the talk of sinners and praying," she said.

"It's about a bar." Graver said immediately.

"What?"

"It's about a bar, moron. Interpret the lyrics, instead of just taking them at face value."

She listened for a moment before making sense of it all. "Well I'll be damned."

"Yes you will," he said, pulling the Jeep to the front of the building and letting her out. Captain Graver eyed the old Victorian on Willow Street and let out a whistle of appreciation. They didn't make them like this anymore. The mansion loomed over the street, tall and proud. "Colonel Mustard in the billiard room with the dagger," he muttered to himself. It looked like a mystery mansion.

"Thanks for the ride," she said, retrieving her equipment from the backseat before hopping out. Her boots hit the pavement as she slung her duffle bag.

"How's the knee?" He asked.

"Hurts like a bitch."

"Next time, get your own fuckin' ride home," Captain Graver smirked. She shot him the finger, making him laugh. "Say hi to Quinn for me, next time you see him."

"Will do, Cap. Thanks."

Then the Jeep was rumbling off.

Her name was Kate Galloway, and she normally rode a motorcycle— a sporty crotch rocket. Unfortunately, a minor setback during training today had hurt her leg badly enough to force leave her motorcycle at the HQ building and bum a ride home. She made a mental note to invest in some knee pads.

She slung her vest over one shoulder and hefted her duffle with the other, starting toward her apartment, breathing in deep the fresh late summer air. Christ it was good to be alive.

Sitting on the front steps of the of the building, reading a book in the sun was a young man of about 18 or 19, with a sweet innocent face and big brown eyes. A mop of shaggy brown hair hung down to his ears. He glanced up at her timidly, then his eyes darted away fast. He seemed to shrink away and cram himself further against the railing (if that was possible). Clearly he was making a considerable effort to avoid being in her way.

Galloway felt a little bad for him. Obviously he wasn't someone with much confidence. He was trying hard to not trip her up.

Her dirty boots thumped over the planks of the front porch. She set her bag down for a second and dug her key from her torn jeans. The kid glanced at her from the corner of his eye timidly. She smiled at him. He immediately returned his gaze to his book.

She unlocked the front door, then paused. She wasn't sure why, but she had the overwhelming urge to reach out. An old friend flashed before her eyes-- a friend from years past who held himself with the same kind of posture— sadness and self-loathing. That was why she found herself blurting out "Hey you."

He looked up, the alarm apparent in his expression. His eyes had grown large. "M-me?" He asked.

"Yeah, you. Is everything alright?"

"Oh, I'm okay," he flashed her a very nervous yet polite smile. His eyes took her in. The woman who was calling out to him was extremely pretty— in her late twenties. Her eyes were ice-blue, lighter than the sky, and her hair was wavy and wild, tied back into a ponytail. She was wearing a black camouflage cap, but her ponytail bobbed out the back. Her hair was naturally dark brown, but it was dyed to a rebellious shade of maroon. The exaggerated color reminded him of raspberry sherbet. Her lips were full and pink, her cheeks apple-like, and her eyes squinted naturally.

He saw a cheesy horror movie called Shout or Scream (or something like that) when he was younger, one that everyone at school was raving about. This woman kind of reminded him of the star-- Neve Campbell. Was that her name? She had that same calm, even manner. She seemed... cool. Although he wasn't sure what to make of her muddy boots and torn jeans. A tear was over the knee, and blood was running freely from her visible skin. She either hadn't noticed it was bleeding, or didn't care. Kinda cool. Her legs looked solid and strong, and her jeans hugged her hips and pleasant curve of her butt.

She was wearing a dark blue shirt with a police-like insignia and the word TRAINEE over the curve of her breast. Not that he would notice such things... but her chest was full and proportional... pleasantly round— what was that? C-cup? Her arms were fit and toned. Her left arm was decorated with a sleeve tattoo— a rose that bloomed on her shoulder, and a thorny stem that wound its way down her bicep to mid forearm. Her vest that she held slung over her shoulder was camouflage and tactical-- like the soldiers in movies and video games. The name GALLOWAY was embroidered on a patch in white letters.

