Courtney Ferreira, Sophomore Cop (?/FF & F/F) - PAUSED (Feb. 24, 2024)

[AlexUSA3]

A special shoutout goes to everyone who read The Rookie as this, as the title implies, is a sequel to that story. I hope it lives up to the same standard.

Introduction

One year after the events of The Rookie, I (Officer Courtney Ferreira) am finally back to standard procedures as a precinct officer in the small suburban town of Hopkinton, Missouri. Duties are the same: assist investigators, go on patrol, fill out paperwork, occasionally act as Chief’s secretary when things are busy, and, of course, training officers in the art of the escape. After one officer encounters medical issues, I now find myself tasked with being the beat partner with a young rookie named Cecilia, and a friendship seems to form despite a few disagreements.

Chapter 1 (F/F)

“And what if I am a vegan?” Cecilia says to me in a snarky tone.
“Then no one is making you try it,” I say back to her with my hands on my hips.
“But I am,” she took a bite of the chocolatey, cakey goodness and dropped some crumbs.
“Well,” I stoop to pick some crumbs off the floor of Don Utz, “How is it?”

I look into Cecilia’s eyes the way a friend does when they’re hoping they made someone happy, and I see the spark arise. She motions for me to let her finish the donut, and I know we have yet another winner. It’s the fun of working with Miss Cecilia Smith.

“How was it?” I ask her and pick up more crumbs.
“Awful!” she lies through her teeth and smiles at me.
“Nope. Not buying that. It’d be the first one you didn’t like from this place.”

Ironically, at this moment, a fight appears to break out between the proprietors and a patron. The patron quite angrily slaps his hand upon the counter twice. I calmly walk a little closer and motion for Cecilia to stay behind me for just a moment.

“Where’s my f-cking cinnamon donuts?! You said I could pick up at 11!” the man snarls.
“Sorry, Mr. Carter, someone forgot to frost them, but they’ll be over here in just a few moments.”
“It’s f-cking 11:15!!” he rages.
“Sir,” I caution him, “The price we pay for real homemade goods is that they aren’t made by robots. Please, yelling only makes it unnecessarily stressful for everyone, especially you, when they are trying to fulfill your request.”
“I ain’t listening to no cop!” he seethes in my face with weed breath, and I don’t back down.
“Here are your donuts, Mr. Carter.”

The moment passes. Mr. Carter takes his donuts and walks out of Don Utz while promising to leave an angry Google review. Thankfully, it went no more than shouting, and I can see that Cecilia is a bit perturbed. She isn’t afraid, but I can see that her mind fails to understand why a human being would act that way.

Cecilia is new to this officer game. I am just finishing my sophomore year after the nightmarish events of my freshman year as an officer and now mostly work with the investigative detectives. While normally a veteran officer is the one who accompanies the rookies, I was chosen to do it on account of my unusual experiences but only after our next main female officer in the precinct, Michelle Jansen, had an operation to remove her gallbladder a couple days ago.

“Why didn’t you punch that son of a gun?” the Chicagoan asks me as we walk to the car.
“That’s first not allowed and second it would have made him angrier. Lawsuits are ugly.”
“I wish I had an excuse to tase a jerk like that,” she seems a bit too feisty for her own good.
“Cecilia, that’s the kind of thought that leads a good cop down the road to being a bad cop,” I pause and sigh as I sit in the driver’s seat, “Let’s go to the station, hmm?”
“The theme from ‘Dirty Harry’? Really?” Cecilia teases me in a friendly manner as the music starts playing.
“Hey, I permit myself this one stereotype. Memories die hard.”

Do memories ever die hard. My memories are mine, and Cecilia’s are hers. She’s from Chicago and a rarity in voluntarily taking a job down here in small Hopkinton, Missouri, which for me is the only town I ever really lived in. Perhaps I am perfect to show her around the town area; as it would work out, we lived in the same apartment complex.

The impetuous young girl is a few years my junior and quite green. Her heart is in the right place, but she worries me with her wishes and suggestions. Either the academy she attended was bad, or she didn't listen because those kinds of things were taught to me early. My job includes making sure she learns what she can and can’t do. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

There is another dimension to being an officer under my thumb: training. Training with me has a very different meaning than it does with other officers. As I said, I have unusual experiences. Those experiences included being captured by a criminal, and now I train others in the tricks of escaping just as Michelle taught me. After my experiences, though, I am now upping the intensity of the training for those who wish to learn more.

In small town Missouri, except around days like New Year’s Day and St. Patrick’s Day, there are always at least 3 or 4 empty holding cells. I simply mark it as “occupied” and go in there so that we have peace and quiet. Cecilia has stuck it out and continues to excel beyond the others, and that was part of why Michelle initially took her under her wing much like me two years before.

“Oh, so we're going to finish the lunch hour like this?” she laughs a little.
“If you get out of this one in under 20 minutes, I’ll buy lunch tomorrow.”
“That,” Cecilia has a gleam in her eye, “is motivation to succeed.”
“Whatever makes your ticker keep ticking,” I turn around and roll my eyes.
“What are you using on me this time?” comes a taunt, “Hope you do better than last time.”
“Rope,” I take a deep sigh, “And I will do better.”

Frankly, Cecilia disgusts me in that she likes the training. I hide it, but it disgusts me. I only bite my tongue because she’s so good with it. The little Houdini pin that is on her uniform says it all: she is the great escape artist. For me, it's serious business, but she makes a game out of it to my perpetual frustration.

I have become quite a master at tying people, but Cecilia consistently finds ways to escape no matter what I do or use. Today, I decide to try using ropes tied very tightly. I have learned the hard way how brutal ropes can be, and with crime increasing each year it may pay dividends for us to know how to get out of things. Her taunts, I hope, will spur me to finally keep her down for once. Rope is not nice, to say the least, and I perhaps try to be mean with it. Cecilia yelps a little, but she continues her friendly taunts. She’s being so amiable, and I’m being a bit wretched to her. I only tie her with five ropes. Hands are first, then her humeri, her femurs, her ankles, and her chest. For good measure, I hogtie her as well.

