Jules Speech Pulp Fiction Novels & Stories

THIRD PERSON POV Kyla walked up to Jules and stopped beside him. Her arms folded loosely as she glanced at his profile. He was calm but tensed, like a storm brewed beneath his skull. “What are you thinking about?” she asked, in a low voice. Jules didn’t look at her right away. His eyes stayed fixed on something invisible in the distance, as though the thoughts in his head were heavier than the world around him. “I want to end every fucking thing,” he said finally. “Whoever the boss is, I don’t care. I want him gone. I don’t care if I have to die to do it.”

Dangerous, unpredictable, and useful. I pressed call. He picked up on the second ring. "Well, well." His voice slithered through the speaker. "The prodigal son." "Shut up." "Rough night?" I didn't answer. Jules laughed—that low, grating sound that made my skin crawl. "I heard about your little visit to the bastard's mansion. How'd that go?" "You knew?” “Why wouldn’t I?." A pause. "You really thought you could storm in there and scare him off?"

Sophie choked on the coffee and spilled it over herself. She blinked rapidly at her aunt, not failing to note the sudden burn in her cheek or the sudden increase in temperature. “Careful now, child; we don’t want you choking on coffee.” His aunt continued, handing her a tablecloth. The smile was still on her face. “How was it? Tell me everything.” Sophie looked away, frowning. “Aww, c'mon, don’t be shy. An old woman like me can only imagine such things now.”

I remembered the bruises on Nora’s throat and the scars she had hidden for so long. “I’m sorry I stole your scissors,” I wrote. “Oh, I don’t mind,” Jules said. “Now, come sit with me. Megan, go and bring this poor girl something warm. The shock will set in soon.” “Shock?” I wrote. “You’re not used to violence, I can tell,” Jules said. “The adrenaline is going to wear off, and you’ll crash. It’s all right, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Just sit here with me, and let me wrap you up in this nice warm shawl I just now finished.”

That look—gods—that look. And before I could say anything, before I could gather the storm that had been building inside me, he exploded first. “I’m not a killer!” Jules screamed, his voice cracking wide open. “I didn’t come here to hurt anyone—you know that! You’ve always known that, so tell me why I’m still here!” He was shaking, chest heaving. “Give me a reason! Give me a single damn reason why I’m your prisoner!” The room felt too hot and my claws itched beneath my skin as I took a step forward. “Because you lied.”

"I went to the Underboss and Captain's Wife book club. I am sorry for causing trouble, but she had it coming. She rambled on, and I smirked and pressed a kiss on her lips. "I know and am super proud of you". She smiled and asked, " What did you do today". I yawned and whispered "Mafia shit". "Mace, do you have your phone on you? Something is poking me". I smirked. "I'm wearing my briefs; where would the phone be?" "But something is poking me". She asked, still confused. God, how innocent is she? I guided her hand to what was poking her and whispered in her ear "That is Mace junior; your soft Ass is pressed against it; what did you think would happen".

“Mr. Monzoon, thank you for your consideration, but unfortunately, I am going to have to regretfully decline. My father is very happy with the transaction and what we have accomplished. I am happy as well. Thank you for your generosity to my family.” He hoped his rehearsed speech sounded natural. He wanted Monzoon to take the bait and leave him alone. He watched the old man take in his words and take a big drag of his cigar. The smoke-filled the large room. “Alright, I understand. It was a pleasure doin’ business wit’ ‘cha. Now, go and enjoy the party.”

His smile dimmed and it seemed as though their corner became darker than it already was. “It is alright.” Nirvana muttered and Mr. Jules turned to look at her. “You know. I don’t mind if you talked about Derek in front of me, there are some memories that would require you mentioning him.” Mr. Jules dusted his white suit and the corners of his eyes crinkled once again, but this time not fully. It was obvious that he wasn’t as cheery as he was when she started talking to him anymore.

I took notes, participated in discussions, and tried very hard not to think about Marcus or Amber or the strange hollow feeling that had taken up residence in my chest. At lunch, Jules found me in the campus café, her red curls bouncing as she practically launched herself at our table. "Okay, spill everything," she demanded, sliding into the seat across from me. "You've been cryptic as hell since the wedding. I need details. Is the mansion amazing? Is the stepbrother still hot? Have you murdered him yet?" "The mansion is ridiculous, Marcus is still insufferable, and murder is looking more appealing by the hour." "So that's a yes on the hot thing."

Jeremy didn’t react, eyes fixed on the road, hands steady on the wheel like he was transporting something fragile and dangerous at the same time. “That reaction right there,” I added, leaning back into the seat, “is exactly why I brought you.” “Shut up,” she shot back, already pulling out her phone. “Today is about healing, growth, and draining billionaire funds.” “Your version of healing is expensive.” “My version of healing works.” And it did. Somewhere between the third store and the fifth, Jules decided she had had enough of my “boring look,” as she called it, dragging me into a high-end salon without giving me a chance to argue.