Good Roast Lines Novels & Stories

I mutter, hatred still flowing through my veins instead of blood. I wrap the garrotte wire tighter across my hands, getting into stance as my eyes follow a subtle movement from the bushes. The signal is a howl from Ryker. Ragnar has us all briefed. My hands are covered in a pair of knuckle dusters. I had my leather jacket over my gear, which was actually a crop top and slick black pants that allowed me to move around, a utility belt with a series of knives strapped to it, and military boots. A howl sounds some distance in the front, just at the same time a group of rogues leap out of the bushes.

"Stop fooling around, Doctor Smith! How can someone just die so easily? I was just holding her hand not long ago. I promised I would come back for her… She always keeps her promises. She'll wait for me to come home." "But she's not home. You saw that yourself, didn't you?" Wade said. "Maybe she's just angry at me. I really did cross a line there…" Zach stammered. Wade didn't have any patience for Zach's self-delusion. He said flatly, "I scattered her ashes in the sea. She always loved being free. And you? You'll never get her forgiveness." Wade's quiet verdict sounded like the Devil's murmur to Zach, and the phone slipped from his hand. He stared at the broken screen, then at our photo on th

Whatever I’d left in the oven had finished, and the smell followed me down the corridor, growing heavier with every step toward the kitchen. Ally was already there. She stood in front of the open oven, tugging the roast free with careful determination, her smaller hands straining slightly around the pan even through the thick oven mitts. I paused just inside the doorway, leaning back against the counter, arms folding loosely as I watched her with quiet, unguarded interest. “Well,” I drawled, a hint of amusement threading through my voice, “didn’t peg you as the domestic type.” She shot me a glare over her shoulder. “I know how to take something out of a damn oven.”

“Or are you too good for that too?” “Fine,” I swallowed and reached for the nearest glass—Leah’s untouched drink. Then the next. And the next. Not all of them were purely juice. Some were mixed with alcohol, but I didn't complain. With these different flavors, was she hoping I'd get an upset stomach? “See? Not so hard,” she said when I was done. I spun the bottle. The person chose truth, and I just asked a random question. This time, it felt faster and before I could comprehend what was going on, it was on me again.

Finding the hallway clear, I pulled her out of the office and led her up to a secluded corner of the rooftop. The moment we arrived, she violently yanked her hand out of my grip. "You dragged me all the way up here, so you better have something incredibly meaningful to say," she fired at me, her eyes blazing. "Because I am in a shitty mood right now." I licked my lower lip and adjusted the lapels of my jacket, trying to channel my usual on-camera confidence. "Well, my name is Russell. Russell Miller. You've probably heard of me, but I'll keep this brief—"

Margaret instructed gently. They all joined hands around the table. Ethan hesitated for a split second before reaching out, his left hand slipping into Marcus’s large, warm palm. Marcus’s grip was firm, his skin slightly rough against Ethan’s. Margaret said a quick, beautiful prayer, thanking God for the food and the team's safety, and the moment she said “Amen,” the boys noisily dug into the food, passing platters back and forth with loud laughs. Ethan, however, ate incredibly stiffly, cutting his chicken with rigid movements.

Emma stared at her laptop screen, cursor blinking at the top of a blank document titled "Heat Between the Lines - COMPLETE REWRITE." Three days had passed since Jake's devastating critique and his ultimatum about rewriting her entire romantic arc with authentic emotion. Three days of false starts, deleted paragraphs, and the growing certainty that she had no idea how to write the kind of vulnerable, honest romance Jake was demanding.