Mr Black Book Novels & Stories

“unlucky contestants…shelf two, book thirteen.” It sounded oddly like a personal note. My curiosity won out and I skimmed my fingers along the spines of the books until I chose one at random. I pulled out a medium-sized book, a deep shade of navy blue. Earthen twine was wrapped around the book, and there was a picture on the front. A middle-aged man with chocolate hair and dark eyes smiled up at me. The cover of the book read, “Arthur Zimmerman, Game 71.

She said. "mmmm... Can I see the book? I mean if you want." The prince wanted to see the book. But Chenyin was scared to hand it over. "I promised to master that I- - -" "I won't open it. I will just want to touch it." He said. Chenyin gave the book to the Prince. The book was brown. It had a beautiful design on it. And it has also a lock on it. "Hey it has a lock on it. Did you notice?" He asked.

The box that Alastair sent me appeared beside him. "I need you to tell me what you saw when you were with the mothers," Malcolm asked, opening his book. The book looked old, older than anything I had ever seen. The leather looked dry and brittle, the paged torn and the spine of the book overly bent. It smelt of earth and a mix of blood, some human, some animal. "Why?" Drake asked, stepping forward. He didn't trust Malcolm, didn't like that Erik was so welcoming of him. Erik reached up and grabbed Drake's shoulder, giving it a warning squeeze. Malcolm closed the book and turned to Drake.

“Thank you.” “Amen,” Mrs. Turner mutters. “Fuck them.” We all laugh, dark, sharp laughter, when the speaker on Mr. Blackwood’s desk buzzes. “The asset is here,” a voice says. I grin. “The asset? Like Mission Impossible?” Everyone nods. Mr. Blackwood walks to a section of the wall, pulls a book, presses a hidden button, and a door opens behind the shelf. A man enters with a medical cart full of tubes, needles, ice packs. He's calm and professional.

I grabbed my purse and headed out the door, turning back for my book on the kitchen counter; reading books will forever be my first love. At The Tasty Place Diner I found what might be my new inspiration. He was tall, almost roughed, not too soft. I don’t know what to make of what happened. “Mr. Blackwood,” he had signed my book; who was he? He was light skinned. I usually like men a shade closer to purple. His chest was broad, too broad. Usually my men are slimmer. He had lazy eyes that looked intense just when he needed them to be. Bedroom McDreamy eyes... And he smiled like a humming bird, glorious and slick.

During his nights at Black Halo, he served men with more money than God and more secrets than the Devil; men who bought silence with six-figure wire transfers. He stood abruptly, crossing to his bookshelf. He pulled down a dusty, spine-cracked textbook: The Philosophy of Morality and Desire. Tucked inside the back cover was a single, heavy, embossed business card. MARCUS LEE. SENIOR PARTNER. "Who is that?" Bena asked, squinting to read the gold foil.

"It'll go extremely fine, John. Right now, I'm just processing everything that's been happening, although, I met with some investors today. It's been a whirlwind of a day." Mark seemed to be interested. "And was Mister Blackwood there? If he was, Lord, Miss Booker, We've got everything under control and hit a jackpot full of jewels." "Thank you, Mark," I replied grudgingly. "Will do, Miss Booker," he said cheerfully. "Talk to you soon!"

One of the children noticed Mr. Micah and immediately beamed, waving enthusiastically. "Mr. Micah!" Nina turned her head at the sound. Mr. Micah was wearing a black shirt today, with the top two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He stood in the sunlight, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a few books. His black eyes were inscrutable behind his gold-rimmed glasses, but his mouth curved into a deep smile.

Mr Blackwood's resumè is even longer than dad's, so he must be worse than a typical sciences man. That's what I thought- and I couldn't have been more wrong.

It would be like Bess to keep those in debt private from her other customers. I keep flipping and keep seeing more names. I begin to think that all these people cannot possibly owe money to Bess. “Wait a minute,” says Robert. “What was that name?” “Which one?” I ask. Robert tries to take the book from my hands but I reposition myself to ward him off. Luckily, he takes the hint. “Ryan McKey.” Robert says in disbelief. “Who is that?” I ask aloud, the name still not meaning anything to me.