He looked at her only for a second, taking in all of these details before he had to look away self-consciously. She was hot, and whenever someone hot talked to him, he assumed there was some punch-line coming that he didn't foresee-- some put-down that would embarrass and upset him.

She lingered, which only made it worse. He could feel the heat creeping to his face.

"Are you sure?" she pressed.

His face flushed a color of bright red. She was painfully hot. The kind of bombshell that fighter pilots would paint on the noses of their planes.

"Yeah, I'm good," he answered all too quickly, feeling out of breath.

She seemed to give this some thought. Then (to his shock and anxiety) she put down her gear and came over. She sat down on the step beside him.

"What are you reading?" she asked.

"Just a sci-fi book. You wouldn't be interested," half of his brain was excited that someone so pretty was taking an interest in him. The other half was so self-conscious that he was just wishing she'd go away.

"What makes you think that?" She blinked.

He stammered stupidly, trying to think up an answer. She smiled at his discomfort, a bit amused. He couldn't arrive at a good answer without risking offending her. So after a minute of stammering nonsense, he stopped talking.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to bother you," Galloway said. "I just wanted to make sure you were alright out here. You're 2A, right?"

He nodded. "Yeah. You live across the hall? You're 2B."

She smiled. "I'm Kate, but '2B' if you'd prefer. The guys in the squad call me Galloway so that works too." She stuck out her hand to shake. She was wearing fingerless black gloves, like a biker.

"So what are you doing out here?" She asked.

Her eyes were penetrating. He couldn't think straight when she looked at him. "I forgot my key," he blushed.

"Did you forget your phone too? Can't call the landlord to let you back in?"

"I-I don't have a phone."

"Ah, so you're a time traveler. That makes more sense. Want me to kick down the door for you?"

He didn't seem to notice her joke. Tough crowd, she mused. "Um... we don't have a lot of money, so no phone."

"We?"

He hesitated to admit this, especially to an attractive woman. "My mom and I. I'll just wait for her to get home. It's no big deal."

"Out here by yourself? That's a shitty plan. You're going to hang out with me instead, until she gets home," Galloway said.

His eyes widened at her suggestion. This development was not something he planned for. "No, really, it's fine. It's a nice day out, and I don't mind sitting here and reading."

Galloway knew that was a lie— she knew what someone having a bad day looked like. He didn't really want to be out here all day, but he was desperately trying to not inconvenience her. She wasn't hearing it. "Let's go," she urged him, climbing to her feet. "I'm not going to hang out by myself all night."

He considered this, looking bashful and nervous. Galloway couldn't really fathom why. When he saw that there was no arguing with her, he reluctantly gathered his things. It was almost as though he didn't want to stand up.

But when he did, she startled. He retrieved two shiny objects from the ground. At first, Galloway flashed back. She thought they were rifles. But then he snugged his arms into the loops and used them to help stand. Suddenly Galloway realized what she was seeing. Orthopedic crutches— the kind that wrapped around his forearms. They weren't the result of some temporary injury. He was disabled. He moved in jerky motions as he situated himself. That was why he was hesitant to stand up in front of her. He was self-conscious.

He noticed where her eyes had gone and he pointed to himself. "Cerebral palsy," he said in the tone of someone who's had to say it a million times before.

Galloway cocked her head curiously. "If that's what your mother named you, I ought to kick her ass."

He blinked, confused for a moment. Then he burst out laughing. "No... I meant... I have—" he trailed off, blushing bright red. "Let me try that again. I'm Ethan."

"There we go. That's better," Galloway smiled.

"I just happen to have cerebral palsy," he explained.

"And I just happened to have a fucked up sense of humor."

"I noticed."

