Marcust Pick Up Line Novels & Stories

"Why are you—" A woman’s high-pitched, melodic giggle erupts through the speaker. It’s followed by a dull, muffled thud, as if the phone has slipped from his hand and landed on a padded surface. I can hear the clinking of glasses, and then the giggle again, closer this time. "Marcus!" I scream into the receiver. "Marcus, answer me!" There is no answer. And then, the sharp click of the line going dead. He ended it. No explanation. No apology.

Nera advised as she walked out of the room. "Surely I will do that," Marcus replied, walking to the dressing mirror. He looked at the phone again; the good part was that he had not saved Frank's number, otherwise he would be explaining to his wife why his son's imaginary friend had the same name as the caller. He dressed up and decided to deal with the fool on his way to the office. Frank, who had immediately hung up the second he heard she was about to give the phone to the husband, sat on his bed.

I wonder if something's wrong. "Is there a problem?" I support myself on my elbow. Zeke holds up a finger, dialling a number I don't recognise. He says into the line, "Marisol the great, it's been a while."

He will take us up in the mountains, having told us it would be impossible for us to find the place without a guide. Just as we reach the car my phone starts playing some hard techno tune, the sound means it is an unknown number. “You better pick up before I smash it. Damn shitty music”. Martin hisses. I pick it up. “It’s Luca”. “Oh, sorry…wrong number then”. A female voice says on the other end. “That happens”. The other end just hangs up, not saying a word.

Jazz lifted his head and looked at him. Mark’s eyebrows were brought together, “My phone is dead...” Jazz acknowledged his response and took out his phone, dialing her number in front of Mark. The call did not go to a voicemail right away this time. It rang for a very long time, but nobody picked it up. Jazz shrugged his shoulders resignedly and shook his head, “No one picked up.” Mark leaned forward and poured himself a cup of warm water. He put it in front of his thin lips and took a small sip.

Chantel turns to the man and pleads for his phone. " Sir, can I make use of your cellphone? She asks. " sure" the pharmacist says. The pharmacist gave her his phone and she quickly dials her husband's number, Marc quickly picks the call thinking it was the kidnappers but when he heard " Hello" he was so happy that it was his wife that was calling. "He...hello, sweetheart where are you? He asked in fear. " I am fine" Chantel replies. "Where are you? He asked and even his wife could hear the fear in his voice.

I hit the call button without hesitation. I pressed the cold phone against my ear, walking quickly into my own private dressing room, shut the door behind me and turned the lock, hearing the small metal click that meant I was completely alone. “Well, well, well, look who is calling, the future Luna of the Wright pack,” Marcy’s low, gossipy voice came through the speaker. I could hear the loud, wet sound of her chewing gum in the background, which only made my irritation grow.

“Marcus, wait… don’t do this!” Garrett’s confusion turned to alarm as he saw his wife hurrying in after his son. “Christine? What is happening here?” Marcus didn’t wait. He raised his phone, thumb pressing play with a steady determination he hadn’t felt in years. The recording started immediately, Christine’s own voice filling the room, sharp and venomous:

"Thanks, Zach. But no, it's ok. I think I'm just overtired. I've been working on these plans for a while now, and I guess it just caught up with me." "Ok. If you're sure, just remember you can call me whenever. I'll be there right away if you need." "Thanks, Zach, but no, I'm ok. I'll be fine." I replied. Zach disconnected the call a moment later. "Mam?" The cabbie quipped, looking at me. "Can you take me back to the condo? But can you take me to the back entrance instead?"

And that whole talk about being professional and taking personal calls during business hours, when I see to remember some very less than professional conversations he’d initiated just this week alone. MARCUS I watch Penelope stalk out of my office annoyance visible in her every step. All I can think of is how I’ve let this go on long enough. I get my phone and pull up the appropriate contact after a short search. The line rings and then connects. “NYT, how may I assist you?” “This is Marcus Wayne, I have some information you’d be interested in”