Brutal day today, I am located in the heart of a Yellow Snow warning (I know I know plenty of jokes abound)
Going to turn the heat up and enjoy writing something fun.
Chapter Seventeen: The Blood Bond
The boy’s name was Matty. He was young, with the thin, unfinished look of someone who had grown too fast on a diet of cheap carbs and anxiety. He had arrived at Flat 4B at 7:00 AM sharp, trembling so violently his teeth actually clicked together.
Kieran had opened the door, looked him up and down with dead, shark-like eyes, and pointed to the centre of the rug.
"Kneel."
Matty had knelt.
That was two hours ago.
He hadn't slept.
I honestly don't remember... they might, or at the very least, they run a micro-loan system that's keeping half the town afloat/employed in a recession. They own the law firm, I remember that. Ms. Patel of the eternally deadly pink pleather
To Clarify, Lydia and Steve Hickey own the entire intersection. The Tim Hortons. Steve's Steakhouse, the carwash, and Madam Chao's Nail Emporium. Read Capt. vs Goofball if you want to learn about Steve's inability to keep his chaos under control, and his Sister's ability to turn his money making schemes into a profitable Empire.
I learned when I was abroad, in a place where there were only five westerners in the entire city, that sometimes you can't choose your friends, you have to forge them.
I love the Kyle-Garrett dynamic in this story.
Bully-Bullied to real best friends, showing how much of High School was nothing more than performative bullshit.
Bobby's a fan favourite, that one character that doesn't do what you expect and sets off on his own path. There's a sequel that gets into him when he's a bit older, and his fondness for Timmy McCormick
Chapter Four: The Cleanup
The Crime Scene
The silence that followed was heavier than the one before. It wasn't the silence of anticipation; it was the forensic silence of a bomb site after the dust has settled, when all that's left is to catalogue the damage.
Garrett lay on his back on the cold, unforgiving concrete, staring up at the greasy underbelly of a 1998 Ford F-150. A single, perfect drop of black oil hung from the transmission case, a glistening teardrop poised to