“Is that the best you can do?” Cecilia continues the haughty attitude.
“You need to be silenced,” I show her a roll of black duct tape.
“Well, I suppose you can use that, but you don’t need to be crabby about it.”
“I do, actually,” I start wrapping the stuff around Cecilia’s head with unnecessary tightness.
“Mmmm?” she groans as I crush her head down.
“I almost died! Don’t you forget it!” a little bitterness can be heard.

I start the timer and sit down on the floor to play with my cell phone while Cecilia grunts about her training prison. Paying more attention to my own affairs than my student, I forget that I am supposed to be supervising a training session; her escape is inevitable. Negligence has no place in a police station, though, and I am interrupted from my daydream by a familiar voice.

“Training going well?” Mom’s voice jolts me back to reality.
“Oh!” I jump a little, “Yeah, she does great!” I finally turn and notice my colleague is free.
“Hi, Michelle, her timer is going off in a sec, but I couldn’t help but enjoy her obliviousness.”
“Sweetie, I think you were daydreaming,” she laughs a little, to my relief, “Go down to Dave’s office; he has something for you two girls.”
“I was lost,” I agree, force a smile, and stand up, “I’ll have to gold-plate Houdini.”
“Ooooh!” her girly inflections sometimes seem inappropriate for a cop, “I’d like that.”

I professionally stride toward Pop’s office while the red hair bounces up and around me as we walk that way. I suppose it’s just the personality differences that do it, but the girl with red hair and green eyes (but oddly no freckles), peachy skin, average height, and a perfect figure is a stark contrast to me with my above average height, darker skin, curly black hair, and brown eyes. We make an odd pair, for sure, but we seem to balance. I knock on Pop’s door and wait for him to permit our entry before I push the door open.

“So, with the policeman’s ball in two nights, how would you two like to have your first sting operation under your belts before then?” he asks us with his fatherly smile.
“I can’t speak for Cece, but I’d gladly join!”
“Chief, really?!” Cecilia sounds uncertain, “Aren’t I too new for that?”
“When is old enough?” he fired back, and I laughed at his quick retort before regaining myself.
“Where do we go?”
“Go to Michelle; she’s involved in the station-side part of the setup.”

Cecilia takes the lead on the next leg of the journey, giving me an opportunity to watch her from behind. Her hair is so long that she keeps it in a multi-layered bun, and I briefly wonder how long it is. Her butt isn't as flat as mine, but she's more toned and naturally athletic. Why would a girl from an upper middle-class Chicago family want to become a police officer down here in Hopkinton? I guess just because a girl comes from money doesn't obligate her to pursue riches; this may be what makes her happy and feel like she did the right thing with her life.

“Court, you're just the girl we need. Our precinct’s own bilingual officer,” Michelle says when we come into the room where she is busy with several others.
“What is my role in this?” I take a seat, “I guess it calls for someone who speaks Spanish well!”
“How do you think Courtney would look with blue hair ends and a few tats?”
“Oh, the hair would be amazing! I don't know about the ink though.”
“Wait a second!” I strongly interject, “Blue hair?! Tattoos?! On me?!”
“For sure,” Cecilia continues, “She’d make a perfect undercover Matita.”

I am not sure how I feel about this. I am being asked to play an undercover local female Latino gangster broad. This means I am being pimped or slinging phony drugs to bag folks. If I say neither sounds good to me, they’ll laugh. Bilingual is a bonus because it is common for the gringos to buy products and services from the Matito’s, a gang whose name is a false cognate of the Spanish verb “matar,” or “to kill.”

Thirty minutes later I hear Michelle and Cecilia giggling while the ends of my hair are getting blue juice dyed. The rest will come tomorrow, and I am told exactly how to dress for it. Due to the nature of a sting, I cannot really do much besides stay at the station the rest of the day and then stay home afterwards. If I go out and about, I risk blowing my cover for the next day.

“I’ll get you some dinner, don't worry,” Cecilia says as she dashes into her own apartment.

I sigh again and roll my eyes while walking up to my apartment. I do not know what Cecilia has in mind, but I hope it is good. I have enough things that need my attention and haven't time for immature nonsense. Cecilia, however, has something else in her mind. This girl is full of surprises.

So am I.

[Caesar73]

Good to have Courtney back! Excellent first Chapter!

[Lucky Lottie]

Yay! Glad to be back with this story. Can't wait to see how this goes.

[AlexUSA3]

Good to have Courtney back! Excellent first Chapter!

Trying to maintain the same attention to detail as last time won't be easy though.

Yay! Glad to be back with this story. Can't wait to see how this goes.

I can't wait either.

Chapter 2 (F/F)

I unlock the door and step into my apartment with a sigh and shut the door and lock it behind me. After a day like today, it feels good to take the uniform off and put on a pair of spandex shorts that have plenty of stretch and a t-shirt. It feels so nice, and I happen to notice my dyed hair in the mirror.

I stare at the hair with an odd sense of pride, vanity even. I’ve spent my entire life hiding from reality, and only now am I beginning to realize that there is more to life than forgetting trauma and working. I notice things I haven't noticed before, more than just the superficial things or the things I need to know for self-defense.

Like, I realize my hair is beautiful with its thick black curly locks, now blue in the bottom six or seven inches. When I go to the club and hit the dance floor, I wear tight shorts to grab the eyes of the guys I think are handsome. I hit the dance floor now instead of, to my shame to admit, spending my party energy kicking back a fifth of scotch until I am still lucid but too drunk to do anything but go to bed. I now go bowling in order to meet new people. It's good to have a life.

Cecilia should join me.

The young girl means well, and she's trying to do the right thing in the world. Look at her being kind enough to buy me dinner. Maybe afterwards I can get her help to pick out an outfit for the next day. It's different now being the “older and wiser” person who is teaching the younger one, and I feel a strange sense of danger. What if I say or do the wrong thing?

