Maurice Moss Novels & Stories

Inside, the hallway was unusually quiet as I walked down to the elevator, holding onto a bouquet of sunflowers and a box of chocolate. Maurice’s favorite. I learned that from the previous visit. When I got to his room, I paused briefly outside the door before pushing it open. Maurice was awake. He sat upright against the bed, flipping through a comic book with a half-eaten plate of pudding resting on the tray beside him. His face lightened as usual as his gaze met mine. “Uncle Damon,” he said with a reluctant smile tugging at his lip. I forced a smile for him, dropping the bouquet and chocolate at the end of his legs.

He wore a dark brown shirt with white trousers, too polished to be staff and far too relaxed to be family. As if realizing he’d startled me, he pushed off the wall and walked over. “Hi, I’m Maurice.” He stretched a hand out. I didn’t take it. “Are you a new worker?” He smiled, and only then did I properly notice how handsome he was. His skin was a rich, warm brown that almost glowed beneath the chandelier lights. His hair was braided into neat cornrows, sharpening the angles of his face and jawline. “No,” he said, amused. “I don’t work here.”

Maurice looked at Jenny playfully and slowly waved the phone in his hand at Jenny a few times before turning off the camera function of the phone and then turning on the recording function. "Of course it was to visit Brian Hall. I just didn't expect to be shown a good show." Maurice always had a light smile on the corner of his mouth and a relaxed expression on his face as he looked at Jenny. Jenny took a step back and looked straight at Maurice. This man is too scary. She could be sure that Maurice must have seen everything that had just happened!

Richard said. I smiled and nodded. Moose, whose real name was Warren Jenkins, started out as a L.A. cop who went deep undercover with a West Coast biker gang. He'd been instrumental in a slew of arrests, and all the cases he worked on wound up with the perps serving long stretches in California prisons. The LAPD tried to bring him in and assign him to regular patrol duty, but that proved to be a disaster. Moose, by then, was too much into the biker culture. There was no place in Darryl Gate's strait-laced, image-conscious department for a six-foot, eight inch, three hundred pound man who had tattoos over sixty percent of his body, didn't like haircuts, and wanted to wear a beard.

------------------ I adjusted my black Gucci suit, the fabric smooth against my skin, and admired the glint of gold from my shirt as I gazed into the mirror in my massive walk-in closet that rivaled most 1-bed room apartments, smiling as it had been a relatively calm morning. However, the harmony of this morning was interrupted by the door to the walk-in closet swinging open. I turned to see who dared make a see to see it was my Second-In-Command Maurice, a tall, red-haired demon who stood in the door frame wearing a white button-up shirt and jeans splattered with a fresh coat of blood. "Maurice, are you okay?" I asked, scanning Maurice, seeing even his black suede shoes were coated in crims

she suggested hesitantly. My eyes darkened, my jaw tightening. The anger I’d barely kept in check now threatened to snap free. Beside us, Ross chuckled, his arms crossed. "Funny, I heard several young ladies congratulating Ms. Maurice before the auction even started. You didn’t correct them, Alpha Richard, so we all assumed it was true." His knowing smirk deepened as he cast me a sideways glance. "Were you not aware of that, Alpha Richard? What exactly is Ms. Maurice’s role here if that is not the case?"

"You c‍‍o⁠uld⁠ have a​n⁠y woma​n i‌n this room. Wh‍‌y help a‍ g​ir⁠l‌ fro​m the arch⁠i​ves?" Darlington lo‍o​ked d‍ow​n a‌t m⁠e.​ For a‌ moment, the mask‌ sli⁠pped. "Be‍ca⁠us‍e M​aurice⁠ is a cancer on th‍is cit⁠y. He’s bee​n ste‍al‍i‌ng from m​y f⁠amily's small⁠er⁠‌ firm‌s‍ for⁠ years. I‍ could never p‍​​rove it because he’s g⁠ood at hidin‍‍g his tra⁠cks. But‌ yo‍u... you⁠⁠ have so⁠met​hin‍​g‌ he want‌s. An​‍d you ha‍ve som⁠e⁠t‍hing I need." "Informat i‍on​," I said‌.

[girl] "My mama told me about this store." Mia, tell us as we walk into the store. Mia's mama, Mariana Lopez, is a famous fashion designer. Mariana is also the woman who inspried me to design. Since the ball was planned on such short notice, Mariana couldn't design dresses for all of us, not in time at least. Mia, Gabrielle, and Charlotte grabbed a few dresses and went to the changing room to try them on.

“Your type always are.” I couldn’t tell if she was referring to him being black or being a nerd. Both had been tarnished with that particular brush. But Maurice wasn’t your typical black guy, nor was he a regular nerd. He didn’t have a thing for women with big butts, and he wasn’t turned on by Carrie Fisher in a bikini (I have no idea what the fuck that’s about).

“Not something. Everything.” He tapped a few keys, and one of the screens enlarged—a paused clip from a grainy dock camera. A black SUV, license plates covered. But even in the pixelated mess, the figure stepping out was unmistakable. I knew he was the one. Maurice. There was someone behind him, a young woman in oversized sunglasses and a hat to match. Slender figure, poised. Dressed like a damn socialite even while vanishing underground. No one could mistake her figure.