It was a crisp evening in the hills around the city. With the yellow coloured street lamps pockmarking the hillside like fireflies and the rasp of sports cars winding through the narrow streets, it sounded and looked very much alive. People on their balconies and terraces overlooking town, some eating, drinking and having fun whilst others doing something a little more private. Claire Moore was one of these more private individuals. She was the stereotypical Hollywood Housewife: long flowing blonde hair that rested over her shoulders and shimmered in the late night moon; a pair of fake breasts that were a...
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