This Was A Man Novels & Stories

This man was obviously upset with Max. When we didn’t speak, he repeated, “You’re out.” “Excuse me?" Max asked. "Who the hell are you?” I lowered my glasses and continued to appreciate one of the most perfect specimens of man I’d ever seen. Small droplets of water hung from his short dark hair and glistened against the cobalt blue sky. More evidence of his recent swim coated his defined abs and his wet swim trunks clung to his thick thighs... Everything about this man screamed confidence. Not the cocky kind I'd seen in Max. No, this man wasn't a college kid who specialized in picking up girls. This man dominated every situation. He was a man who knew what he wanted and took it.

I wanted to run as fast as I could, but my knees wobbled, my chin trembled, and my body shivered. “He’s useless now. Nirvana, the daughter of Sophie, the descendant of Katzius. Do you know me?” His voice was echoey, as if we were in a theater. The man stopped just a yard away from where I stood. He was a black man, tall, in his fifties, but I had the feeling his age was ten times than his look, or maybe way older. He wore a classic brown suit with a scarf in its pocket. “Should I?” My voice shook.

The man dodged and took a step back. “Whoa buddy, easy!” The man exclaims. Zane snaps back to reality, realizing where he is and lowers his fists. He steadies his breathing and apologized: “I’m sorry, I’m still in my survival mode. I just got here, my name is Zane.” The man, who Zane now looked at clearly was about 5 '9, a bit taller than him, had shaved blonde sandy hair, a muscular build, and large hands. He had camouflage pants and a camouflage shirt on with sunglasses so he couldn’t see his eyes and he seemed to relax a bit.

I didn’t know if I was still asleep and this is all a dream, or if this was really happening. There before me stood a tall darkhaired man dressed in dark denim jeans, a black leather jacket with a black t-shirt underneath and black running shoes. “You’re the man in the picture.” I whispered in awe. He gave me a soft smile and nodded. “Hi honey,” he said tenderly.

I craned my neck over the sea of faces bearing board of the name of their families, loved ones and others. It didn't take me long to see my name, KELVIN boldly written on a white board, held by a man in Black suit. I studied the man closely. This man was a mountain of black flesh and muscles. He was the biggest man I had ever seen. He had tremendous broad shoulders that was impressive and a face as ugly as a gorilla. His head was shaved and there was a knife scar that ran down the right side of his face from his eyebrows to the back of his chin. I didn't like the looks of him. He looks a lot more gangsta and dangerous.

I was expecting to see some old man with grey hairs and probably a walking stick. But no. The man I saw was far from an old man. He was a young, attractive looking, dark haired man, who was in his early thirties. I could see the reflection of his blue eyes in the window. And he was smoking a cigar. The man had a beard and the way he held his cigar was sexy. He was wearing a black tuxedo and had silver rings on his finger. He also had a set of tattoos. And he was sitting there, all alone, like a king, smoking his cigar, in the backseat.

Hunter responded. After taking a swig from his glass, the man asked, “So why are you turning down such beautiful ladies?” “In case you're gay, I'm straight.” Hunter raised his hands at the man. “Don't come at me with no gay stuff.” The man threw his head back and roared with laughter. He looked like he was in his mid-forties. He didn't look feminine at all, quite the opposite. He looked like a macho man. With his low-cut hair, and cleanly cut moustache that met his bearded chin. He was wearing a white t-shirt that hugged his biceps and a gold watch around his right wrist. Hunter noticed a silver ring on his ring finger.

I opened the door—but didn’t step aside. He looked exhausted. Tie loosened. Jacket wrinkled. The man who never lost control looked like he’d been holding himself together with thread. “You shouldn’t be here,” I said. “I know,” he replied. “But you disappeared.” “I told you I needed space.” “You resigned from everything,” he said. “That’s not space. That’s exile.” I let out a slow breath. “It was survival.” He nodded slowly. “Then let me help you survive.” “No,” I said quietly.

A file opened on the large screen. A photograph appeared first. It was grainy, taken in low light, the colors washed out. It showed a man slumped against a concrete wall. His head was bowed, his face completely hidden by long, tangled hair and deep shadow. His hands were secured in front of him with heavy-duty cuffs. His clothes were torn and stained. A physical pain twisted in my chest at the sight.

Russian's POV A man in his late forties stepped into the basement, his bald head gleaming under the dim light. A tattoo of a fierce scorpion snaked from his neck to his scalp, marking him as someone not to be trifled with. His body was a canvas of ink, displaying various tattoos that told stories of battles fought and won. He dressed sharply, with a few buttons of his shirt undone, exuding an air of relaxed authority. He walked with a noticeable limp, leaning on a sturdy walking stick that seemed to amplify the aura of danger surrounding him.