Pulp Fiction: Jules Novels & Stories

“What are you talking about now?” “I’m talkin’ tall, fine, dangerous in the best way,” Jules said, fanning himself with a napkin. “He walked in like he owns the damn place. Lord, he even smells expensive.” Her stomach skidded. “What—what does he look like, exactly?” Jules squinted like he was trying to remember a dream. “Sharp jaw, messed hair, that grin… you know, the kind that says, ‘I’ll wreck your life and you’ll thank me later.’”

When did Jules ever give up? I knew the answer from the first time I saw him snap someone’s neck. Jules was a demon used to getting what he wanted, and if it weren’t willingly given to him, he would take it by force. Everyone around him were his personal puppets; every single one of us was dangling by weathered strings from Jules’s fingers. Every movement and every shadow Jules’s minions cast were calculated. At any second, Jules would decide it was time to sacrifice one of his pawns, and their lines would sever for good, leaving them nothing but a crumpled pile of bones and flesh on the ground.

"Ginny? What are you doing out here?" The small, sleepy voice cut through the air. We both froze. Raphael didn’t pull away instantly, he let his thumb linger on my lip for one more agonizing second before slowly, calmly, releasing my face. I stepped back, my heart nearly leaping out of my chest as I turned toward the glass doors. Jules was standing there, rubbing one eye with the back of her hand. She looked between me—flushed, breathless, and trembling—and Raphael, who stood there in his black tactical gear, looking like a god of death caught in the moonlight.

Not elegant, but effective. "Tell me something, Jules," I said, pacing slowly, crowbar in hand. "How many girls have you trafficked for your boss? Five? Ten? A hundred?" He didn’t answer. I struck. A clean swing to his ribs. He gasped, body seizing. The sound echoed. "That was for the one in Seville," I said flatly. "The next one—that’s for lying to my face last winter." Another hit. This time across his thigh. Bone cracked.

“Thanks for stopping by.” He searches my face and smiles. The predatory look hasn’t left his eyes today, and I have to admit that I would rather go into the room and face Dexter rather than stay out here talking to him. It’s just the way I feel. “You don’t want me to pay you a drink?” he asks. From behind him, a very young looking guy says, “Yo, Jules. Leave the lady alone. Can’t you see she has things to do?” “Shut up, Damson,” Jules says. He doesn’t say the words lightly. In fact, he sounds very much pissed off. So that’s his name. Jules. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

I nodded and soon, I was handing over a glass to both of them as I took the sofa opposite them. Three of them remained mute for a couple of minutes, relishing the silence as they sipped from their respective glass cups. “You mentioned that you had to speak to me about something before you retired for the night if I remember correctly,” I began, swirling the contents in my cup. “Yes, I did.” Jules cleared his throat. “It’s a rather niggling feeling that I have to address to make peace with myself.” “Let’s hear it then, shall we?” I leaned into the sofa as I stared at my brothers.

Sage’s head was thrown back, dark hair fanned across the quilt, her small breasts rising and falling with every gasp. “Wow… just take a look at you” Jules said, low and rough, almost conversational despite the intensity in her eyes. She wasn’t one for flowery talk; her words came out blunt, like orders at last call. “All flushed and dripping down my wrist. You been holding out on us, artist girl? Saving this pretty pussy for the right night?” She twisted her fingers on the next thrust, curling them just so, and Sage let out a broken whimper that went straight to my core.