Book Club Fiction Novels & Stories

Some of them read multiple times judging by the cracking of the binding. History. Military strategy. Economics. Law. Psychology. Philosophy. One entire shelf of biographies of powerful men across different centuries and continents. And then something that surprised me. Fiction. A whole section of it tucked into the far corner like something private. Novels. Some of them old enough that the titles had faded. I pulled one out carefully. A Russian novel. Thick. Dense. The kind of book that required patience and silence and the willingness to sit inside discomfort for extended periods.

I’d make some new friends, and if that didn’t work out, I’d still have my coursework and classes. The book club met twice a week to accommodate for classes and the time it’d take to read the books, but it went from nine PM to midnight or later, just like a writing workshop—or so I was told. They were more than happy to let me join in, much to my relief, and were very welcoming. One of the girls in the club, Alice, talked to me as everyone waited for whoever volunteered their car for the evening to arrive.

DIXIE THUMBED THROUGH THE book, the group's conversation washing over her. Book club night usually energized her. It was a bi-monthly opportunity to be in a room full of women she counted as friends. They'd selected a paranormal book this time, and though Dixie had tried she just couldn't get into it. Hear head and heart were stuck in the real world and no amount of sexy werewolf shifter could fix that. Shonda leaned over and gestured at Dixie's plate. "Are you done with your dinner?"

Alfi exclaimed upset. “Cut the crap! Get outta here!” Alfi, Koji, and Rian were kicked out from SEES. “Ah crap, I have to join another club.” Koji sighed. “Not to mention that the clubs here are boring. If only they have a literature club here.” Rian added. “Huh? Did you say ‘literature"? You like writing?” Alfi asked. “Yup. I am writing 3 novels on my personal blog.” Rian replied.

I’m trying to be patient, but it’s harder than I’d like to admit. Two months ago, I opened my bookstore, and it’s been incredible. Twice a week, we host book clubs, and I’ve made it a point to bring one of the guys with me to each session. It’s hilarious watching their faces as we dive into the discussions. The women seem to enjoy it too—something about discussing steamy romance scenes with a bit of eye candy in the room. The door finally creaks open, and I sit up straighter as they walk in.

“You ready? We’re gonna be late.” “Oh, right book club.” The weekly meeting where everyone pretended to be invested in literature when really, the only reason half the group showed up was for free cookies. I dragged on my jacket, earpods that sat on the floor and my bag, forced a loud sigh, and followed her outside. The walk to the bookstore wasn’t long, but it felt heavier than usual, like the air itself was chewing on my nerves. The silence was literally choking me. The bookshop was tiny and warm, smelling like vanilla, old pages, and a little bit of cinnamon. Bells chimed when we pushed the door open. Soft jazz floated from a vintage speaker in the corner, the kind that made you feel like

He didn't have the jammer on. She nodded. She understood. "Well, I haven't had any luck on my end either. There are hundreds of neighborhoods just on this side of Atlantis. But you're right. Fate will be fate." They ate in silence for a little while. "Dinner is good," he said. "Thank you." "How was book club?" "It was great. We finished our book and will start a new one." "What was the last one about?" "Romance." Tom nodded. "You know," Brooke put her elbow on the table and planted her chin in it. She leaned a little forward, her bosom puckering a bit. "You might like some of the parts in that book."

His face was obscured by the shadows, but something about the way he stood—composed, calculating—made my stomach tighten. Then, just as suddenly as I noticed him, he disappeared. A passing bus blocked my view for barely a second, and when it was gone, so was he. I swallowed hard and turned back to my coffee. It’s nothing. Just your imagination. But deep down, I wasn’t convinced. The book club was hosted at a small event hall lined with posters of famous authors and upcoming literary festivals. A crowd of about twenty people gathered, chatting excitedly over wine and hors d’oeuvres.

Being alone with a good book and alcohol or caffeine is the best feeling in the world, probably better than sex. The next day, I walked into Monet's and met a group of ladies who were fine as hell. I was relieved to see that there were no men here. At least if there was going to be a man, he should be gay, and we all agreed to that. We were six: Cindy Bellman, Aisha Mohammed, Drew Finch, Jessica Boston, Lexi Hale, and me. We were just six beautiful ladies who loved to talk about our favourite books and rant about how J. K. Rowling is a bitch for her transphobic tweets. Sometimes we'd just go out to have some fun. We weren't just a book club; we were a sisterhood.

Her hair was bright pink, her nails painted black, and she wore a T‑shirt that said “Books Before Boys.” “You’re new,” she said, handing me my drink. “Is it that obvious?” “You have that look. The ‘I just moved here and I don’t know anyone’ look.” She leaned on the counter. “I had it too, two years ago. It fades.” I laughed. “How long did it take?” “About a week. Then I found the book club.” “Book club?” She grabbed a flyer from under the counter and handed it to me. “Tuesday nights. The Spined Fox bookstore. We read everything from literary fiction to trashy romance. No judgment.”