Author's Note:

Dear Readers,

Well, I've decided to post this book on here after receiving approving comments on Wattpad. This will be a slow updating book. I'm writing the chapters as I can and trying the make the very best ones I possibly can. I have three chapters already written and will post them as internet allows.

In this book, I am testing a writing style I dreamed up on my own (as far as I know). Over my years of reading fanfiction, I have noticed the excessive use of "was" and "were" in books instead dreaming of more creative ways to describe a scene. So, as a way of rectifying this, I will attempt to write a book with the least use of "was" and "were" possible.

All verbal communication and thought processes will have them. I am only removing them from the non-verbal communication. I thought it would sound super weird if my characters never used them, so I'm allowing them for normal conversation.

At the beginning of every chapter, I will list the word count, the "was" count, and the "were" count so that all of you may see. I really want to know what each of you think about this idea and the story idea in general so please review and let me know!

Oh, and one more thing, this will be rated M because of drug use and murder/assassination. I'm having fun with this book so don't judge! It'll be the first M book I've written so I'm looking forward to this!

sarahandmarquis

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Word Count: 2117

"Was" Count: 2

"Were" Count: 3

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CHAPTER 1:

Tap. Tap.

Bubbles rose in the clear liquid of the syringe. Trembling fingers found the bulging purple vein and pierced the delicate skin with the needle. A strong thumb pressed the plunger, driving the sweet liquid into addicted vessels.

A hesitate sigh rushed through the user as the wonderful depressant coursed through his body. In moments, his muscles relaxed, allowing him to breath calmly. Years of opiates had ruined any high he might have gained from the experience, but still allowed him a peace unable to be found in anything but that lovely needle.

Once more at harmony with the world, the gaunt figure rolled his swivel chair away from his work desk and across the tiny room to his computer. Pressing the "on" button on his laptop, he watched the slow contraption boot itself up and present him with a password screen.

Boney fingers tapped away at the short code and a deceptively fragile little finger struck the enter key. The screen turned black for a moment as the few icons loaded and a few notifications popped up to alert him of software updates.

Ignoring them, the masked gentleman clicked on the internet icon and his email pulled up. After scanning through his correspondence, finding nothing more than a few ads, not requests for work, the effects of the drug leaving him bored with anything within them, he opened a new tab and pulled up the local news and found himself disinterested within moments.

The antics of the typical criminal hardly interested him anymore.

The morphine continued its gentle flow and lulled him into a more comatose state as he landed, quite by chance, on an article discussing a new business starting in town. The title caught his attention oddly enough and, on a random impulse, he clicked the link, scrolling through the short half-page remarks of a gruntled reporter, praising the benefits of the new service.

"The Friend Shop." He whispered to himself, tossing the title and the bits of information around in his head. Apparently, an innovative entrepreneur had dreamed up an odd sight where people could rent a friend for the evening, a person of their choosing who would visit them and keep them company in a purely innocent and platonic manner.

"The Friend Shop." He repeated before closing the tab and turning away from his computer. A scowl appeared behind the white porcelain of his mask as he picked up his violin and plucked at the D string, checking the tuning despite knowing he would never allow it to be off-key.

The more his mind settled on the interesting idea, the more it drew him in, causing his mind to drift to the possibilities of having a companion, even a paid one.

Perhaps he could blame the drug pulsing in his blood, dulling his senses and natural cynicism, for his mind's inability to abandon the idea of the site, but even in a drug-induced state, the recluse couldn't deny that the thought appealed to him.

"A friend…" He whispered, staring into a space for a moment before turning back to his computer, setting aside the violin, and reopening the tab. Once more, he read through the article before slamming his laptop closed and leaving his study.

"I don't need friends." He whispered to himself as he fled to his music room, abandoning himself in his music until the betraying drug wore off. Perhaps once it had left his system, he could think properly and destroy any thoughts of ever using the site.

What use were friends to a disfigured addict such as me?

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Ding!

Blue eyes shot open and light feet scampered across vinyl tile. Small fingers pulled the handle of the microwave and pulled out the frozen meal sitting within, filling the small area with the scent of a cheap fish stick dinner.

A cute button nose wrinkled at the scent before slender fingers ripped the plastic from the black tray and carried the food to the rickety table, where waited a plastic fork and knife, gleaming up at the diner. The clear material clicked together as one stabbed the fish stick and the other cut at it.

The fork carried a small piece to the mouth of the eater and released its burden. The little woman wrinkled her nose against the flavor but chewed and swallowed despite the awful smell and taste.

Sighing, she lifted a glass of water to her lips and attempted to drown the fish stick before taking another bite. Fortunately, her phone chimed beside her, distracting her for a moment from her growling stomach and unappetizing meal.

Clicking the screen on, she opened the notification and scowled at the message staring out at her.

Hey Babe,
I saw your picture and thought you were quite a cutie! Perhaps we can get together sometime? ;)
Sam

"I'm not a whore." She whispered quietly to herself before clicking reject and going to her employee profile on The Friend Shop. "So many views…so few acceptable clients. Perhaps I should be less picky." Scoffing, she clicked over to Spotify and turned on her favorite Queen album, happily ignoring the rest of the world as the lyrics of "Another One Bites the Dust" rang in her ears.

After stomaching all the fish sticks and corresponding peas, the girl ended the music and stashed her phone away in her purse. She slid a heavy leather jacket over her vintage yellow dress before pulling out her keys.

A few steps and a click later, she plodded down her steps leading from her apartment and onto the sidewalk where a ratty car waited for her, glaring at her from one smashed headlight.