I continue to stare in the mirror at my figure, especially how flat my stomach looks before I contract my muscles… if you can see under that wee bit of excess I maintain in my gut. Yes, I have become vain since my encounter with that thing called death. My legs are tight and strong, and I flex my arms with confidence just before the ring of the doorbell fills the air. My self-admiration comes to an end as I go to answer the door.

“Hey, Cecilia, come on in!” I welcome my colleague who is similarly changed.
“I hope you like a meatball sub,” she says hopefully, “It was on special.”
“Oh, it's fine. You said you wanted to discuss something too,” I take my seat.
“I do,” she sat across from me with her garish University of Illinois shirt, “I don't know how to admit this.”
“Whoa, let me friend zone you before you start,” I hope I am not offensive.
“No, it's that I… I like our training sessions… I enjoy being tied up.”

I really don't know if she's crazy. She just admitted she liked something that for me had purely negative connotations. Both I and the woman I love like a mother had nearly been murdered using these methods, and we train people in how to escape such scenarios because we realize we were lucky. For one of them to admit it is fun for them is an absolute spit in the face to me, and remaining calm becomes a struggle.

I take a bite of my sandwich and chew on it in an awkward, deafening silence. I see Cecilia is trying to remain as calm as possible , but she is unable to do so and begins squirming. I stare at her more sternly until she practically dissolves where she sits, and she has to put down the sandwich. I swallow my food and take a deep breath.

“Are you nuts?” I let my thoughts spill out.
“No, I’m…”
“What the f-ck is wrong with you?!” I stand and put my sandwich down, “How the f-ck can you think that's fun?!”
“Look on the internet; lots of people enjoy it too!”
“The world has a lot of crazy and misled people that are running around unchecked. Don't expect me to sit around and think it's so cool that some people sit around just volunteering to get hurt, especially using the methods by which someone planned to execute me! You need professional help!”
“Sit down and look up Tyler Zlotsky! Right now!” she finally snaps over me, “Tyler Zlotsky! Before you cut me to pieces, at least get to know my position. My therapist is the one who encouraged this!”

I roll my eyes and walk over to grab my tablet so I can read on a bigger screen. My heart is racing, my pupils are wide, and I am shaking with anger. How dare Cecilia, to my face, downplay my experiences! She is cruising for a bruising at this rate, but I know not to do that. She's one of those nutcases who fetishizes human suffering, and I merely humor her by looking up this Zlotsky character. I had searched enough in the wake of my experience to know that some people indeed practiced such things, but I couldn't believe I was sitting across from one such girl.

Then I read about Tyler Zlotsky, a maniac who two years ago went through a sorority house on the campus of the University of Illinois. He went Ted Bundy, binding and gagging each of the girls, assaulting them, and killing three of them. But one of the four was left alive, because she was “too beautiful to kill.” That girl’s name was withheld even on Wikipedia. I read the article pragmatically, and it starts to make sense when I think about it.

“Courtney… that girl who was ‘too beautiful to kill’ was me. My friends were murdered!”
“So that was you… You barely escaped with your life, just like I did. But you went back to it,” I try not to be cold about it.
“And live every day of my life wondering how the world would be different if one of the others had lived instead of me,” she sounds guilt-ridden.
“Why do you like being tied up then? It sounds even crazier to me now.”
“Control. When you do it, it's consensual, so I feel like I am safe and in control.”
“I…,” I pause and look down in confusion, “I… it doesn't make sense.”
“It doesn't have to make sense,” she's apologetic, “I’m trusting you to help me.”

It's crazy to me. After my sister was sent to prison, I effectively got the house. My now late mother wouldn't care that I sold it to someone who razed it and that I paid people to clean it out so that I wouldn’t have to go back. The evidence of the case is all long since destroyed. I don't want it either way, and being forced to look back at the past like this does me no good. I arrogantly believe I am bitter about any of it, but I don't cherish having been so close to a strangle hogtie either.

Now having Cecilia admit to me that she found something peculiarly addicting about those same ideas in light of her own experience, also a near-death experience, was completely unsettling for me. We finish our sandwiches in awkward silence, and I feel a strange guilt at how differently we see this particular issue. Just as I find healing in the destruction of the instruments of my torture, she finds healing in revisiting hers.

“I guess I’ll go,” she gets up and starts to head for the door.
“Now hold up a minute. What do you want?” I ask her before she leaves.
“I wanted to be tied up… more strictly than you would do at the station.”
“Only thing I might have here is a little duct tape,” I shrug my shoulders, “Sorry.”
“Don't worry!” her anxiety bounces up, “I have the stuff at my place. I play solo sometimes.”
“All right,” I decide to help her but don’t like thinking of it as play, “Go get it.”

While she is briefly gone, I sit down on my recliner and pass the time by flashing through my social media. I have 35 followers and follow fewer on my Instagram; multiply those numbers by 20 for Cecilia. How different we are, but we have a common goal: to help protect the residents of this community.

“Is this it?” I ask Cecilia when she returns, “Just this tote?”
“It's not a lot, but it works. Please, Courtney, you're the only person I trust enough!” she has a convincing whine.
“What do you want done?” I force myself to sound interested and take the bag.
“Well,” her confidence returns, “Just go to town as long as you don't hurt me!”
“I need specifics,” I am a bit terse now.
“Use the orange zip ties, and there is already a gag in there.”

I reach into the bag and decide to teach Cecilia a lesson; I go all out to zip her limbs in an impossibly secure manner. I pin her arms to her chest and her waist and hogtie her. I leave her no chance to escape, but I also take care not to hurt her at all. She is going nowhere without my help, and I reach into the bag and find a big blue ball gag like the one my sister used on me.

“That's the one!”
“This?! Are you nuts?!” I tactlessly spill out my thoughts and drop it like a hot potato.
“Judging me again? Everyone has to experience joy and pain the way you do?”
“There are objective wrongs,” I maintain an air of self-righteousness.
“And this is a subjective good for me,” she deflates me again as I pick it up.
“Shut up!” I snarl and push the gag into her mouth as she wants and secure it after taking a few moments to figure out how it works.