"It's that apparent?"

He shrugged.

"So does this mean you're not going to be a gentleman and hold doors for me, or carry my personal items?" She smirked. It wasn't in Galloway's nature not to lightheartedly poke.

Ethan looked at her for a second, then he allowed a nervous smile, and hunched near her duffle bag. It was an awkward display but he managed to loop it over his shoulder, before nudging the door open with one of his crutches.

"You know I was just messing with you, right?" Galloway admitted.

"I'm a gentleman," he joked, and it earned a laugh. "But what do you have in this thing? Rocks?"

"If you think that's heavy, wait till you carry my purse."

"I'm not carrying your purse. Even I have to draw the line somewhere."

As they headed inside, Galloway found herself rather charmed by this kid. Maybe she was a big softy at heart, but he had a sense of humor and some determination about him.

When they reached the stairs, Galloway felt a moment of doubt. They both lived on the second floor, and with Ethan's... limitations... "Is there a secret elevator I don't know about? I know I haven't lived here that long, but..."

"No, I have to use the stairs," Ethan said, as though it was obvious.

He started up carefully.

"That doesn't seem very accommodating."

"What about this place seems up to code?" Ethan laughed.

"Fair enough."

"Something about the building being historic, they can't make it more accessible. But it's cheap, and my mom works really hard. So I can deal with it. As long as I'm careful on the steps, it's nothing that I can't handle."

Galloway again smirked. "I wasn't asking for your sake. I need an elevator right now because my knee is fuckin' killing me." She motioned to her torn jeans and bloodied knee.

Ethan paused, replaying their conversation in his head. She was right. She hadn't mentioned him at all. This woman had a sharp sense of humor that he most certainly wasn't used to. He stared at her for a second, pausing halfway up the stairs. "A scrape on your knee, huh? That must really be hard for you," he said, then couldn't stop the smile from spreading across his face. In seconds, they both sputtered laughter.

"You're funny," she admitted. "So what's your deal? Why were you cowering outside earlier, being weird when I invited you in?"

Ethan shrugged. He didn't like to chase this line of thought, because it wasn't very up-lifting. "My dad left us when I was little. I guess he didn't want to deal with me having..." he let his eyes flick to his crutches "...extra needs. So I guess, ever since then, I just try really hard to not be in anyone's way."

Galloway wasn't sure what to say. That was horrible. You always think you have it rough until you meet someone who had worse.

"You go to school?" She changed the subject.

"Umm... not really."

"You don't sound so sure."

"Graduated high school this past summer. I'm taking a year off..." It was Ethan's turn to change the subject. "You said 'the squad' earlier. So you're like, a cop or military, or something?"

"Part-time bartender. But I just started a new job... it's pretty serious."

"What is it?" he grunted. They reached their landing. Two doors faced each other in the cramped space. In front of Ethan's door, the stairs narrowed and continued further up and into the attic and the 3rd floor landing. A set of sconces flanked both doors. They were heavy oak. They looked medieval.

"Honestly, Ethan, even I'm not very sure."

He cocked his head at her comment, as though it was impossible for him to understand that answer.

She smiled easily. "It's a private police firm. You know how like security guards aren't officially cops?"

He nodded his head vigorously, even before he gave a lot of thought to what she was explaining.

"Well security guards are usually employed by private companies. That's like mine. They employ private guards. But we're putting together a SWAT team. My new boss wants me on it, and they're fast tracking me through the training program."

Ethan's eyes widened with surprise.

She read it at once. "I know. It scares the hell out of me too."

"Well that's really cool though!" he said, looking her over appreciably.

She shrugged as she unlocked her apartment door. "I guess. I never did anything like that before though. It's kind of scary, you know?"

"You never did any job like that before?" He was blown away. "How does that work?"

"The closest job I had to this was as a casino security officer. But I left that job pretty quickly to be a bartender..."

"Why?" Ethan prodded.

