August Booth Novels & Stories

I guess it's from lack of rest. “Just consider it.” Augustus is a being of fire, or insusceptible to fire, since we definitely realize he can't kick the burnt bucket,” I chime in a bit, “and until a couple of months earlier I had no idea that it's a... whatever it is — talk. Gabriel narrows his eyes, he doesn't really see what I'm trying to reveal to him. What I'm talking about is that Augusto is the body's bully — let it go, trying to collectively turn down the volume of the individuals passing by us.

August drawled sarcastically, lifting his eyebrows. “We haven’t tested my effectiveness yet,” Toby pointed out, adjusting his grip of the chef’s knives. “Let’s talk in twenty minutes.” “No,” Aislen held a finger up at him in warning. “No Toby, stand down. August, what the f-k?” She fisted her hips. “What the actual f-k do you think you’re doing? I thought we agreed that I’d stay here and out of trouble?”

“Good then.” “Well, I have something to say,” August said in a final tone. “Since your schedule isn’t that tight today, I would be getting off work early.” “And why is that?” “Because of you, Giovanni Rueben,” August sighed. “You make me sick I can’t stand you anymore.” “I’ll take that as a compliment so yes, you may leave.”

I asked and I could already feel my face blushing knowing the fact that I’m that certain someone. “Yeah, someone. He’s actually shirtless right now.” I looked at myself and I don’t even have to ask who this certain someone was because I literally know who it was. I eventually grabbed my shirt and slipped back on them. “So why’d you slipped back on your shirt?” August asked. “Because I’m feeling cold.” “Lies.” “Huh?” “Never mind.” August paused and then grabbed his glass of whiskey. “I think it’s about time for another toast.”

I guess it's from lack of rest. “Just consider it.” Augustus is a being of fire, or insusceptible to fire, since we definitely realize he can't kick the burnt bucket,” I chime in a bit, “and until a couple of months earlier I had no idea that it's a... whatever it is — talk. Gabriel narrows his eyes, he doesn't really see what I'm trying to reveal to him. What I'm talking about is that Augusto is the body's bully — let it go, trying to collectively turn down the volume of the individuals passing by us.

he beamed, holding up his phone. Theodore, distracted from his reading, eyed the phone with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. "What's that? Not another lady friend of yours, I hope? Just so you know, I'm not interested in your conquests." Augustus' smile was stuck on his face, awkward and stiff. He had jumped through hoops and even begged to get the contact info Theodore had asked for. This was the thanks he got? He let the fake grin drop and slowly pocketed his phone, saying flatly to Theodore, "Alright, you're not interested. I get it. I'll just take it back, then."

"You wanted to apologize, didn't you? I'm offering you the most direct and effective way. Booth, get your phone and start recording." Booth hesitated before pulling out his phone and aiming it at Kate. "Whenever you're ready."

Augustus opened her legs wide. "Bad girl." “I just want to taste what Theodore didn't give us. Why don't you give it to me.” Augustus stopped and his face became serious. “If you don't agree, I will call Theo and show him our position. It's okay for him to kill me as long as he throws you out.” Augustus laughed out loud as if he were a demon. Heather showed fear in her eyes because the man seemed to be going crazy. She bit her lip and closed her eyes as tears flowed in her heart along with her heart's grief over the dead butterfly because Augustus was already entering his manhood at Heather's entrance.

My throat tightened. “Yes,” I managed. “I did.” “Good.” She smiled wider. “Do you need help with anything?” “No, thank you.” I hesitated, then added, “Do you need my help with anything?” She shook her head. “Nothing at all.” Her calm was grounding. Normal. I clung to it. Before I could say anything else, his voice cut through the air behind me. “Camilla.” I turned slowly. August stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, posture rigid. He was glaring hard enough to make my stomach flip. There was something coiled about him now, something sharp and restrained.

Bolivar’s hair looked like it had had a can of secondhand lard poured over it. Once every few months Bol would change clothes and go visit his wife, but his efforts at improving his appearance never went much higher than his mustache, which he occasionally tried to wax with grease of some kind. “How come you to quit the riverboat?” Pea Eye asked. “I was too young and pretty,” Augustus said. “The whores wouldn’t let me alone.”