I ignore Cecilia like I did earlier, but this time I sit down to play some video games knowing she's not going anywhere without my help. After 30 minutes without even glancing toward Cecilia, I realize that she really is enjoying herself. I roll my eyes in disgust at this thought and resume my pretend violence. What is wrong with her? I then realize that I am free roaming on my game and just causing mayhem for the sake of mayhem as I almost always do on those occasions I think about that day.

I thought torquing Cecilia’s body the way I did would suck the wind out of her sails, and I instead see that the girl seems content with her situation. She's not analytical enough to be as good of a cop as she should be, and just contentedly enjoying herself in her present position is a good example of that. The point of the training session is to train, not to take advantage and turn it into a game or a therapy session.

Speaking of therapy, wait until my therapist hears about this one. I have only gone once since my mandated period ended, and that was more of a “man, work sucks at the moment” kind of chat. I have gone from exceeding expectations to a different kind of anger, and I am not letting Cecilia ruin me or herself.

I do what any sane person would do. I cut the plastic straps that held her, and, without letting her remove the gag, shove her out the door and toss her bag out behind her. If that's the kind of game she wants to play, she needs to go find someone who is enough of a sadist to enjoy satisfying a masochist but has enough self-control to not strangle her.

The next day cannot come soon enough.

[Lucky Lottie]

That's am interesting turn of events. Yet I can relate to both girls and their struggles. Well done

[AlexUSA3]

That's am interesting turn of events. Yet I can relate to both girls and their struggles. Well done

Will they learn to relate to each other though?

Chapter 3 (F/FF)

It feels wrong to go to work without my work clothes. Instead, I have my civilian clothes, and in a bag I carry my “matita” set. I feel like I am being asked to portray a racist stereotype of a local gang, but that involves talking to Pop. Normally, I am comfortable, but after the events of the previous night I shake as I knock on his door.

“Come in, Court,” he says with a chipper smile, “What’s eatin’ you?”
“How’d you know it was me?” I ask as I stick my head in.
“Lots of reasons… Matitas, donuts, your first sting, Cecilia Smith,” he rattles the list off.
“What does Cecilia have to do with this?” I try playing dumb.
“Everything, sweetie, everything, Sit down,” I can hear the disappointment, “I get it. But, you, more than anyone else in this station, have the power to ruin her forever.”
“What do you get?”

I had filled out those same forms once upon a time… he shows me, on strict secrecy, the forms Cecilia filled out to get the job here and the ones she filled out for the academy. In reading them, he tells me how, in his mind, that is the application of a person who will become a stellar cop on the rapid promotion track should they get the right training. I lean forward, clasp my hands in front of me, and look at the floor.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m failing to guard my boundaries properly and responding by violating hers.”
“You certainly did. That girl called Michelle at 10PM and was still crying,” he told me, “Court, I expected better of you. When Michelle got sick, I intentionally chose you to be Cecilia’s partner because I thought you had learned from your mistakes. You have, but instead you’re making new ones.”
“Is it too much to want to let go of the past?” I ask him sincerely.
“Of course not, sweetheart, but you have to learn how to use your experience to help others, not judge them.”
“I’ll try harder. We’re different people, with different responses to our experiences.”
“Exactly, please try to be more charitable. Who knows? You may find it therapeutic as well. Now get out of here and go rock those druggies.”

That answered my other questions as well. I had to look like a drug dealer if the operation of the sting was to bust people who were trying to buy illegal drugs. I was the lone female Hispanic officer in the precinct (a shocker in small town Missouri), so I was the logical choice. Wash-off tattoos, a black bandana, a tight black sports bra, a tank top, and some ripped blue jeans transform me from a normal cop riding around in a Honda to a gang member who drives a seemingly boosted (stolen) Cadillac.

I thought about Cecilia and how I behaved the night before. I had said “friend zone,” which makes no sense since we're straight, and then I threw her out of my apartment without even giving her a chance to defend herself. Now, I’m entrusting her with my life as part of this sting.

Funny how these things work.

Stings are basic. The person approaches me, I talk a little duplicitously, and I get them to ask me specifically for drugs. Once they flash a little money and I flash a little baggie, the rest move in and take the person for attempting to purchase drugs. It’s surprisingly easy once you have the script down and know how to account for deviations from the script.

I do my best on this job for more than just the community; I do it to assure Mom and Pop that I have learned from their wisdom; I also do it to be a good example to the redheaded rookie. At a moment when Cecilia is helping with one arrest, I hold her back for a moment before she returns to the car. It’s not necessary, but I do it for her morale mostly.

“How’d you like to get a session while I’m like this?” I ask her teasingly.
“Haha! That’d be a different kind of session, now wouldn’t it?” she responds as she walks away.
“Hey!” I call back, “I’m sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Not now,” she smiles reassuringly, “Though you said a couple of things that surprised me.”
“We’ll talk later,” my confidence seems to have returned.
“Let’s do this!” she jumps higher than I could ever and returns to the car.

Then we both made a mistake after arrest number 8.

“You got the money?” I ask the latest prospect.
“Go go go!” I suddenly hear Cecilia come charging out, and the man starts to run.
“Police! Freeze!” I whip out my gun, and the man ducks on the ground.
“Don't shoot!” the redneck wails pathetically.
“Get him!” I motion to some others and turn to Cecilia, “You idiot! He didn't flash any money! Now we have to let him go unless there's a warrant out or a probation violation!”
“You called me what?! You of all people?! Called me what?!”

Pop’s words come flashing back to me as Cecilia turns to walk away from me. He is right: I have the power to make or bake this one, and I just burned her badly. As guilt pours over me, I get subjected really soon to a rude and surprising lesson. I expected Pop to know within minutes what I had said, but I wasn't expecting him to, at the end of the sting operation, join us and, when the last buyer was arrested, to also come after me.

