saying—”
“Drumroll please!” Blaine cannot contain himself, rolling his tongue and banging on the table with his index fingers like he’s playing a set of drums.
The suspense is killing him.
“I want to punch you in the vagina so hard right now,” Phillip threatens, all the wind sucked out of his sails.
I pop a walnut in my mouth and chew. “Now now, girls, violence is never the answer.”
“Do you assholes want to see the jackets or not? Because I’m not going to sit here and—”
“Oh calm down,” Blaine interjects. “You’re so damn sensitive. Hurry up and show us. I’m tired of waiting.”
If Phillip could shank someone with his eyes, Blaine would be dead on the ground, bleeding from a stab wound to the rib cage with no one to resuscitate him.
The brown paper bag sits on our friend’s lap, stapled shut at the top and mocking us. This is the reason we’re here—these jackets. This comradery. This group.
“I feel so much freer now that I don’t have to worry about dating,” my friend says, breaking the seal on the bag and peering inside. “These are so fucking cool.”
“Didn’t you check them out already?”
“Yeah, I was wearing mine last night,” he admits.
“What the fuck!”
“What? I couldn’t help it. Lisbeth had them shipped two-day air, and I couldn’t resist.” He lifts the first one out and strokes the velvet fabric. “They’re so pretty.”
They really are.
He holds it high, turning it to face us.
“She didn’t have time to get the pocket embroidered—we can decide to do that once we have a logo or whatever.”
Shit, we should probably have a list of things we need to do to run smoothly, but for now, having the jackets and a meeting location is enough. The rest can come later.
The jacket is blue, a deep navy velvet. Better than Hef’s famous red one, with gold stitching lining the hem and the pocket on the right breast. Perfect for a cigar, a handkerchief, or condoms—for those of us who are actually having sexual relations.
I stand. Reach for the jacket and ask, “May I?”
It gets handed to me and I open it, sliding one arm in then the other, fabric gliding smoothly over my arm. The inside is satin—the same blue as the velvet—and cool to the touch.
“How did she get these so fast?”
“Don’t know, don’t care.”
“How much?”
“Uh, I didn’t ask. She said she’d invoice you.”
My brows shoot up. “Me?”
“I mean, we’ll split it, but yeah—she said she’d email you an invoice, including the cost to expedite procurement.”
That bitch.
“So Lisbeth is bending us over.” It’s a statement, not a question, because his sister is bending us over and fucking us up the ass on the cost of these jackets. I would bet money on it.
I already have, in the form of my grandpa’s season tickets.
“Basically fucking us up the butts.”
“Lovely.”
I slide my other arm in and adjust the garment over my dress shirt.
“Wow dude, that is so fucking neat. I wanna try mine on!” Blaine hops up out of his seat. “This is almost worth dumping my girlfriend over.”
I glance at him over the sleeve of my sweet new smoking jacket. “How did that go over, by the way?”
“Not good—she was super pissed. Like, I thought I was going to have to file a restraining order.” He’s happily sliding into his coat. “She’ll get over it.”
Phillip is putting his on now, too. “I feel like all my problems disappear when I’m wearing this.”
“Same,” Blaine agrees. “We look so handsome.”
“Where’s a mirror? I wanna see what it looks like.”
We abandon our seats in search of a mirror, locating one on the far end of the bar, affixed to the wall. The bartender eyes us with amusement as we shuffle to stand in front of it, squeezing in and fighting for room.
“Look at us. Just look.” I gesture to our reflection, at how majestic we look, the three of us peacocking in our finery.
Murmurs abound.
“Damn we look amazing.”
“You’re one handsome devil, Brooks Bennett,” Phillip tells me over my shoulder, standing behind me. Runs his hands along my shoulders, smoothing out the wrinkled fabric. “One sexy son of a bitch.”
“I’d fuck you,” Blaine decides out loud.
“I’d fuck you, too,” I tell him.
“I’d fuck both of you,” Phillip chimes in loudly. “And I’d fuck myself.” He runs a palm slowly down his bicep, admiring his arms in the mirror, turning this way and that. “Look at this velvet. It’s so silky smooth.”
“Like a freshly waxed pussy,” I agree, stroking my own chest.
“Nay,” Blaine argues. “Better