Jules Wallet Pulp Fiction Novels & Stories

the poor man stammered nervously. “Here, that should be enough.” Jullian stepped forward, pulling a rolled-up wad of money from his tuxedo pocket, which, if all bills matched the first one visible, would surely be equivalent to more than that man earned in an entire year “Take this and pretend you didn't see us. And if you want butler to butler advice, take this opportunity and resign. You clearly need a new job.”

I called them Tala t-shirts because she had them made, usually skulls and blood or decapitated bodies and they were one of a kind. I walked downstairs and Jules stood waiting for me and Mrs. Walker looked at my t-shirt and I knew she was probably thinking something along the lines of “goodness gracious me.” Jules looked stunning in skintight jeans with a shirt that ended where her jeans started with knee high boots and when she walked you’d catch a glimpse of skin and somehow that was more attractive than showing everything.

Samantha pleaded. Pierce's expression turned unnaturally pale upon hearing those words. He frowned deeply as cold sweat dotted his forehead. The scene felt eerily familiar, like the one from years ago. Millie wanted to speak. But when she met Pierce's gaze, she hesitated, and her words got stuck in her throat. "I've brought the money. Let them go," Pierce coldly said. Together, Pierce and Stefan had brought in four heavy suitcases filled with dinors. Jules' men took the suitcases and meticulously counted the money, confirming the amount. Afterward, they pushed one suitcase back toward Pierce and Stefan.

“Cleo, are you serious? Shouldn't you apologize to her?” I met his gaze, unflinching. “Apologize? I'm sorry, Russo, but I wouldn't be doing that” His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something, but no words came. The clerk returned with a small velvet pouch, placing it in my palm. “Here you go.” I nodded in thanks, slipping it into my bag as I swiped my card. Then, without another glance at Russo or Isabelle, I turned on my heel and walked toward the exit my face burning with shame.

Sage’s head was thrown back, dark hair fanned across the quilt, her small breasts rising and falling with every gasp. “Wow… just take a look at you” Jules said, low and rough, almost conversational despite the intensity in her eyes. She wasn’t one for flowery talk; her words came out blunt, like orders at last call. “All flushed and dripping down my wrist. You been holding out on us, artist girl? Saving this pretty pussy for the right night?” She twisted her fingers on the next thrust, curling them just so, and Sage let out a broken whimper that went straight to my core.

“What are you talking about now?” “I’m talkin’ tall, fine, dangerous in the best way,” Jules said, fanning himself with a napkin. “He walked in like he owns the damn place. Lord, he even smells expensive.” Her stomach skidded. “What—what does he look like, exactly?” Jules squinted like he was trying to remember a dream. “Sharp jaw, messed hair, that grin… you know, the kind that says, ‘I’ll wreck your life and you’ll thank me later.’”

“I'm not playing, okay?” “Aaaaahhh! Found it!” Cindy shouted as she jumped up in the air. “I found it! I found it! I found it!” “Wait, let me see.” Ryan grabbed the wallet and opened it. It was empty. “There's nothing here.” “Maybe it's not the one,” Cindy said. “Look at the sign of the purse; it's the American Syndicate. It's the one.” “The mafia? All this time we've been dealing with the mafia?”

“Tell me you wouldn’t let him ruin your life for a weekend.” Stella whistled. “I’d let him ruin my credit score.” I actually giggled. The sound felt foreign in my throat. Jules swiped again. “And this one—firefighter, rescues kittens, has a golden retriever named Pancake. I’m in love. I’m proposing. I’m naming our future children.” We were howling now, passing the phone around, rating them out of ten, when Jules landed on a photo of a dark-haired guy with storm-gray eyes and a jawline that looked illegally perfect.

Legs wide. Jules was panting. “Do it.” “You want it rough?” “I want it now.” Reed yanked his pants down—half torn already—and spit in his hand. It wasn’t much. Just enough. He slicked himself up, gripped Jules’s ass, and lined up. “Take a breath.” Jules did. Then Reed pushed in. One brutal thrust, balls-deep.

No need for petty validation from this guy. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. The bullets flew again. Ray now knew kinetic steel rods couldn't hit this opponent. Time to switch back to bullets. Jules couldn't dodge them this time. His body was riddled with bullets. Knowing he could no longer deceive Ray, he gave up pretending. The bullets clinked off the snow, colliding in crisp, sharp notes. But Jules wasn't in the mood to appreciate the sounds. His face paled further, and he suddenly spun on his heels and ran.