“Hi, Chief!” I say to him.
“Ma’am, put your hands behind your back,” he acted like he didn't know me.
“Dad, it's me. Courtney.”
“Hands behind your back, you're under arrest for distribution of drugs.”
“I…,” there was a lesson in this somewhere, “Yes, sir.”
“You have the right to remain silent…”

I go back to the station in a cruiser driven by Cecilia with Pop riding shotgun. They talk about my words and her actions as if I am not even there. I sure don’t feel like I’m on duty any more with this turn in my circumstances. I’ve let my parents down in the worst way possible by going after one of my own colleagues while on the job, and to make it worse I went after the one whom I was just explicitly told is affected by my words more than any other officer in the precinct.

Pop even leads me to a cell and leaves me there with my own thoughts. It’s all wordless because I’m not really being booked on any crimes, but I need time to think about my actions. I lie there by myself for about 30 minutes without really worrying too much; I know what I did. Harder is convincing myself that I have a problem with Cecilia and need to change myself before I say or do something that ruins her forever.

“Wake up,” Michelle opens the holding cell and grabs me by the arms, “Come on, Matita.”
“Hey!” I feel her tying my arms together above my elbows, “Mom, no!”
“Hi, Court,” Cecilia sits down by my head, “Chief said we needed to burn off some steam.”
“Well this is just f-cking wonderful,” I growl when I see Cecilia’s tied up already.
“Courtney, it sounds like your beef with Cecilia is on a personal level,” Mom sees through me.
“I don’t get it; you used to like me and see me as your friend,” Cecilia piled on as well.

I bite my lip and hold my tongue while Mom ties me up just like Cecilia is tied. I guess while I was lying down here Cecilia went home and got her own supplies because she is tied with a red rope instead of the brown rope and clothesline I use for training. We both have our arms tied in a tight elbow and wrist tied behind us and more at our ankles, on either side of our knees, below our hips, and either side of our boobs. Strips of black duct tape hold our mouths shut.

Cecilia is strangely relaxed and comfortable and completely forgetting the stress from before. I, on the other hand, am feeling a bit enraged, but at whom am I enraged? Mom’s the one who tied me up, but I’m the one who committed the actions that justified her tying me up. I need this as much or more than Cecilia does. I stomp the floor in frustration.

“You have 30 minutes. Tied like that, you will have to work together to escape,” Mom smiles.
“Oh, thah’th why you hih thith!” I grumble disapprovingly and then turn to Cecilia.
“Well?! Het’th heh ouh!” the positive spirit of Cecilia Smith shines.
“Mmmmm…”
“Hum on!” she encourages me, “Unhie he!”
“I’m not leaving you girls; Courtney, you need to learn about being a help to others.”

I look into the green eyes and feel forgiven for my offenses. There is something extraordinary about Cecilia, and at the moment I’m learning lessons from her. She still sees me as her friend even after the past 24 hours of abuse. She believes in me; Mom believes in me; I now need to believe in me. I’ve overcome flaws in the past; it’s time to do it again.

With a grunt, I begin untying the ropes that bind Cecilia’s arms. It’s harder to untie the knots for someone else when your own arms are tied, but I did enough training sessions where I escaped a hogtie that I am used to undoing knots without seeing them. I contort myself onto the bed in just the right way that Cecilia and I are sitting back-to-back while I do this.

I feel no thrill like Cecilia does except maybe some satisfaction that is associated with escaping another person’s dirty work. She squeals happily, and Mom’s gaze warns me not to denigrate my colleague in any way. I have no idea if this is anything more than a team building exercise, but it is still good practice. I’m glad I haven’t lost my touch.

“You’re good at this!” Cecilia pulls the tape off her mouth.
“Hank hou!” I blush a little at her compliment and lean back next to her.
“Suddenly Matita’s look cute when it’s you, fake tats and all,” she pulls the tape off my lips.
“I said it’d be interesting to tie you up in this garb, but Michelle got in the way.”
“Courtney, don’t sweat about last night,” her voice wavers, “I threw a lot at you.”
“Wanna go to the dance club with me tonight?”

Michelle raises a surprised but approving eyebrow and takes her leave of us. At the moment, all the hurt is forgotten while Cecilia and I work to untie each other. We still have an afternoon shift to work together, and we haven’t forgotten that at all. Instead, laughter fills the room as she and I get out of the ropes.

I cannot get the blue out of my hair on my own, but the fake tats easily wash off my arms with a little scrubbing. I’m back to the Courtney of years before when I was a college sophomore as I did similar with my hair then. I enjoy the sight in the bathroom mirror before the tank, jeans, and bandana are replaced with my regular uniform. It should’ve been fun, and I ruined it for us; it’s water under the bridge now, though.

We push the doors and head out to dear car #25.

[hafnermg]

Interesting story so far. I can't wait to see where these girls are going.

[AlexUSA3]

Ah, the lovely conversations with a wall.

Chapter 4

It’s actually a comforting silence until Cecilia opens her mouth. We ride around on patrol for about 30 minutes and even pause a few minutes to monitor a school zone since many people enjoy nothing more than speeding in a school zone. I am oftentimes too judgmental of lesser actions and not judgmental enough of more serious matters. A perfect example is Cecilia.

“I’m sorry for being so attached to you, Court.”
“Don’t sweat it,” I effectively ignore her, “You’re learning.”
“When I read about your story in the news, I was determined to come here and learn from you.”
“What?!” I turn to her in surprise, “My story inspired you?!”
“Well, yeah… I think you inspired every cop in America. Especially the young female ones.”
“Oh,” I turn away from her, “Well, I’m just doing my job, and I made a stupid mistake then.”

I don’t want accolades or attention or to be told that I’m an inspiration. Even if I inspired anyone to become a cop, I’d rather not know it. I close my shell once again and decide that I need to not say anything more lest I again cause offense. I force a fake smile for her sake, and she returns it with a genuine smile.

