SHE'S BACK (and so am I)!
After a very long hiatus, I am officially tackling the 600+ page monster that is my rewrite. I have a long, long way to go, but I had to start by giving Claire the dramatic, personality-filled introduction she deserves. I will not officially post it to Wattpad or A03 until the entire chapter is done, sorry lovelies!
Here is a little taste of the brand-new Chapter 1 opening monologue. (Shoutout to my fellow writers who need wide paragraph spaces to keep their brains from melting ๐ง โจ).
Let me know what you think! ๐
"(Before we begin, imagine a record scratch. Freeze the frame right here: me, sitting atop my custom cruiser, looking hot, holding a perfectly brewed coffee. Great. Now letโs talk.)
A Saskatchewan morning is usually defined by two things: an endless blue horizon and a wind sharp enough to remind you exactly how far north you are. Sitting atop my custom cruiser, feeling the engine purr like a heavy, mechanical beast beneath me, I took a deliberate, slow sip of my coffeeโtwo-thirds caffeinated drip, one-third skim dairy additive, no sucrose. It was brewed to perfection, the rich aroma cutting through the crisp prairie air. I reached up, tucking a stray strand of natural ginger hair behind my ear, making sure my favorite red hibiscus hairpin was locked firmly in place.
My side of the property line was a monument to absolute control. From the bold, two story architecture of my house to the dirt of my driveway, everything was curated. Even my outfit was a calculated compositionโa forest green, sequined mesh bodice, a black lace choker, and a golden โCโ buckle holding up the form-fitting bell-bottom jeans I wore every single day. And, of course, the red stilettos resting against the motorcycle pegs. It was a lot of effort for a Tuesday morning, but I had an image to maintain. Down in the yard sat my customized garden beds, where Iโd spent two years stubbornly defying the elements to nurse a patch of rare, tropical hybrid lilies. It was a triumph of sheer will.
Look, Iโm a digital artist. I like my compositions balanced, my coffee painfully specific, and my daily routine entirely under my control. But any hope for a quiet suburban backdrop ended the day the MacDougalsโpreviously known as the Falconesโmoved in next door. I don't actually care about their old New York mob life; my real issue is that their aesthetic is a public nuisance. Looking over my handlebars, I could see their yardโa chaotic graveyard of plastic lawn ornaments, discarded crates, and laundry lines heavy with velvet tracksuits. In the past six years, Iโve watched a miniature zoo escape, I've found my compost bin being used as a mafia safe, and Iโve developed a literal sixth sense for recognizing Uncle Cheech's fermented sock-wine. Honestly, their schemes completely lack imagination.
The only genuinely entertaining fixture on this block is the man assigned to watch them: Special Agent Strait McCool. Heโs the Mountie. Full uniform, immaculate posture, and a rigid dedication to procedure thatโs somehow more ridiculous than Jimmy's actual crimes. Iโve known McCool as long as I've known the Falcones. He doesnโt live here, but with the amount of time he spends at Jimmyโs beck and call, heโs practically my favorite piece of neighborhood lawn ornament.
For over half a decade, our relationship has been the pinnacle of professional tolerance. Iโd see him at the property line, weโd exchange a polite nod, or I'd drop a dry, sarcastic comment about the Saskatchewan wind just to watch his jawline short-circuit. Psssh, yeah right! Iโm the neighbor who revs her motorcycle engine a little too early in the morning just to watch the curtains twitch. Iโm the woman who drops blunt, unfiltered truths that could make a seasoned sailor blush, delivering them with a sweet, heavy-lidded smile that leaves men completely paralyzed. I don't play by suburban rules. I am the exception to them.
McCool and I have a history of... letโs call it highly charged geographical proximity. For over half a decade, Iโve been a walking, talking hazard to his boy-scout composure. Iโve leaned against my fence in form-fitting jeans, blowing sweet kisses at him while he tries to log a zoning violation. Iโve purred sarcastic critiques of his parking jobs until his cheeks turned as red as his serge jacket.
Iโve always kept it playful. A little harmless baiting to keep life interesting. Iโm not interested in getting him to bedโฆ I'm interested in seeing whatโs under that stoic Mountie. He is so wonderfully predictable. The man treats every single citizen like a high-priority operational asset. He comes with a badge, a bizarre sense of duty, and a desperate need to file an 'Unscheduled Incident Report' for everything. Seriously, he files reports on his reports. Every other woman on the block looks at that broad-shouldered lawman and wants him in bed; me? I just want to see how long it takes to completely break his perfect little boy-scout facade.
I tried to keep my distance and play the nice, quiet neighbor, honestly. But when you live next door to a circus, eventually the clowns crash through your perimeter. And sometimes, after six years of near-perfect professionalism, they crash right through your flowerbed. The sound started, as all Falcone incidents did, with a sequence of completely incompatible noises: a loud, distorted recording of Frank Sinatra, the frantic squawking of a frightened chicken, and a series of increasingly frantic curses. I didn't even have to look away from my handlebars to know Jimmy Falcone was ruining the neighborhood vibe, and that whatever he was doing, it was definitely in violation of at least three Saskatchewan provincial laws.
I took one more sipโit was the only thing I controlled perfectly in this six-block radius. I reached over, tapped my fingers twice against the motorcycle's digital dashboard out of pure habitโwishing for a real-life 'undo' buttonโand mentally prepared for the inevitable.
My rule used to be simple: until they breached the property line, it wasn't my problem."
