here's the whole thing, uncut.

FEEL FREE TO GRAMMAR NAZI THIS, IT PROBABLY NEEDS IT.

I HAPPENED TO MAKE SOME CHANGES TO SOME PARTS OF THE STORY AND I COMBINED THE MANY POSTS AND MADE THIS A WHOLE LOT LESS CONFUSING.
ENJOY :)

The sounds of pistols firing chased Scott down the beach, his dress shoes pounding the sand and his tie flying up in his face as his pursuers' guns spats bullets at his retreating back. Thankfully, he thought, as he ducked into a nearly invisible alleyway just off the beach, they were either amateurs with the guns, or drunk, because they couldn't shoot the barn door if they standing ten feet in front of it. Shinnying up a drainpipe, he disappeared from sight and watched from the rooftop beside the drainpipe as his pursuers stumbled into the alley, out of breath, and looking around in a panic.

“Lost me, chumps?” he taunted down the drainpipe, making it sound like he was right beside them. They spun around to face where his voice taunted them, then looked around again, confused. Up for some more excitement, Scott grabbed a bunch of dead leaves from the gutter and bounded from his rooftop to another across the alley, and with a wild yell, dropped the debris on the men below. He looked down to see two surprised sets of polarized aviators reflecting the roof line and stuck his tongue out at the undercover federal agents below.

Scott, at age 21, had been wanted for a number of, er, crimes against the American government for several years now. Forced to leave his inherited multimillion dollar estate in southern California, he had settled for a penthouse suite in Miami; where he had known the government was keeping close tabs on his whereabouts. A redneck at heart, Scott owned more than his legal share of gun power without license, and had committed several violent acts against government authorities when they tried to imprison him and his friends for the growing and trafficking of a few millions of dollars worth of illegal drugs and weapons to the Russian mafia.

Now, Scott was standing on a rooftop in Jamaica, running from American federal agents while he was supposed to be on a relaxing holiday at a five star hotel. Ducking down on the roof when the agents drew their pistols, he looked around for an escape route to get him back to the hotel. Crawling to the peak of the roof, he slid down the other side without a sound and stood up. He could see the silhouette of a young woman wearing a black form-fitting assassins' get up standing at the other end of the building, watching the sunset. As the sun slid down behind a distant island, she turned around, looking right at him, her strangely familiar bright green eyes boring deep into his, straight strands of dark hair floating around her tanned face on the soft breeze. She was in his way of escape.

Shouts from the street below brought his thoughts back to the problem at hand, and he motioned to her to get down low on the rooftop. He ran across the roof and jumped across the gap to the next building, again with no sound. She quickly stood up and followed suit, making no sound despite the heels on her black boots. “Smart people, aren't they?” she asked in a low, sarcastic voice, referring to Scott's pursuers. “Aren't they. Now let's get out of here before we're caught. By the way you're dressed I'm assuming you don't wish to be seen either.” Scott replied in a low, uninviting tone.

As they quietly jumped roof to roof across the small Jamaican town in the dying light of the sunset, Scott's thoughts ran wild. Who was this girl? Why was she so familiar? At the edge of the town, he stopped to survey the route back to the hotel, a gated community a little ways from the town. Looking behind him, he realized the girl was still following him. Once again, their eyes met, each drilling into the others'; as if to try and figure out who the other was. “Scott!” she whispered in disbelief. Instantly, his mind flashed back to the last time anybody had called him Scott.

A summer day about fifteen years ago, a tea party in a familiar back yard in the back hills of Colorado with a close friend. A girl, the same age, pouring him iced tea into a plastic cup. “Want some more tea, Scott?” she giggled, her green eyes meeting his. “Camille! Watch out, you'll spill the tea!” he giggled back, through a mouth full of apple pie. The iced tea started to flow over the rim of the cup as she clumsily tried to set the plastic teapot back on the table while shaking with a fit of giggles.

“Camille?” He whispered, incredulously; not believing that this was really who was standing in front of him. He reached out to touch her. She reached out to him, their hands met and fingers intertwined, each pair of eyes never leaving the other. Was this really the girl from his childhood? The girl who he had sleepovers and tea parties and played lego with for the first six and a half years of his life? “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Russia?”

“Long story short, I didn't like it there and left as soon as I could. And I thought you were in California?”

“Miami.”

“What happened?”

“I'll tell you on the plane ride.”

“Plane?”

“Yes, plane.” he let go of her hands and jumped down from the roof to the ground. “Coming?” he asked, turning around as she followed suit and dropped silently from the roof. “Possibly.” she said with a grin.

Scott watched her make a face as her ears popped during takeoff. “What?” she questioned him.

“Your face.”

“Ha. Ha. Mr. Funny Guy.” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Want a drink?” Scott asked, signalling for a flight attendant. “What have you got?” “Anything you want.” he said with a smile. “Anything sounds good, it's been a long day.” she replied, smiling back. “So, Miami?” she inquired. “Unfortunately.” “Let's hear it.” And he told her his life, from right where it had left off, fifteen years ago.

