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Exiting when the automated voice indicates nearly an hour later, the album has restarted and “Hollow” is soothing the anxiousness inside me once again. When I’m told my destination is on my right only two hundred yards ahead, I turn down my music and hit the button to end the driving directions. And I see I arrived just in time to watch as Ms. Richards pulls her door shut behind her, locks it, and then hurries to her small but newer model car in her driveway. My windows are tinted to an illegal darkness, so I don’t have to worry about ducking or anything as she backs out of her driveway then passes me on her way out of the neighborhood. Carefully, I do a three-point turn, keeping one eye on her car so I don’t lose her before following her onto the main street, keeping a distance so she doesn’t suspect she’s being followed.
“Where are you off to, little mouse?” I murmur, merging onto the mostly empty highway and backing off a bit so she won’t get spooked as I follow her when she exits.
Not ten minutes after we left her neighborhood, we’re in the tiny downtown area of the town next to Ft. Vanter, an army base a few of the kids at my school talk about all the time, because their parents are high-ranking soldiers of some kind and can afford the tuition and daily commute to the academy.
I watch as Ms. Richards pulls into the underground parking garage beneath a three-story huge brick building on a corner lot, and I pull over on the one-way street, hoping no one runs me off before I see where she’s going. I take a quick second to glance around at the business I’m in front of, seeing it’s a pet groomer and their hours closed at six. A peek at the sign next to me shows I can park here between the hours of 6:00 p.m. and 6:00 a.m. without getting a ticket, so I cut the engine and wait, my eyes never leaving the parking garage, hoping like hell there’s not an entrance to the building beneath it.
But I don’t have to hope for long. Soon, Ms. Richards in a knee-length black trench coat and heels she’s most definitely never worn to school before comes up the flight of stairs on the side of the building that puts her at street level before she hurries to a door around front. She pauses next to it, pulling something out of her pocket… a mask? Yes, a black one she ties behind her head and adjusts it around her eyes, and then she disappears inside.
“What in the…?”
I hop out of my truck, beeping the locks, and make my way across the street to where I saw her enter. As I approach, I see there are two doors side by side. One has a sign indicating it’s some kind of security business that closed at six, and the other is nondescript, not marked in any way. Even the windows have been blacked out. I reach out and tug, expecting it to be locked, but it’s not. And I pull it open slowly, carefully, not knowing what the hell could be inside.
The interior is completely black and empty, but there’s a staircase at the far wall, and as I step inside quietly, practically tiptoeing like a sleuth, the ceiling gives way to darkness interrupted by laser lights and strobes.
“What the fuck?” I whisper, approaching the stairs.
I take them one at a time, gently, slowly, not wanting to draw any kind of attention to myself.
“You’re early tonight, Eve,” I hear a female voice say over the low throb of music before my head breaks the surface of the second floor. I back up against the wall, staying hidden in the shadows, and listen.
“Oh, I guess I am. I was wondering why no one was at the door to check IDs. Guess I was a little excited to get here,” she replies and giggles. She fucking giggles. It’s such a sweet and carefree sound it makes me question if it was even her who made it.
The other woman asks her, “You meeting Master Connors tonight? Y’all’s scene last week was amazing. You took that bullwhip like a champ.” And my head whips in the direction of their voices even though I can’t see them.
Master Connors? Scene? Bullwhip? “What the fuck?” I repeat, wanting so badly to take a few more steps that would put my eyes above the second floor’s ground level so I can see what the hell is happening.
“Thank you,” Ms. Richards answers, and I can hear the shyness in her response, picture the blush rising in her face. “No, I’m meeting Lancelot.”
“Ah, nice choice. I heard he’s wonderful with a flogger. Have you gotten to scene with Scar yet?” the woman asks, and I don’t have time to dwell on the mention of a flogger and yet another man’s name before Ms. Richards responds.
