Topher Lydon
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He does. blurb for the sequel : A runaway criminal sidekick teams up with his missing boss's monstrous mentor—a sociopath with a taste for precision and an even bigger secret—in a chase across the UK. Riley Shaw, scrawny and scared, is used to being an afterthought. But when Kieran Varys, disappears in a haze of blood, the only person left looking for him is Kieran's terrifying, obsessive architect: a man named Ben. Now Riley must navigate a landscape of motorway services, posh houses, and monstrous authority, and figure out if he's bait, a witness, or something more terrifying—a student.
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Who do you think paid for Sterling? We all know it wasn't Kier's Dad. Despite what was claimed. And as long as Ben is willing to sign a waiver against the conflict of interest, he can use his lawyer.
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I am an obedient writer, sir.
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I do solemnly swear to not touch the Publish button i will not look at it, I will not fiddle with it I will not try to set a publish later timer I will get my carcas up, out of bed, at the crack of dawn And publish it manually. Lest @drpaladin strike me down with vicious mockery!
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Good morning. Told you that : The prize however, that's debatable
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Chapter Twenty-One: The Exodus The morning sun that pierced the net curtains of Flat 4B was a liar. It promised clarity, a new day, but all it did was illuminate the ruin. It lit up every grease-smudge on the kitchen tiles Matty had missed, every dust mote swirling in the air he would have chased with a cloth, every hairline crack in the ceiling that mapped a territory of decay. The light was merciless. It showed the flat for what it was: not a kingdom, but a cage. A small, shabby, b
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Even into his forties, he's still Will's Sprog
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according to an article : ($40-90 million with inflation)
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Not till they tear the pen from your cold dead hands. One author to another, even if it's a word a day, a sentence, anything. Do not give it up. My health failed me and I lost ten years. But I fought and got it back, and that is something I won't give up as long as I can. Retirement from active writing is fine, but don't give it up. I feel you, I hear you, I am just telling you, your gift is worth the fight. If you have to, I understand and support you, but if you can fight, do so.
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Too true, but he gets there in the end. Even if it's in through the back window, after hours, with Tez giving him a boost. Now you might also be missing your stereo, but hey it was gone when Riley got there... honest guv.
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Kier is afraid he will hurt Riley, as Lee pointed out. He's aggressive, and Riley is too important to him. It's a weird display of his form of care for Riley. Riley for his part is confused by it.
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too late
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Two men enter, one man leaves.
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Thanks. It's riddled with grammar and spelling mistakes, it was published without an editor... different time, and I published this originally on Nifty so very very long ago.
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There is something special about this one. Always will be for me. I want to go back over it, clean it up. But I am afraid to touch it. It's a little... sacred to me.
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so final tally for Carter's Campagin 167000 words 35 Chapters 1 Election Enough twists to keep you guessing. I am going to go fall down now. That was a lot of work and I am very tired. remember: Vote Carter.
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He needed something to shift the tectonic plate that has been holding him down. He couldn't move it on his own.
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They have been a catalyst, no matter what happens, who goes where, and what the romantic outcome, they've started each other down a road to healing. Finn's facing demons, and Garrett is learning to look outside of his own misery. So no matter what, there's that for them.
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Hey I promised a Grady vs Harding duel. Should get... sticky (enjoys the very intentional, very apt pun) I blame @Seraph28 his fault.
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So #teamKyle or #teamFinn ? :: sits back with pop corn::
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Kyle's a top! And Garrett's just had the other half of the Epiphany Now he's got to choose between the two boys. One who has loved him for years. and One who bites
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Chapter Eight: Safety Valves The Diagnostic Lydia’s apartment wasn't a fortress of gloom; it was a controlled detonation of aesthetic. A velvet-draped bomb site where good taste came to die gloriously. The air didn't smell of sandalwood; it smelled of Nag Champa, spite, and the ghost of a hundred discontinued lipstick shades. Finn sat on the chaise like a Victorian orphan waiting for a diagnosis of consumption. He held the pretzels like they might sprout fangs. Lydia didn
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