"I was shot." Her words stopped Ethan dead in his tracks.

Much of Galloway's good humor was gone, but she was being casual and matter of fact about her explanation. She saw the shock on his face, and smiled. She hiked up the sleeve of her left arm. At first Ethan only saw the rose tattoo. But as he inspected closer, in the center of the blooming flower, he saw the tell-tale scar— the puckered skin.

"It was a robbery gone wrong," she explained. "That job was fun up until then. But I lost a few friends that day. A few others got hurt. That was when it became real."

She pointed to his crutches, then back to her shoulder. "Look at us. Quite the pair, you and I." She unlocked the door and led him into her apartment. It was somewhat cramped but cozy.

The front door faced an open living room space with a couple of mismatched couches, a chipped coffee table, and a TV and entertainment center. To the right, down a short hall was the bedroom and bathroom. To the left was a kitchen, just as open as the living room. Only the couch served as the dividing line between the two. The counters and cabinets were new, and a movable chopping block and a couple of stools served as the table.

It was all lit by modern lighting fixtures-- probably from Ikea, or one of those clean-lined modern furniture stores. It was pleasant. Galloway was apparently still in the process of unpacking. A few boxes lined the living room wall. Otherwise, she looked pretty well settled in.

"Oh neat!" Ethan declared when he saw that along the back wall of her kitchen, a glass door opened onto a small porch that overlooked the back of the apartment building-- the lawn, the alley, and beyond that, the sloping hillside of a cemetery. "You got the only one in the building," he said looking out the glass. A couple of cheap plastic lawn chairs were set up, a small table, with an empty glass that Galloway had forgotten to bring inside.

"You better believe it," She started to unpack her gear.

He was relieved to drop her heavy bag with an audible thud. "So how'd you go from wanting to avoid a dangerous job to joining a SWAT team?" He made his way over to the patio door and looked out. The yard appeared very far down. The view was tremendous.

"Doesn't make much sense, I know. I have some reservations about it, myself. But I needed to do something with my life sooner or later. And as luck would have it, I was tending bar one night. A customer got a little handsy with me. I broke his wrist," Galloway smiled proudly. "A couple of customers saw it. One of them came up to me afterward— this young brunette woman who looked and spoke like an undercover cop. Turns out, she owns the firm that I'm training with now. She offered me a job. Even more interesting, the captain of the tactical division is an old friend of mine I haven't seen for years— he's her fiancé. Small world." She laughed.

When he turned back from the door, his eyes widened. Galloway was in the process of removing several boxes of shells and a very elaborate looking military rifle from her duffle. She was transferring it to a locking hard case.

"Don't get curious," she cautioned him as she placed a pistol into it as well and snapped it shut, locking it.

"I never saw a gun in real life," he admitted.

"They're exactly what you think they are," she replied. Then she offered him a lopsided smirk. "Dinner is on me tonight while you wait for your mom to get home. Hope you like burnt chicken."

***

Ethan's mother was a small compact woman with bouncy neck-length strawberry blonde hair and an elfish smile. She introduced herself as Meg and had clear blue eyes. She'd almost be construed as mousy, though she was extremely cute. Ethan had explained that she was a legal secretary. It was apparent by the way she dressed— a clean blouse, though nothing uptight, and some modest jewelry. A gray pencil skirt displayed an ass that rivaled Galloway's, and though the woman was small (a full head shorter than Galloway), her thighs were pleasantly on the thicker side.

Galloway hadn't been expecting someone so young. Meg couldn't have been much older than 35.

It was past dark by the time she'd arrived from work to collect her son, and when Galloway answered the door, she couldn't resist looking the woman up and down from head to toe. "I'm not a home wrecker, I swear," Galloway playfully held up her hands defensively. "He told me he lived with his mother, not some hot as hell girlfriend. Ethan!" Galloway called over her shoulder. "You totally lied to me, you little manwhore."