Frank Subway Surfers Novels & Stories

The second has the image of my subway perv’s big black cock! OH. MY. GOD!!! ‘Don't react. Be the bigger person… Act like a badass, Isla.’ Tons of thoughts sprint through my head while the echoes of their laughter reverberate in my head. “Big enough, huh?” The leader’s voice comes alive. “Y’all, she can do more.” “Fucking slut!!!” I spin. I shouldn't, but I did. My hair flips with me, wavy orange curls whipping around my little pretty face. And once my adrenaline is pumped up, I can't water it down.

The Vasquez bloodline, digitized, weaponized, calling. I opened my mouth to warn her when the subway grate at our feet hissed open. A hand reached out. Not shadow. Not fragment. Frankie Russo. His face was half-melted, one eye glowing red, the other human and terrified. “Kid,” he rasped, voice layered with static, “you gotta see this.” We followed him down.

Franklin finished his last song with a flourish. He glanced down at the case with a grimace. Playing in the subway started on a whim and as a social experiment. He tested a number of music genres to see if there was a difference in how much money he earned. So far, his results were inconclusive.

Frank smiled but said nothing—if Jada had not been so enthusiastic, Frank would not have asked her to help, simply because he alone was enough. Even as the thought crossed his mind, ripples unfurled over the surface of the river, and a submarine soon breached the surface. Several men soon appeared, arranging a table and several chairs around it. Catching his cue, Frank stepped out and leapt over to the submarine. The ones around the table were elites of BM Group who knew Frank was strong. Even so, they were left dumbfounded to see him gliding toward them, seemingly riding the wind. It was not surprising that Mary died by his hands—who would ever win against that?