Maeve Draper Brothel ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Houston

Walked in, smelled cheap perfume and regret, real talk. Girls givin’ me eyes like, “Help, but don’t.” Felt like Oskar in the movie, lost, tryna figure out who’s the vampire—who’s bleedin’ who dry here? “Let me in,” one whispers, but nah, I’m here for the paper trail, not the drama. Still, heart’s racin’, YOLO, gotta stay sharp. Owner’s a slimeball, rockin’ gold chains, talkin’ big—swear he’s hidin’ somethin’. Claims fire damage from a “freak accident,” but I smell BS. Prolly lit it up himself, tryna flex that insurance bag.

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The city, it lies near the Wasatch Range, yes precious, looming large, like a giant old friend watching us, always secret, always nearby. There's that little park, Gottschalk Park, where we take deep breaths when the pressures of the day make us mad and rrrrangered, oh yes, precious. Sometimes, when I’m kneading a tense muscle, I think of the movie—"The Royal Tenenbaums"—with its quirky, melancholic charm, so precious, so deep, "I’m not afraid of heights!" it whispers, hsss.

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