Noname's Book Club Novels & Stories

*Nameless POV* “This is not sparkling enough, you worthless piece of trash!” Beta Diana yells while her little princess giggles. A slap on my face, a kick on my ribs and a spat on my face, I block her words and continue scrubbing the corridor. There is a much more inferior position in the Ruber pack than that of an Omega. It’s reserved for those not worthy of anything. Yes, that’s me, the nameless girl. No rights, no roots, no identity, not even worthy of a name. No one knows where I came from, if they do, they don’t talk about it.

But she… didn’t flinch. Lena walked over to a little table display and picked up a thin, cloth-bound book. She walked over to him, holding it out like an offering. *The Quiet Between Lightning Strikes.* A poetry book. The cover was old and nubbly, the title scribbled in fine silver ink. Julian stared at it like it was an alien thing. "What's this?" "A book," she said, smiling. "I told you. I don't—"

Alie The invitation says Conversation on Story: Building Worlds for Real Life which is the kind of title that makes you feel smart while you drink tea out of a paper cup and pretend the folding chair isn’t a folding chair. The bookstore is small, all honeyed wood and lamps that try to be kind. Someone strung twinkle lights between nonfiction and essays, like stars got cozy in the ceiling.

As long as you are able to afford the expensive membership card and you are a regular customer, you already have a name in this exclusive gay club. I have a name here too. And this is my chessboard. The moment I saw the anonymous booking with the name, Moranorebel, I was a little confused. Can it be Brandon? No, can't probably be right? He doesn't know I frequent here and the type of vibe Brandon gives off doesn't include one that visits gay clubs with an Alias like this. Which means only one thing. Moranorebel. I laughed. Loud. That arrogant, conflicted, shame-drenched little hot shit.

"Larry, I have days off too. I'm, um, off-duty." "It's just a coffee." I hold up palms. "I promise you my intentions are strictly honourable." Her mouth quirks. "In that case, yes, thank you. I'd love a coffee." She turns to the counter. "I'll take this as well please, Cliff." A gnome of a man wraps the book in a creased brown-paper bag. I squint a look at the title. Nothing to Declare: Memoirs of a Woman Traveling Alone.

“Nope. Shell is a card-carrying member of the audiobook and podcast book club. I’m pretty sure that if she had to actually read something not for school, she’d probably burst into flames.” “She always has books with her.” “Zack is an avid reader. She gets him the book of whatever she’s listening to.” Neo leaned in close to her ear. “He’s recently discovered the draw of the H. E. A. And if it goes the way he’s hoping,” he lightly nipped at her earlobe. “they’ll be writing out their own pretty soon.” “What?” Jolene squealed and then moaned as his teeth grazed against her neck.

The twins are sixteen-year-olds who have been coming to this gathering their whole lives and who occupy it now with the ease of people who understand the tradition from inside it. In the afternoon, when the table has been cleared and the apartment has the specific quality of a Christmas afternoon — warm, full, the city outside doing its muted December thing — Valentina and Clara sit at the kitchen table. "Tell me more about the fourth book," Clara says. "I don't have it yet," Valentina says. "I have the question: what does the person name after the record is made. The third book made the record. The fourth book is about what happens when you look at the record from the altitude."

“You looked, I don’t know, peaceful.” “Honestly, this book is terrible,” Audrey said, holding up some thriller that I vaguely recognized. “I don’t know why the hell Annabelle has it on her shelf, but I fear for any of the recommendations she’s been giving out at the bookstore.” I suddenly realized where I recognized the book from. “Oh, that’s the one that all the book clubs were reading a while back,” I said. “She probably only got it because of that.” “Oh, that makes more sense,” Audrey said. There was an awkward silence. “So, are you going to sit down or what?”

He shifts back; putting a seat between us and truly looking horrified. Bibah simply shakes her head at our childish shenanigans and takes a sip of her iced latte, metal straw clinking in the Hydro Flask. “The Awoo Book Club’s pick for this week is H.P Lovecraft.” She pats the voluminous book atop the pile and I notice it’s the library copy of H.P Lovecraft’s Omnibus 3. “I’m so excited to roast his ass.”

The next morning, Matteo had already left, but espresso still sat warm on the counter beside brioche under a silver cover. He always remembered small things like that, which was exactly why I had mistaken care for devotion for so long. I had barely opened my laptop when Vanessa Ashford’s message appeared in the old boarding-school alumni chat. Private dinner tonight at The Aurelia Club. No excuses. I missed you all. I would have ignored it if Matteo’s reply had not appeared beneath hers almost immediately.