Cecilia Smith sees a lot of things in me that none of my other friends ever saw. I don’t see much of it either. I never imagined myself as anything more than an officer trying to be the best officer she could possibly be and now helping others achieve that same ideal. As a civilian, I never look in the mirror and see more than just a girl with curves, which made last night a bit shocking. For me to be a confidante is new, and as we sit in silence I find myself in a quandary.

“Car #25, head to the Home Depot. Angry customer is causing a disturbance.”
“This is car #25. 10-4,” Cecilia responds as I engage the transmission.
“Let’s roll,” I turn onto the street to head towards the local Home Depot.
“You’ve mentioned Home Depot being a difficult stop and that you avoid it if possible.”
“I’ll explain inside,” I say without any emotions and then sigh.
“No pressure, Courtney.”

Home Depot is a bittersweet place for me. As we pass by the tell-tale spot, I point out a marker on one of the big shelves at the end of an aisle. That marker is a memorial to the three lives that were lost when the shelf collapsed some 14 years ago; my father was among the dead. Without much remorse, I simply explain the incident and move on from the past. Cecilia likes stories, but I don't have any good ones. Every time she asks about my past, I am thrust back into my narrow escape from death.

“I can’t get any f-cking thing I need in this f-cking place!!!” a strangely familiar voice is heard.
“Sounds like our man,” I hasten to a jog with Cecilia behind me.

As we walk up the aisle, there is the dreadful sight of that guy, still 7 inches beyond a healthy waist: Mr. Carter. As we approach the situation, my eyes notice that in addition to an assortment of woodworking supplies there is also a pile of rope and duct tape. I cannot say anything about that though. Instead, we stand behind Carter while the employees and the store manager try to explain why they do not have the particular hardware he is seeking and will have some in stock soon.

“Sir, would you please cool it?” Cecilia takes over the situation.
“This f-cking store’s a joke. P-ss off, cop!” the man snarls at Cecilia, and I remain at the ready.
“I’m sorry sir. Perhaps you should go to the Ace Hardware instead?” she kindly suggests.
“I’m making a f-cking point. This f-cking store is f-cking pathetic to not have f-cking everyday items in stock, and then this f-cking moron here suggests a roofing screw as a substitute!”
“Sir, I suggest you either check out and leave or just walk out,” I finally step in.
“Eat my c-ck, you ugly b-tch! I’m sick of you two c-nts playing f-cking protection games for all the sh-t businesses in this hellhole!”

Mr. Carter then tips his dolly cart over to spill his cart of supplies all over the floor before finally flipping us off and walking out of the store. I look at Cecilia, who I can see clearly believes he is serious about making me eat him. This time, she’s the one being forced to recall horrors of the past, and she is more shaken up by such recollections than I am. A sort of trance overcomes her, and she stops by a shelf and stares down at the smooth concrete floor.

“You wanna go to the dance club with me tonight?” I ask her.
“Did you see the rope and stuff on the cart?” she asks me quietly.
“Yeah, I did. Why? What’s wrong with that? Maybe he’s into some sick sh-t.”
“He looked at the rope and then us. He was thinking of hurting you especially.”
“He’s a nut. But don’t forget, we have protection,” I point to our holsters.
“I know. I’ve never been scared on the job, but I have been creeped out enough. Did I do well?”

I smile at Cecilia and tell her she handled this situation much better than yesterday’s. The glow in her eyes tells me that my approval means more to her than even Michelle’s. I don’t see myself as the paragon of good cops at all, but I will entertain her hero worship as long as Mom and Pop continue to ask me to do so. She accepts my invitation to go to the dance club with confidence.

We have long since eaten our respective dinners by the time we are ready to go out dancing, and I am wearing a pair of tight denim short shorts. You could say, in a way, that I am seeking eyes tonight, and Cecilia seems to follow the same wisdom with a pair of pink spandex running shorts for her part. It’s time for a fun night on the town, and I flash my ID card on behalf of her as well.

“A Coors for me and my friend,” I say as we take a seat by the bar.
“Why this now?”
“I think a beer helps the scotch go down smoother, and I’ll still be well within legal limits.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” she gets her beer, and I put a coaster on top of it.
“Keeps your drink safe when you’re not staring at it,” I explain.
“So you come here often?”

I know Cecilia could drink me under the table since she was a member of a typical sorority when an undergraduate; I just want to loosen up a little and get a little more confident in my ability to move on the dance floor. I’m not as nervous and flow more naturally with a 0.06 BAC. Cecilia accepts my proposition, and we talk the time away until one seemingly handsome guy talks with us before leaving when it’s apparent he isn’t getting laid.

“Ever actually slept with anyone?” Cecilia’s questions are more daring after the scotch.
“Just because I’ve had a couple of drinks doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Come on,” I stand up.
“Oh, come on! It’s an innocent question!” the sorority girl is now in the house.
“I’m not a virgin. OK?” I finally admit.
“That’s all I needed. Let’s dance.”
“Get your own dance partner,” I leave her in my dust.

Cecilia is an absolute natural on the dance floor, but I have the experience and draw more eyes than she does. I’m also a regular, so most of the people here are familiar with me even if they do not know me personally. My dance partner is some guy who I will forget as soon as we have left the building, and Cecilia’s is similarly forgettable. In between dances, though, I see a change on her face. Something is wrong. I walk over to Cecilia, and she pulls me towards the wall near the door.

“He looks too much like Zlotsky,” she says in a frightened whisper pointing to a person.
“OK. So?” I ask, “Is it a trigger?”
“Big. Let’s go,” she shakes a little while her concern talks on his phone, “Please?”
“All right; all right. I normally stay later, but I’ll leave for your sake. Just when I was getting some dirty-minded ogling too.”

I begin driving us home, and Cecilia puts her seat back and plays on her phone. She needs a bit of time with her own thoughts, and I think she’s mourning her deceased roommates. I make my third left turn in a row before Cecilia realizes that I am doing something unusual. My hands are quite full at the moment because I am convinced after the third left that this one car is following me all over Hopkinton. She puts her seat up and notices my face.

