Marcust Pick Up Line Novels & Stories

Beta Marcus My phone rings and I reach into my pocket and pull it out. It's been days since I dispatched the mercenaries to Garnet City, and I'm eager for news, my nerves frayed from the endless waiting. "Marcus speaking," I growl when I pick up, my voice rough with tension. The voice on the other end is tinged with excitement, "Sir, you're not going to believe this. We've struck gold." My grip on the phone tightens, "Go on," I command, barely able to contain my impatience.

"You're right. My destiny is to rescue men. What a life! Heaven help me!" Watching him walk off, muttering and sighing, Marcia couldn't help but laugh to herself. Myron truly was a piece of work. Thanks to his antics, the tension in her chest eased slightly. Pulling out her phone, Marcia stared at a photo of Elijah for a long moment before taking a deep breath and dialing his number. After an excruciatingly long series of rings, a cold, robotic voice announced, "We're sorry. The number you dialed is unavailable. Please try again later."

Sonnet took advantage of her spare time to call Marcus. She expressed her desire to bring Maxwell to meet him. "Oh, just come over anytime," Marcus said warmly. After he hung up, another phone rang. Marcus looked at Maxwell who sat across from him. Maxwell put down the mobile phone in his hand, took another from his pocket, and connected it. "Darling!" He yelled crisply. Marcus blinked. Not that he has not seen Maxwell pretending to be stupid, but today, the way he called out to his wife was sickly sweet!

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”

No call. He dialed her number. Straight to voicemail. A waiter passed by, and Marcus stopped him. "Did a lady come in here? About five feet tall, long dark hair, possibly wearing red?" The waiter shook his head. "No, sir. Haven’t seen anyone like that tonight." Marcus muttered a curse under his breath and stood. That’s when his phone buzzed. Private Number. He answered immediately. "Hello?" A distorted voice replied, deep and unrecognizable. "How well do you really know the woman you brought into your home, Marcus Gonzales?"

It had startled him, shaking him free from his lascivious contemplations fair long sufficient for a few coherent thought to take over. His cell phone rang from where he’d laid it following to the tv. He surged over to it, trusting it was Bronaugh, and picked it up and hit the reply button some time recently recalling that she didn’t have his number. He looked at the number once more some time recently putting the phone to his ear. “Cedric,” he greeted. “Marc! I was starting tae ponder aboot ye.” His alpha’s solid Scottish brogue came over the line. “Good tae listen yer voice. How are things going there in Austin? Have ye met the pack there yet?”

Marcus grunted. "Yes sir, that has already been done but—" "Good, get out," Marcus barked and went to sit down on his chair. "You have a call on line six!" The secretary squealed. Marcus cocked his brows at her. "Who is it?" He asked grumpily. "I think a Mrs Walters," she replied. Marcus sat up immediately as he felt his heart jump out of his body. "You are sure? Is the line still active?" The secretary was confused by his sudden change in mood. "Y—Yes sir?" She answered.

Before he could respond, the distant sound of gravel crunching under tires drifted up the road leading to his cabin. A car. He turned toward the sound, heart giving a quick, unexpected jump as a familiar old SUV came into view. “Mona,” he whispered to himself. #Marc? You still there?# Barney asked. Marcus picked up the phone from the stump. “Barney, I’ve gotta go.” He ended the call as Mona’s car rolled slowly toward the cabin. ****

Marcus said. He did not say from whom. He did not need to. There was a specific and particular quality to the way Marcus said there was a call, the characteristic register of a man who was delivering information he had not been asked to gather but had gathered because the gathering was what he did, had always done, the specific and long-trained instinct of a man who understood that information, delivered at the right moment to the right person, was its own kind of care. "When," I said. "Half past seven. He called from the Westchester number. It lasted four minutes and twenty seconds."