Bob Belcher Mustache Novels & Stories

"Come, Bella Donna, have a seat." I complied with his request, but instead of perching on the stool beside him, I chose to stand opposite, leaning against the bar, fixing him with an unyielding stare. His appearance was as immaculate as the first day I laid eyes on him—his shirt tailored to accentuate his muscles and lean form, his hair meticulously styled with a few rebellious strands framing his forehead, all contributing to the façade of a charming, attractive, and well-mannered man. Yet, it wasn't his outward perfection that seized my attention; it was the reality lurking beneath—a grotesque visage, concealed beneath layers of deception. This was the true Tyler Ricci— rotten to the core.

He has a mustache on his lips and jaw that gives a unique charm to the man. He has deep brown eyes, thick eyelashes, and thick eyebrows. Even his nose is perfectly shaped. His lip is reddish and only moderately thin. Dhalia can clearly see his even and white teeth. His dark complexion, which was her type of man, caught her attention even more. Dhalia's eyes stopped traveling in the man’s entirety when suddenly he faked a cough and held out his hand. “Hi lady, I'm Rodel . . .”

“Who wants to know? “I replied, raising my chin. Gabby said that a chin movement expressed insubordination, and I always felt more confident when I did. I don't think the stranger thought that way, because he ended up laughing softly when he looked directly into my face. The man tilted his head slightly and the movement made me notice the baldness between his hair. His body could easily be called chubby, but he wasn't exactly fat, just too burly. The shoulders were very wide and the waist was not thin, so it seemed that there was no room to separate his trunk from his hip. He stretched out a wide hand with hair on my fingers, and said: “I’m Anthony Blackmore.”

“What do you charge for a head job?” “And you, sir, are an arsehole.” The man on the phone set it down on the bar and turned to face them. He rose slowly to his feet. He was an absolutely giant of a man, Aislen thought, her head tilting back as he reached his full height. A gorgeous bearded masculine mountain of muscle, clad in denim and leather, topped by a head of flaxen hair bound back into a man bun. A scar carved deeply into his cheek, adding to the overall effect of delicious danger.

replied the one holding the trunk door. Another man came. He was tall and bulky than the rest and had a trimmed mustache sitting on top of his lips. He crouched over her body and dared to tilt her head and inspect her face. “Damn, she’s hot.” “Boss will have a lot of fun with her.” The one with a cigarette remarked. “Hell yeah, now I’m jealous of that old fart.” The mustache man agreed, and the three of them laughed. That cruel old bastard has all the young females in the bunch. Having his fill and fun with them, they thought this chick right here would be added to his growing lists soon.

I pleaded, gripping onto his wrist to stop the sting on my head but he raised me higher still, forcing me to meet his gaze once more. His unpleasant body odour flooded my nostrils, and his heavy breathing made me shudder with disgust. His unkempt face was covered with a large wire-like beard and his unruly salt and pepper hair, along with the deep-set lines engraved in his face gave away his age. His bulbous nose dominated his face, and his menacing smile revealed many missing teeth. “Who is that?” He turned me around to face Bobby. “Fuck you!” I spat. “WHO IS HE?” He demanded again, placing the gun against my back.

After that, he started his own and returned to the business. “Well said. He was a good man,” Belkov, the man sitting next to Zion, interjected. Belkov was a bulky Italian with more muscle than he knew what to do with. He looked as dangerous as he was, with scars and tattoos covering most of his skin. At this point, I was the only one who looked out of place here. But I liked my odds. “He was,” I replied with a fake smile. “Shall we discuss business already? I don’t have all day,” Zion snapped, abandoning any pretense of politeness.

He had black hair with a streak of white that was slicked back. When he saw me, he smiled– a predator's grin. “Ah, Bella,” he said smoothly. “Please, sit. I'm sorry about earlier. We just wanted to rough you up a bit.” The men stepped aside revealing a velvet armchair across from him. I sat down, my hands clasped in front of me to hide their trembling. “Eric Gambino,” he said, tapping the ash from his cigar into a glass tray. And you are….. Vittoria Balotelli.

When I open them again, the picture dominates my screen. Moretti seemed content and at ease. Fresh. He appears to be the type of man who has a pleasant scent. Just by taking a breath, you can tell the type of person in the room. He's staring straight at the camera. He has well-cut, short hair. It's still damp. His facial hair is black and a touch untidy. A small bit of white and a hint of enamel may be seen through his beard. Even though his beard is thick, I can see the scar on his top lip. A serious cut that did not heal well.

She announced before standing up. She checked herself in the mirror before going to the kitchen. After a few seconds, someone’s already ringing her doorbell. “I’ll get it,” she interrupted Bambi who was about to stand up to open the door. “Hi! Come in!” The man who showed up is as tall as Kobe, he’s 6 ‘1 too. The sleeves of his shirt are about to rip apart as his muscles bulge. He undeniably got a mouth-watering build. He’s wearing a navy blue polo shirt, paired with faded jeans and dark blue topsider. His hair is left in a mess but it looks good on him.