“What’s wrong?”
“This car does everything I do,” I say as I pull on the six lane divided highway U.S. 250 headed toward the precinct.
“We’re being followed?! Why?!”
“I wonder if your pal on the phone is behind this!” I think out loud, “Someone’s mad at us!”

I pull into the precinct parking lot and watch the car keep going before getting back onto the road in the opposite direction, taking a cut through a neighborhood to ensure that no one could be on my tail any longer. As we go back to the apartment complex, no more suspicious characters are to be seen, and we relax and laugh it off as perhaps just being a little paranoia brought by alcohol and dance energy as we approach her door.

“So, Court,” Cecilia straightens her shorts, “Would you tie me up?”
“You got it last night, and you got it today!” I explain my own viewpoint as kindly as possible.
“Last night was a bomb, and today was work. Please, trust me trusting you,” she whines a bit.
“You know what?!” I start and then pause for a moment, “Fine. I’ll do it.”
“All I am asking for is a friend. You don’t have to like it; do it for me.”
“All right; meet me at my place,” I roll my eyes as soon as her back is turned to me.

I don’t want to be doing this, but I want to be her friend. I thought the alcohol had calmed her down, but it didn’t remove that streak from her. In fact, if anything, she seems more confident than she normally is, and I still have the right to respectfully refuse. Instead, I find myself in the same scenario again: Cecilia Smith roped and gagged on my sofa. This time, instead, I do more justice by her and simply play on my tablet so I can do things while secretly texting Michelle my concerns about what happened. A blindfold helps Cecilia relax a little bit.

Sometimes you get a feeling in your gut that something bad is going to happen, and most times it turns out to be anxiety. I have one of those right now, and I turn to my mother figure for advice on how Cecilia and I can move on from our moment of fear. Mom encourages us to be vigilant but not to worry because she knows who to ask to look into it. I feel comforted by her words and find the factors all working together: alcohol, dancing, and a momentum of fright. I fall asleep sitting on the sofa shortly after realizing that Cecilia has fallen asleep first; it’s easy when you are bound, gagged, and blindfolded.

I hope her dreams are as pleasant as mine

[AlexUSA3]

I can tell I am not the only person who is severely disappointed by this story. Oh, well, I press onwards no matter what!

Chapter 5 (?/F & MMF/F)

“Mmmmm!” I open my eyes and hear this sound.
“What on earth?!” I wake up from my rest.
“Mmmmm!” Cecilia groans.
“Oh, Lord, it’s 5:30, and I never untied you!”

We start our mornings off with a laugh about how Cecilia was wearing a long-sleeve shirt to the precinct today. I remind her she needs to lose the ropemarks by 5:30 PM since that’s the time of the ball tonight. A spring appears in her step when I remind her about the ball, and I can smile as I successfully got through that rope adventure without losing my temper. There was no fun for me in it, but I am happy because Cecilia is happy with how it went.

Policeman’s ball isn’t a real thing in Hopkinton. We call it that, but it’s more like an awards dinner. I look forward to it just because it’s the one thing that Mom and Pop share with their own biological children as well as with me. I like it because it’s the one time Pop, a.k.a Chief, gets to express his gratitude for all of his employees.

“What about this one?” I hold up a dress.
“That’s the one you wore last year. Look at the photo,” Cecilia holds up her phone.
“Well, darn. Ummm…,” I put that one back and grab a blouse skirt combo, “How about this?”
“We have an hour still. Try it on!” she suggests.
“The only other one I have is that one,” I point to a black dress.
“Lemme see… O! M! G! Courtney, that’s the one for sure!” she plunges into my closet for it.

It’s a sleeveless dress with a curved neckline and a short skirt. Since Cecilia suggests I try it, I try it. I don’t have to be afraid about changing in front of her, and I use a black sports bra to try to cover some of my top shape since tonight is not about chasing eyeballs. My friend watches a video from her social media feed so that I can have some privacy while changing, but she more than approves of the outfit.

“Black hose and open black heels.”
“I don’t have black hose, but I do have the shoes,” I reach into my closet.
“I have enough hose to dress the town,” Cecilia says, “I’ll be back.”
“Why? You get tied up with them?” I tease her about her hobby.
“No comment,” she smiles back before leaving.
“Cecilia, Cecilia, Cecilia,” I shake my head as the door shuts, “You are a funny girl.”

I take myself too seriously most of the time. I do too many things with business-like purposes and do not have enough fun. That’s why I had fun with Cecilia last night; we were just out on the town being ourselves with no ulterior motives and why I could candidly answer some of her prying questions after she pushed enough. I haven’t paused and enjoyed friendship enough since my own college days, and I have been missing out on something by not permitting myself to take the time to enjoy the company of more people besides Mom and Pop.

Cecilia comes back with the hose and her own ball outfit. A blue and white checkerboard pattern skirt with a matching blue top is quite nice, and her hair is in a picture perfect bun held by a thick plastic hair clip. Your stereotypical brown pantyhose and white flats are on her feet. She throws me the pack of black hose.

“You’re on your own, because I have to put on my face still.”
“All right. I will see you,” I pointed right at Cecilia, “At the ball.”
“You’re not putting on any makeup?!” she seemed shocked.
“I never do, but that doesn’t mean you can’t. I’d rather people see the blemishes than have to wash that stuff off.”
“Oh, it’s not that much. You’ll see,” she laughs and walks out of my bedroom.
“Oh, I will see, and I will not criticize unless you ask me first!”

At the ball, it only seems natural for Cecilia and I to share a table along with some of our fellow single coworkers. We each have something to bring to the table, and I am finally comfortable with Cecilia despite our differences. I will never enjoy being the friend who entertains her strange hobby, but I can take solace in being the friend who is trusted enough to do the things she needs done for her.

The dinner isn't about that though. As she promised, Cecilia’s makeup merely hides a couple of minor blemishes and seamlessly blends into her skin tone. I am not too sure I could ever learn to do that so well if I even wanted to use makeup. Mostly, we enjoy the company of good people we know and trust in a less professional setting. Chatter is about personal lives and hobbies and not about work except when there's a story we find too good to keep to ourselves.