"Be quiet." She snapped and opened the passenger side and crawled across console into the driver's seat. Twisting the key into the ignition, the car roared to life after sputtering and hissing for a few moments.

As she pulled into the lane and headed to her daily grind, a common thought crossed her mind.

Why do I even bother?

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His hands shook. His body cried for more morphine. His fingers dug into gloved palms, inflicting pain to distract him from the cravings. He didn't have the time for another injection. Music must be written and plans laid out for his next mission.

Time was of an essence.

Abandoning his violin for the moment, he returned to his study and settled himself down into his computer chair once more. When he lifted the cover of his laptop, the article he had rejected some hours ago greeted him once more, shockingly still appealing to his cleared mind.

And, he paused to give the idea another thought.

Well, he reasoned with himself, any meeting could go no worse than previous meetings. None need know about his "jobs". If anything, he could lie easily. Perhaps even convince them that he was normal. His mind drifted, drawing images in his head of a relaxed evening spent with a friend who would laugh and smile and enjoy his company.

He had seen such things when roaming the darkness.

When he appeared, they were always ruined.

Could he not ruin his own evening?

Shocked at his own reaction, his fingers moved of his own accord and typed the name of the website mentioned in the article into the search engine, pulling up service with a few clicks of his mouse. Slender appendages trembled violently from lack of soothing morphine and nerves as he created a client account and inserted some basic information about himself, filling several of the spaces with lies.

Having no last name or legal occupation came as a bit of inconvenience. Also, the question inquiring as to his favored recreational activities surprised him. Pleasure for the sake of pleasure had no place in his life. Favorite movies: he watched none, not caring for the common themes of romance in most films. Accomplishments: none that he wished to speak of in proper company.

It wouldn't do to bring the law down on him either.

After long hours of deliberation, he finished his profile, refraining from posting a profile picture. At last, he began a search through the different people who might be an adequate companion. Once he had skimmed through several profiles, he slammed the laptop closed again.

"I am a fool." Flinging the chair backwards, he stormed out, unable to endure looking at those smiling faces filling each picture box. Pretty people populated the world and every glance through that website reminded him more of it.

When he reached his bedroom though, he paused. Perhaps there were more ordinary people there? He'd only seen a few of the profiles and the site had said they had twenty employees. Returning to his computer, he continued his skimming.

Moments before he flung his laptop against the wall, he found a picture which his eyes couldn't leave.

Beauty herself peered out at him.

Long blond hair concealed most of the face except for a button nose and blushing porcelain cheeks. One haunting blue eye gazed at him from behind her glass prison, locked inside the square picture box. Clicking on the link, her profile pulled up.

Beauty had a name. Christine Day.

After briefly scanning the few facts she divulged, the masked loner locked onto her. Scrolling to the bottom, he labored over a message to her, deciding in the end that the short he kept it the better and so contented himself with a concise transfer of information.

His fingers trembled once more, the mouse hovering over the "send" button. His breath rushed in his ears and his heart thundered from his chest. His eyes blurred momentarily before he jerked himself from an apprehension-induced panic attack.

Closing his eyes, his finger pressed the mouse.

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"Have you heard about last night's murder?" Christine curled her fingers tighter around the hot cup of coffee before shrugging.

"You know I don't keep up with the news." Her coworker, a woman who's name she barely remembered, dramatically rolled her eyes and thrust the morning paper into her face.

"You remember the suicide several weeks and the murder a month before that? Well, the police now believe they are connected due to similar evidence being found around the bodies and…" Here, she paused for dramatic effect only to have Christine read outload from the newspaper,

"'All cases presented strangulation as the cause of death'." Her coworker shot a nasty scowl at her.

"Thanks for stealing my thunder. But, isn't that crazy! This town may have its own serial killer." Her voice grew hushed and the woman even stole several nervous looks about herself, answered only by a roll of the eyes from Christine.

"I doubt we're in danger. Currently everyone who has died has been somebody important. A serial like that won't mess with us peons." Gasping, the woman, aghast, stared down at the logical blond.

"I am no peon! I am very important." Sniffing, the woman tossed her head and abandoned the newspaper and Christine, preferring the company of those who believed her to be someone. Sighing quietly, Christine glanced over the paper once more before tossing it aside.

"Murders..." She murmured, draining the last bit of her coffee, a disgusting drink but excellent for keeping her awake and functional. As the cup clicked against the formica countertop, her phone chimed, eliciting a sigh from the girl as she pulled it from her pocket and clicked it on.

Another request from The Friend Shop. Rolling her eyes, she proceeded to read the short message.

Dear Mademoiselle,
I would be honored if you might consider me as a possible addition to your clientele.
Sincerely,
Erik Noir

Her fingers moved immediately to the reject button out of sheer habit but she paused them in motion, rereading the message. Firstly, her cheeks stained at his proper addressing of her. Mademoiselle…he appeared to be a polite sort of person. Secondly, she noted his lack of remarks on her appearance, merely inquiring she would welcome his addition to her "friends", not that she had any yet.

Curious, she followed the link back to his page and skimmed through the scarce facts given. Surprisingly, most blanks proved empty, a fact she found quiet odd. So far, any man she had met had filled their pages with important things about them, trying to make themselves looked appealing to anyone who viewed it.

This man hadn't.

Nothing except a name and a simple description:

A masked, reclusive composer.

Perhaps she had lost her mind but Christine smiled slightly to herself and returned to the message. After a few moments of staring at the black letters staining the white message box, she pressed "accept".