Hells Kitchen Black Jacket Novels & Stories

“It’s none of your business.” I take a closer look at David, he looks different. The easy charm he usually carries is buried under the dark edge of his appearance. He’s dressed in a black leather jacket, the words Hell Raiders stitched across the back in bold white. The emblem — a skull wrapped in flames — gleams faintly in the light, worn but intimidating. His jeans are torn, his boots scuffed, and his hair a little messy. My stomach twists. Hell Raiders MC is one of the most notorious biker gangs, and the charming David is a member— probably one of the leaders.

“The Alpha is very lucky to have you.” ‘But I’m unlucky to be his mate!’ I wanted to shout those words but had to swallow them because this was the Hell Walker Pack and I didn't want to create unnecessary trouble. It was enough for me to say those words straight to Aleksander’s face rather than shouting them to an Omega, makeup artist, and hairstylist. The door was opened again, and Aleksander strode into the room wearing all black - a black shirt, black pants, a long black trench coat, and a pair of dark sunglasses that nestled perfectly on his straight nose, revealing an aura of danger.

Piss off! But the knocking continues, steady. My gut twists in various forms. I dart back to the kitchen, grabbin’ the biggest knife I can find. No more takin’ chances. Whoever it is, I’ll slice ‘em into mince. I creep back, peer through the peephole. At first, I see just black. My chest hammers against my ribs. Then I catch a glimpse of a coat, black shirt underneath, and my throat tightens. I’ve seen that look before. There's only one person I know who dresses like that, at all times.

He said wrapping his hand around mine. "You're hungry?!" I yelled pulling him back. "Why didn't you tell me?! We can get the jacket later. Let's go and eat lunch!" "Should we?" "Hn." "I have the perfect jacket for you, Mr. Black." Someone said suddenly and we turned around to face the Manager of the Store. "This jacket just arrived now. It was made by Florence. It's from France." "Do you like it?" I looked at the jacket in her hand. The jacket was light grey in color and I fell in love with it instantly.

Angelo did. And then I noticed it…The sleeves. “They’re wrong,” I said. He frowned. “What?” “The uniform.” I pointed at the screen. “Look at the cuffs.” All the kitchen staff wore short sleeves. This person didn’t. He wore long sleeves that were pulled down and tight at the wrists, therefore covering the skin completely. Angelo’s expression shifted. “He’s wearing gloves too. Thin black gloves that would go unnoticed against his shadow.” This person was not a cook. The cooks of this estate didn’t dress like that.

The Sunday Skyden Wolfe had been eagerly awaiting had finally arrived. Ever since dawn broke, the man seemed to be in an exceptionally cheerful mood. I could even faintly hear his carefree whistling coming from the kitchen just as I stepped out of the shower. It was really annoying to see someone so happy at the crack of dawn. I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom, examining the custom camping outfit Hellen Keller had picked out yesterday afternoon. A premium olive-green hiking jacket with a perfect fit, paired with comfortable tactical pants that somehow still made me look stylish and elegant.

“Mom! Where’s my black jacket? The one with the hood?” “Who wants to know?” “Me, Jacob! Ashley has his!” “You never wear it, so I hung it in the basement!” “Shit.” “What did you say?” “I said, dang it.” “Uh-huh.” Ashley got his leather jacket, a tight white T-shirt, and blues jeans he could roll up the cuffs on and a pair of black motorcycle boots. This would be his 1950's street-tough costume. Jacob wanted his black hooded jacket to dress up as a serial killer with a ghost face mask and a huge plastic butcher knife. Both had torn their room to pieces trying to find everything.

Just a white coat draped over the back of a chair, mocking her. Before she could stew any longer, the door at the far end of the hall creaked open. A man stepped inside, tall and heavyset, his shoulders hunched as if the world weighed a little more on him than everyone else. His black hair was peppered with gray, and his jacket—tweed, mustard-colored—caught her eye. Leila’s blood ran cold. She recognized the jacket. That same mustard tweed had been hanging from a broken window the night they found Yellen’s body. The night everything started spiraling out of control.

The room fell silent as they stared back at their unfamiliar faces with an obvious questioning look, Will's eyes went down to the plate of food the person had in his hand and his eyes shifted to the kitchen and then back to the boy. Why is he the one coming out of the kitchen? where's the middle aged chef who made all this menu? Will thought as he stared back at the other person who stared back at him. He was far from a middle aged man, the person in front of him was a universe heartthrob. His puffy black hair was finely styled as his side parted long bangs fell to his forehead, he had on a black turtleneck with a silver cross chain that matched his silver cross earring, his matching black p

As I entered the bathroom, the smile on my face faded. I dropped the sheets to the ground as soon as I shut the door and went to the large mirror, only to find h*ckeys all over my body. "Crazy," I said, looking at my body, which had h*ckeys on my neck, breasts, and legs. "Didn't he have dinner?" I said, indicating Damien, given that I appeared to be his dinner last night instead. Afterwards, I exited the bathroom wearing the clothes he had provided for me. It was a long black gown with a bad b*tch vibe to it. It was worn with new black heels, a hat, gloves, and diamond earrings. Everything was black, from head to toe. "Is black his favorite color or something...? ”