Cecilia gradually withdraws with time, though. She may have been a sorority girl, but she didn't seem too happy after two hours compared to her smile at the beginning. In an effort to help, I ask her to accompany me to the ladies’ room. Without any doubts, she tags along.

“What's eating you?” I ask while I fix my hair.
“I'm still thinking about last night,” she sighs.
“Don't worry about that. I'm sure it was just the alcohol.”
“You're right. I’m tired. Do you mind if I go home?” she blushes at her own request.
“Not at all. You're my friend, not my sister,” I try to smile encouragingly.
“All right. See you on Monday if not sooner.”

I relax and go back to the table. Cecilia is understandably overwhelmed right now; it is a massive burden she carries. She is living not only for herself but also for her three lost friends. I cannot imagine what it is like to be in her shoes, but I can imagine how it feels to be scared. Fear is a powerful emotion.

My attention is grabbed by Pop though. It's time for him to take the microphone and announce the winners of the awards. They're basic awards: most arrests, employee of the year, team spirit, etc. It's a disappointment when Pop announces that one Cecilia Smith was being given the award for team spirit as her bounciness, I cringe a bit at the thought, energizes the entire precinct. This moment is more about Mom, though, because she’s the one who does most of the training of the rookies around here. What a blessing Mom and Pop are!

Another successful ball is complete. I am relieved at no longer being the buzz of conversation as I was at this time six months ago or a year ago. I’m just another cop, and that’s the way I like it to be, really. The attention could be exhausting, but the encouragement was amazing. Of course, for every 20 of the encouraging texts I got then, there was one with something like “I hope u got wrekt.” I now have a duty to make sure others do not put themselves in that kind of position.

A smile is on my face as I walk out of the banquet hall after placing a little piece of paper in the hand of another officer about 3 years my senior. He’s a nice guy, but we don’t often work on the same shift. The smile is wiped off my face when I walk up the stairs of my apartment, though, and see the door to Cecilia’s apartment is open. I knock on the door.

“Cecilia? Are you here?” I walk into the apartment and take off my heels.

I turn on the light, and immediately I can tell that something is wrong. There are a few broken objects and some other things way out of place: there had been a struggle in here. Was this all a targeted thing, or was this by chance? I immediately started walking around. In the bedroom, all that was out of place was the bedding, and that was only slightly so. The bathroom was fine, but something was clearly wrong. At the kitchen table, the chairs are pulled out, as if there had been a conversation at the table. I am now using my phone for light so as not to touch anything.

Crumbs. Brown crumbs are all over the place. I bend down and carefully inspect the crumbs. A sloppy eater had been here for sure. Brown usually suggests chocolate, but what could be brown and this soft? Maybe Cecilia had gotten a donut on the way home? The crumb feels a bit dry, as if the donut were stale.

I walk over to the photo and notice that Cecilia is bound and gagged and wearing the same outfit she was wearing this evening. I know not to touch anything and hover my hand just near to see if it’s warm. I feel a slight residual heat emanating from the photo; this is an auto-developing camera and taken within the last 30 minutes, most likely. I stare at the photo for a minute before it hits me.

The donuts are from Don Utz. I remember the scene from the other day with a raging Mr. Carter snarling in my face, and then I remember the scene from the Home Depot with him yet a second time, including Cecilia’s fears about that rope and tape in his cart. My heart sinks to depths that I didn’t know were possible. Rope and duct tape. Mr. Carter is fulfilling his threats.

“Oh… my… God!” I immediately start dialing Mom, and she thankfully picks up.
“Court! What’s up?” I hear her cheerful voice.
“Mom, we need Pop to send out a big squad! Someone’s kidnapped Cecilia. Do you know of any fat, ugly, middle-aged, druggy, white redneck criminals named Carter?”
“DAVE! Send a swat to Stoneham Apartments #316!” she immediately acts on it, “Carter?! Who is he?!”
“He’s the guy Cecilia and I dealt with twice this week. He was causing a scene in Don Utz the other day, and yesterday he was causing a scene in Home Depot. He was buying rope and tape, and he said he wanted to sexually assault us for doing our jobs.”
“Calm down, Court, or you’ll make a mistake,” Mom’s voice brings much needed comfort.

I step out of the apartment and wait for the team to arrive. In the distance, I can see the lights of the team about 90 seconds away from me, but unfortunately I am not going to meet them. As I stand there in the soft glow of the stairs, a group of masked figures, apparently two male and one female Matitos, yell something about me in Spanish. I know trouble when I see it and take off running.

“Courtney, what’s happening?!” Mom asks me.
“Matitos are after me! Two guys and a chick!” I respond, “Sorry, Mom, you’re riding boobs!”
“What?!” Mom asks as I push my phone underneath my bra, “Courtney, stay in the light.”
“I’m try–AHHH!” a gun fires, a bullet hits me in the leg, and I drop like a rock.
“Get her!” the gangsters yell in Spanish, “Tie her up!”
“Courtney!” Mom says as my phone is taken from me.

There is nothing I can do. A rag is pushed against my face as I try to resist, but the horrible scent of chloroform fills my nostrils. I’m being tied up… but I am… losing… consciousness… and… cannot…

[Caesar73]

Wow, what a dramatic finish of this Chapter - Courtney is shot. But she is clever enough to hide her phone - hopefully Courtney is not hurt too badly. Being shot is never good though ...

[AlexUSA3]

So... um... why does everyone hate this story? While it's not the same story as the original for sure, it's yet another case of Courtney finding herself in a situation where she has to learn a lesson in the face of potentially fatal consequences and get herself out of a kidnapping situation.

At the moment, I have no motivation to continue when this story is getting one quarter the comments and one third the readership of the original.

I'd love to improve on things if there is an obvious flaw I am missing or if there's some element that is lacking or is out of place.