Page 47 of Sacrifice
"Actually need a new jacket," he says, pulling one off the rack. "Mine's got some... wear and tear."
Bullet holes, he means. Or knife slashes. Or blood that won't wash out.
The life he leads leaves marks on everything, including leather.
"Try the mall," I suggest. "They have a lovely selection at JCPenney."
"But then I wouldn't get your expert opinion." He shrugs off his cut, then his t-shirt in one smooth motion.
"What are you—" My words die as I catch sight of his bare torso.
I've seen him shirtless before—felt those muscles under my hands—but in the bright lights of the shop, the tattoos that cover his chest and arms, and back are on full display.
Military insignia blending seamlessly with motorcycle club ink across his body—dog tags morph into chains, as they come around his back onto his chest, where he has a massive Nordic God chest piece, and tribal flames go down his arms.
"The jacket?" He holds it up, expression innocent. Like he doesn't know exactly what he's doing. "Gonna help me or just stare?"
"I wasn't staring."
"Sure you weren't." He slides the jacket on, and fuck if it doesn't fit him perfectly. The leather hugs his shoulders, sitting just right at his waist. "What do you think?"
"It's fine."
"Fine?" He checks himself in the mirror, adjusting the collar. "That's all you got?"
"What do you want me to say? That you look good? That the leather brings out your eyes? That?—"
"That'll work." He grins at my reflection. "Though you could elaborate on the eyes part."
"Get out of my store."
"Can't. Haven't paid yet." He turns to face me. "This is the one. Ring me up?"
I should refuse. Should tell him we don't serve arrogant assholes who've been making my life complicated. Instead, I find myself at the register, typing in the price.
"Three hundred dollars?" He doesn't sound surprised, just curious. "For a jacket?"
"It's vintage. Authentic 1960s Schott Perfecto. Same style Brando wore. If you can't afford it?—"
"I can afford it." He pulls out his wallet. "Just wondering what makes it worth that much."
"The craftsmanship. The history. The fact that it's survived sixty years and still looks this good." I run my hand over the sleeve before I can stop myself. "Things that last are rare."
"Yes," he agrees quietly. "They are."
Our eyes meet, and suddenly we're not talking about the jacket anymore.
"Employee discount?" he asks, breaking the moment.
"You're not an employee."
"Boyfriend discount?"
"You're not my boyfriend."
"Yet."
"Ever."
