With the gunmen guarding the gates outside, it was hard to tell whether you were a guest or a prisoner.
He would never bring his really family to this dump, but it never failed to impress the single moms he preyed on as a timeshare salesman.
*oops, “real,” not “really”
Just once, Marisol thought….just once she would like to be the one to enjoy the amenities offered…instead of dreaming about it from the doorway of another room to be cleaned.
Time to sleep on the chaise longue until breakfast and then it would be Raymond’s turn to stake-out the pool-side furniture.
The Reata had rebuilt itself, more careful of hiding its true self this time, and hungrily awaited it’s next visitors.
*its, not it’s (sorry about that grievous typo)!
It was tropically gorgeous and seemingly ideal, but empty of human interaction or enjoyment, with grey clouds creeping in, and Sandra realized her shrink would see the painting as encapsulating her depression, not helping to ease it.
Eric decided to drop his appeal the moment he arrived at the federal minimum security prison.
The postcard was a constant reminder of the beginning of his new life, never again would he ring up orders at the convenience store; he had found his sugar mama.
After the kids had grown and flew the coop, mom finally got to go to Jamaica.
Comments are closed.