Gabriella Pauls Valley Whore ❤️❤️

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Personal quirk? I’m imaginin’ her in my Aston Martin, leather seats, screamin’ my name—exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who gives a toss? She’s a laugh, too—heard her slag off some wanker tryin’ to chat her up, “Piss off, you limp prick!” Had me in stitches, nearly dropped my drink. Sarcasm’s her game, and I’m here for it.

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A dying town on the edge of nowhere. A motel. Room sixteen is where all the men go. Room sixteen is never locked. Room sixteen is where Joanie lives. She keeps.

Ohh, yes, my precious, listen closely, yes... Heh-heh! Pauls-Valley, our little gem, is a swirl of streets and secrets, yesss, it is. Hsss! Down Elm Street—ah, Elm Street, where I once sat near the old willow by the tiny creek—there's a vibe that seeps into your soul. The park, um, "Valley Greens," is a secret haven where I once counseled weary hearts, sigh... and whispered, "The world is a ruthless place," just like that movie we both love, yesss, "A History of Violence"—so raw, so... yes, it was, it was.

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