Beneath This Man Book Novels & Stories

Carter asks with a smile on his lips, and I shake my head, fighting the smile that is on my lips. “Nothing. Can I use these?” I ask as I point to the books and he nods his head with a smile as he begins to type away on his laptop. I grab a few books and take them to the desk when the door opens, and a man walks in. He is tall, athletic with blonde hair and brown eyes. He has glasses on and is handsome. Not otherworldly like the shifters or the gods, he is decent looking for a human. I look back down and open the book.

Not by far. I reached for the whiskey Diane kept hidden in her desk. Poured two fingers. Let the burn clear my thoughts. Then I whispered the name that still coiled in the dark corners of my mind. Reynolds. The old man. The quiet puppeteer behind all of us. I didn’t trust Raymond, but I understood him. Anger, ego, power-lust—that made sense. That was human. But Reynolds? He didn’t act. He waited. He didn't fight. He watched.

Damon shrugged, pushing his head forward to a book that was placed on the man's table, and the title that was written by the side was vivid, at least, enough for him to see. “That book,” he announced, raising an eyebrow. “Walking free by Dr. Munjed Muderis, in the year 2014.” “You've read it already?” The man kept revealing the shock on his face, after every word that left his mouth. “Yes,” Damon replied almost immediately, placing one hand in his pocket. “About three times to be precise, so yeah, that should be an easy guess.” “Then why did you use two options?” the man questioned, squinting.

We needed all the evidence we could get against Mr Ranault even if it means coming to see a stranger alone in a library. The library had another floor for history and science while the bottom floor was for kids books and pretty much basic stuff. I searched around the ground floor of the library but there was only two teenagers,some women and two nerdy collage guys. There is no way any of these people had that manly voice I heard on the phone last night. Just as I was about to go upstairs,I saw a man seating in one of the chairs with a book in his hands titled: A little life. The man had brown skin like dark chocolate. He pulled the book down a little to be able to peep his eyes out and look

Butt naked? I sink to my knees beside the crate and pick up the top book, a small white-covered paperback with a surreal picture of a sun with a human face on it. Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s Discourse on the Origin and Basis of Inequality Among Men. The pages are sepia and brittle as fall leaves. I’ve never heard of it.

Somewhere in the city—several stories above, in a steel and glass building—Julian Blackwood lay in his dark, sleek bedroom, staring at the book she had given him. He'd never intended to keep it. When Lena Carter had offered it to him—those gentle words, that thoughtful crease between her eyebrows—he'd intended to refuse. But something in her eyes had taken away his intention. It was neither flirting nor pretense. It was genuine. Silent. Generous. He hated kindness. It broke things open. Julian gazed down at the book. The cover was unadorned, the title in gold print: *A Man Called Ove*. He remembered Lena's words:

He handed the books he had chosen to the young worker and stuffed his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. "'The SAS Survival Handbook?' and '2020 Standard Catalog of Firearms'?..." The worker raised her brows at the young man in front of her, the corner of her lips twitching unconsciously, as she used this opportunity to look at his handsome face. "Your taste is still as random as always." This guy would either wander around the bookstore just looking around, or buy the most random craziest books ever. She remembers the first time she saw him buying books here, the titles of those being "Demons: The Devil, Possession & Exorcism" and "Poisonous Plants". The poor girl wasn't sure if this guy wa

Probably, after assuming he’s involved with the underground, maybe a mobster or a mafia leader. But what I see are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining each wall filled with various books. In the middle of the room is a large mahogany table. I wonder how many fingers got cut off on top of that. “Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong, Miss Atwood.” Huh? Does he know who I am? The man’s deep voice knocks me out of my head. I’m out of my league here but I need to do what needs to be done.

Thorns sinking into marked flesh like venomous teeth, the man pushed his crown deeper as red fluid leaked through the fresh marks, trickling down the side of a hairless chin. He was naked again. Like he was. Like he'd always been. Like he'd always be. The small book of scriptures, lay in front of him, as always. The worn out edges of the old Bible touching his bare knees. The stained pages showing powerful spiritual words which were going faint from age.

“I want to tell you what kind of book it is. Not what the back cover says you’ve read that. What I think it actually is.” I looked at the room. “It’s a book about a man,” I said. “Specifically, a particular man his hands, his voice, the strong black tea he drank every morning for thirty years, the way he cried at my school graduation and didn’t pretend he hadn’t. The way he cooked on Saturday afternoons and believed, without sentimentality, that paying full attention to the small things was the substance of a life.” I paused. “It’s also a book about what happened to him. What was constructed and deployed against him by people who found him threatening and found it convenient to remove him. W