Canvas On Blake Apartments Novels & Stories

Blake’s jet landed at Portland International Jetport at two p.m. From there he had hired a driver. The black town-car pulled up outside of 2838 Atlantic Drive. It was exactly how Robinson described it. The townhouse was three levels with two doors in the front with a white painted porch. The townhouse was painted pale yellow. The driver opened the door for Blake to get out. As Blake walked to the townhome, he noticed a light skinned black man sitting on the porch.

I said as I hugged them both and went to sit in a seat across from Blaze's desk. "As aunry as ever, but everyone is doing good," Jace said with a smile. "Same here; I'm thinking we get this meeting over with and call it a day," Blaze said. "Sounds like a plan to me. I've got to go pick up some paint from Home Depot; I would like to start painting my house today," I said. "Excuse me, what are you are talking about?" Blazed asked with a questioning look on his face. "Kaysen and I found a beautiful rental home yesterday, and we were told that we could paint the house and make it our own," I said, and Blaze nodded his head.

Blake spoke again, and he continued advancing forward. Despite his reservations, William followed him. William came to a complete stop in front of the house where Blake had come to a standstill. It's around 20 meters from Greco's house and is double the size of the humble house where he stays. It is slightly larger than Arturo's home, although it is similarly composed of wood. “This is where you'll be living from now on,” Blake remarked solemnly as he entered the house. There was nothing William could have done but follow and enter. When he rolled his eyes around the living room, the framed portrait on top of the coffee table caught his sight.

I love this place. Blake had this place set up with permission from his dad while he was still in high school, a few years back. It was like a hidden secret garden back here. Beautiful ponds, trees, plants, and flowers were planted everywhere. It's even better at night because of the beautiful lighting he had placed everywhere.

I needed the boys to scope the apartment. "This is Royal Markinson" I said although she already knew this was my number. "Ah, good day sir, how can I be of assistance?" She asked. "A group of men will come by in a few minutes, release the keys to room 209 for them" I instructed. "I'll need a brief description, sir…for security purposes" She said. "Of course, tall, grey eyes and brown hair, goes by the name Blake" I said. "Thank you sir, anything else?" She asked.

She would confirm the truth of the photos with her own eyes so she could be sure whether the man was Nickson or just someone who happened to look like Nickson. -00- Out of the restaurant parking lot Blakely drove at high speed towards the apartment address. Luckily tonight the roads are pretty quiet, so she won't cause any unwanted mess with other car drivers. Ten minutes later Blakely arrived at the apartment. She rushed into the lobby and darted towards the elevator to go up to the twentieth floor. Inside the message was written the room number and the floor where the room was placed. After the elevator chimed softly, Blakely hurriedly got out and trotted toward room number forty. It was a

Blake suddenly comes to a stop, “Before I forget, you will be needing this.” He pulls out the vial that Kendra had shoved under my nose. “How did you…?” “I may sound like I am stupid, but I’m definitely not.” When I don’t take it, he grabs my hand. Instantly an image hits me. The building around me was immaculate, the walls were painted white, carpet sat beneath my feet. All the blinds were gone and long black curtains hung at the edges of the windows. “Like what you see?” Blake murmurs close to my ear.

“This held.” “Because it is the true one,” I say. “Yes,” he says. I look at the two figures on the canvas. At the recognition on their faces. “I found a flat,” I say. He turns. “When?” “Yesterday. Signed the lease this morning before Patricia called.” I pause. “Clinton Hill. Three blocks from the subway. Second floor. My own space.” He nods. “Good.” “It is not the penthouse,” I say. “Good,” he says again.

Top divorce attorney in the city, a raging feminist, and Vicky’s ride-or-die since sandbox days. “Cassandra Blake, Blake & Associates. Ms. Hart, are you on the line?”

She offers me the chalk and I take it. Blake walks past on the outer arc of the circle, phone to his ear, barking the kind of orders that sound like competence and love at the same time. He doesn’t take this win from us with a howl. He saves it by making sure we all get to keep breathing long enough to tell the story.