What was that bright light in her eyes? Was the first thought when Camille woke up. “Ungghhhhh.” She groaned as she tried to open her eyes to the brightness coming from the windows of the small, unfamiliar bedroom. She looked around, not remembering what had happened after she had got on Scott's private jet. Right. Private jet. If you owned one you would have money, and booze. Which Scott had all of. Over drinks, and more drinks, Scott had told her his life story since he had last seen her. Then he had kissed her. And she didn't protest it or stop. More drinks, some ice cream, more kissing. The last thing she remembered was Scott saying they should check out his bedroom. She instantly sat up. Oh my god. She thought as she looked quickly around the room for her clothes. Not seeing them, she looked down and realized she was still wearing her undercover outfit. She looked to the other side of the king-size bed, in the tiny jet bedroom, where Scott was just beginning to stir.

Thanking God that he had not seen the damn Russian mafia tattoo on her wrist; she checked him out for the first, non-drunken time. He really was the same Scott, just older, more attractive. She lay back down, a splitting headache making itself at home between her ears; and tried to relax to the strangely calming sound of the jet's turbines as Scott sleepily opened one eye. “Morning.” he murmured, with a smile, twining his fingers into her long hair, playing with the long,soft locks. “Morning. Do you have any ibuprofen? And I just remembered, I never thought to ask where the hell we're going.” She asked groggily, sitting up once again.“No, we can get some when we land; and were going somewhere with no Russians or Americans.” He explained “I'm assuming by what you're wearing that you didn't get out of Russia on the greatest terms with the government, or something of the sort; and I can't go back to the States.” “So, where does that mean?” She demanded to know. “Prepare for landing at YVR.” Came the fuzzy voice of the pilot from the speaker on the ceiling. He winked at her. She looked at him, incredulous that they could not go to the States, but he that he would choose a place that couldn't possibly be any closer to America; and the Italian mobsters that had been on her back trying to gain the wealth of her many talents. “I can't be seen anywhere the Italian mafia has people, generally the Commercial Drive area.” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Damn it all! What the hell have you been doing to get the world's most dangerous mafias on your ass?!” Scott punched the metal wall above the headboard. “I'll explain it someday, how are we going to do this?”

After establishing a list of places Camille could not be found, Scott called to reserve the penthouse suite at the Sheraton Hotel in Richmond and had a black Mercedes-Benz with limo-tinted windows brought to the runway, beside the jet. Classy clothes were found for Camille to wear, as well as large sunglasses and a Vancouver Canucks hat.

“NO! Damnit, Andrei! I can't do it! Don't expect me to come back anytime soon, in fact, don't think you're EVER going to see me again!” Camille shouted into her cell phone, then hung up, clearly frustrated and burying her face in her hands. “What was all that about?” asked Scott, coming into Camille's room, where she was sitting on the bed, almost in tears. The sun was just setting over the beautiful view out the wall of windows on the western side of the room. “Don't even worry about it.” was all her uninviting tone said, closing off the subject. “Anyways, I'm going out tonight. You can come if you think you can keep up.” she smiled mischievously, trying to disguise her little emotional outburst. Opening the door to the walk-in closet she pulled out the all black form-fitting outfit he had first seen her in a few days ago in Jamaica. Slipping into the closet to get changed, she couldn't help but think how good Scott had been to her the past couple days, how he made her stomach churn with butterflies. After the first night in the hotel, she had stopped trying to cover her tattoo, Scott had seen it and didn't seem to care. The again, he had no clue what her orders from Andrei were.

She had been sent to Jamaica to assassinate a man that knew too much about Andrei's operations, not knowing it was Scott. Andrei didn't like anybody outside of the mafia to know his plans; and for a rather large wad of cash, he had Camille assassinate anybody that knew too much. She had postponed answering Andrei's calls since that night in Jamaica and had put off talking with Scott about what had happened the past fifteen years, not wanting him to find out why they had met again.

As she was changing and tucking her knife into her belt there was a rustle on the other side of the half closed door. Scott slipped into the closet as she poked her head through the hole in her skintight sweater.

Shutting the door behind him, he watched Camille as she pulled the sweater on. Scott was treated to the sight of a black lacy bra, and perfectly toned abs. “What?” she questioned in a low voice as Scott moved towards her, placing his hands on her hips. “Oh, nothing.” he replied, planting a kiss on her cheek. “Just that I think I might lo--” Scott was cut short by a small explosion and the heavy tread of boots down the hallway into the bedroom. “Check the surrounding areas, and secure the premises.” came a voice from the other side of the door. “If they decide to be difficult, shoot them.”

