30 For 30 Catching Hell Novels & Stories

Celina He closes the door and slowly runs his gaze over my body before looking me in the eyes. His proposition is straightforward and leaves no doubt what he wants. “Your services will be required for the next three hours. I’ll pay you three grand on top of the hourly rate.” Three thousand dollars. I didn’t expect that much even for three hours. The agency charges a thousand dollars an hour and I receive fifty percent. One hundred percent of tips are mine. I stand in place with my purse on my arm and my fidgety fingers sliding up and down the strap. “Yes, sure, that sounds great.” God, I sound like a teenager. His eyes go to my hand and my cheeks burn. His cock will take the place of the vin

When he got to where I was, he held out the tool for me to see clearly "Please." I continued struggling against the bindings desperately. When he reached out to grab my arm, I suddenly froze, closing my eyes and turning my face away. "You Thompsons have heartlessly killed so many of our kind. You killed even those who never killed a human for centuries. You've tortured us and hunted us like Prey." Venom dripped from his voice. The darkness in his eyes intensified as he trailed the knife over my skin teasingly. I couldn't stop trembling in utter terror.

Arkin exclaimed, "What?! Airport? Philippines? Hold on, we're in the middle of a shoot!" Instead of waiting – he hated waiting – Caspien asked Arkin's location and drove near the set. He stopped at a 7-Eleven store. He didn't want to go near, since from where he was standing, he could see a crowd swarming all over the area of the shoot. So, he decided to watch from afar, eating noodles behind the convenience store's transparent glass. Just then, his phone rang. It was Max, his dad's trusted bodyguard. In other words, this was a call from his dad.

I was just hoping that Daniel was winning whatever they were arguing about ; and if it was about which football team to support I prayed that he was going to convert Angelo from a Spur's fan into a Gunners supporter . I had a couple of scheduling issues with regards to content that had to be out by Friday. It was already change of season and. It was raining hard and I am usually done with work by Wednesday morning while everyone is sleeping. I was almost done with everything and I had finished talking to the client concerned about the delay in content going out to his audience a bit later than expected and he was a bit panicky at the beginning but understanding at the end. I was about

"A billionaire is in search of his daughter he dumped at a house in Coronado nineteen years ago, whosoever finds or has the details of the child will be rewarded a whopping sum of thirty million dollars, you are free to contact us on this private line if you know the whereabouts of the child. +1(301) 2233 545...." "Thirty million dollars?" Helga screamed with her might!

Thirty days. One month. A single, heartbeat-stopping wager. Benjamin Parker was the sun. A golden-haired scholarship recruit with flour on his hands and a heart that he wore—vulnerable and beating—on his sleeve. He spent weeks chasing the school’s "Ice Prince," offering handmade tarts and a smile that could melt the coldest winter. He thought his persistence finally paid off when Jonathan Hayes—the obsidian-eyed, terrifyingly beautiful heir to a tech empire—pinned him against the school gates and claimed him in front of everyone. But the "Golden Romance" was a lie from the very first kiss. Jonathan didn't choose Benjamin because of his heart; he chose him because he was a convenient t

“Wolfe owns thirty-six percent of this hospital. He called the board. If I admit your father now, I could lose my license.” “You’re telling me,” I said slowly, trembling, “that you’re letting a dying man rot in the fucking parking lot because a rich bastard made a call?” “I’m telling you,” he said softly, “my hands are tied.” I pressed my palms to my temples, tried to breathe, but the floor tilted under me. “Okay,” I choked out. “How much. What would it take to keep him here?” Helm glanced over his clipboard. “Thirty thousand a week. Maybe a little less if we reduce hospice, but given his deterioration....”

he said. "Sit down," I said. Pleasantly. He sat. I sat across from him. I picked up the coffee. It was correct; black, two sugars. He had gotten that right for thirty days and then it had taken getting it wrong for long enough to understand what getting it right meant. "I'm not going to ask you to come back," he said, immediately. Like he had rehearsed this opening because he knew the alternative; the managed, strategic Ethan Cole version of this conversation would produce the wrong outcome.