Trapped, Camille and Scott clung together. “What do we do now?” Camille whispered. “Stand our ground?” Scott looked her in the eyes. “I would rather not spend the rest of my life in prison, which is what both of us are subject I'm sure.” “I guess drug dealers aren't much better than assassins. You know, I was supposed to assassinate you in Jamaica. When I realized who I was sent to kill, I couldn't do it.” “As I was saying, I really think I might love you. In fact, I'm almost positive I do.” Scott whispered softly to Camille. “I love you t--” Camille was cut short by Scott's mouth on her own. The door creaked open; and a SWAT trooper stormed in, cutting them short. “Put your hands up!” The SWAT trooper yelled. “No!” they yelled back in defiant unison. “Pzzt! Pzzt! Pzzt! Pzzt! Pzzt! Pzzt!” Faster than they had began, two lives were lost.

Short story #1

I thought some off my english assignments deserved to be displayed.










Up and down the street is an air of celebration. The sun has just set and it is New Years Eve in the busy downtown core of Puerto Vallarta. Palm trees line the wide brick walk at the side of the one-way cobblestone main street. The brick walk overlooks a short sandy beach dotted with sharp rocks and strewn with beautiful sand sculptures of Santa Claus and mermaids. The trees are adorned with festive white Christmas lights twirled around the slender trunks. Cars, trucks, taxis, and even ATVs rush down the cobble road in large numbers, full of people and playing loud music. At street level there are people all over the sidewalks, tourists and Mexicans alike. There are small souvenir shops and tequila shops, crowded bars and big booming night clubs all the way up and down the bustling Malecon strip. In the main square a huge stage with strobe lights and big refrigerator sized amplifiers is set up, a band just arriving to start the festivities. One club is blasting Lady Gaga, another Usher and from a third club further down the street LMFAO is heard screaming “Shots! Shots! Shots!” There is the faint smell of frying pub food, tequila and stale beer, mixed with the musty smell of West Coast Mexico.

Adam and Julie surveyed the pandemonium as the street was shut off to vehicle traffic when the band started to play. They had lain by the pool for the past week at the hotel and had decided that it was time to get out and see Puerto Vallarta. They took a cab to the north end of the Malecon, with the plan to work their way down to the south end. They ended up stopping for drinks less than halfway down the strip in an empty bar that had quickly filled up after the sun set.

The bar itself was a pretty neat little place, with a bar at one end and tables on the balcony looking out onto the street and the ocean; a small dance floor in between. The bar was now busy with people ordering drinks and the dance floor filled with people, socializing, drinking and carrying on. The tables on the balcony were now full and there were people waiting to get a table. “Do you want to go down to see the band?” Julie questioned Adam, who was busily cracking ice cubes from his vodka-soda between his teeth and watching people jumping up and down to the loud Spanish rock music blaring from the stage. “Huh? What was that?” Adam asked, his mind finally coming back down to earth. “I asked if you wanted to go down to the street and walk around. And stop biting your ice! It’s annoying!” Julie repeated, wondering just what Adam had been thinking about in his zoned-out state. “Sorry, I was thinking!”

She was getting frustrated with Adam’s distanced behavior today, and wanted to get out and see the rest of the city. He had been like this all day, since the moment they got up. She was worried that he was having second thoughts about their relationship, that this trip wasn’t a getaway for the two of them as they had thought it would be; that it was just tearing them apart by spending so much time together.

“Julie? Julieeeeee, earth to Jules!” Julie came back from her thoughts as Adam waved his hand in front of her face, finally pulling her out of her little misery session. “What’s wrong? Is there something bothering you? I mean, besides my ice-biting skills.” Adam joked, in an attempt to cheer Julie up.

“We’re going for a walk.” Julie demanded, getting up from her chair, to make sure Adam would go and not order another drink. “I just said that.” Adam replied, confused; as he flagged the waiter for their bill. Adam paid the waiter and they went down the stairs into the bedlam of the streets. Adam hooked Julie’s arm in his, so they would not be separated in the crowds. His other hand went into his pocket and fiddled around for a minute. Julie noticed, and gave Adam a questioning look. “What? I’m just making sure my wallet is still there.” Adam defended himself, and then quickly asked “Hey, what time is it?””I don’t know, it can’t be long--“

Julie was cut off by a loud explosion outside a tequila shop across the road. Pieces of rock and shards of glass were flying everywhere. Adam pulled Julie down the stairs onto the beach and threw his body on top of Julie to protect her from the flying debris that was whipping over the retaining wall.

“Stay down!” he warned Julie, as the debris stopped flying. “No, let’s get out of here! Now!” Julie argued. “Okay, let’s go.” Adam said and started to stand up, when gunshots rang out from the street above. Terrified, Julie clung to Adam and pulled him down again. Another explosion went off, this time it was bigger and ground-shaking. Julie and Adam instinctively pressed themselves against the wall to avoid being hit by more lethal debris. The explosions continued, and Adam dug deep into his pocket while sheltering Julie with his other arm. He withdrew his arm from around Julie’s shoulders and took her left hand in his right and slid a sparkling white-gold ring with a large diamond implanted in it onto her index finger. Julie lifted her tearstained face to look up at Adam.

“I want you to know all I want is to spend the rest of my life with you. No matter how soon it ends, or how long it lasts.” He pulled her close and held on tight as the explosions continued.