The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(153)
Author: J.R. Ward

“Then I think what you’re going to want is a button-down.”

“A button-down.”

The guy regarded him steadily. “You’re not from here, are you.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I can tell by the accent.” The salesman passed a hand over the dizzying array of folded-up squares with collars. “These are our traditional cuts. I can tell without measuring you that the European stuff isn’t going to do you right—you’re too muscled in the shoulders. Even if we could get the neck and arm size right, you’d bust out of them. Do you like any of these colors?”

“I don’t know what to like.”

“Here.” The man picked up a blue one that reminded Xcor of the backdrop on his phone. “This is good with your eyes. Not that I go that way—but you gotta work with what you got. Do you have any idea of your size?”

“XXXL.”

“We need to be a little more exact.” The salesman got out a cloth tape measure. “Neck? Arms?”

As if to help the whole cognition thing, the man made a little circle in front of his own throat.

Xcor looked down at himself. He was wearing nothing but the cleanest muscle shirt he had, a pair of military combat pants, and his boots.

“I do not know.”

The man reached out with the tape, but then hesitated. “Tell you what, how ’bout I give this to you—just wrap it around your neck and I’ll read the number.”

Xcor took the thing and did as asked.

“Okay, wow.” The salesman crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, you won’t be wearing a tie, right?”

“Tie?”

“I’ll take that as a no. Will you let me measure your arm?”

Xcor extended his left one and the man moved fast. “That’s almost normal in length at least. Width? You’re talking the Rock territory, easy. But I have an idea.”

A minute and a half of rifling later, Xcor had three different shirts to try on.

“What about slacks?” the salesman asked.

“I do not know my size or preference.” Might as well be efficient. “The same is true about jackets.”

“I had a feeling you were going to say that. Come with me.”

Before he knew it, he was buck naked in a dressing room, jacking his body into the clothes, his weapons hidden under the pile of things he’d worn walking in.

“How is it?” his new best friend asked on the far side of the door.

Xcor glanced at himself in the mirror and felt his brows rise. He looked … not good, no. That would never be him. But he didn’t appear as stupid as he felt—or as rough as he’d been in his own wardrobe.

Taking off the dark jacket that had been suggested to him, he strapped on his guns and knives and then put the thing back on. It was a little tight in the back, and he couldn’t quite button it—but it was so much better than his bloodstained leather duster. And the pants stretched across his thighs only slightly.

Stepping out, he handed over the two other shirts. “I shall take all this.”

The salesman clapped his hands. “Nice. Big improvement. You need shoes?”

“Mayhap later.”

“We’re having a sale at the end of the month. Come back then.”

Xcor followed him over to the checkout, and took a pair of scissors out of a pen holder to cut the tags that were hanging off his wrist and his waist. “Do you have scent?”

“Oh, you mean cologne?”

“Aye.”

“That’s another department—across the way. I can show you where they are—actually, check this.” He pulled open a drawer. “I have some samples here—yeah, old-school Drakkar. Égoïste—that’s a good one. Polo—the original. Oh, try this.”

Xcor accepted a small vial, popped the lid and breathed in. Fresh, clean … what handsome would smell like if it had a fragrance.

Basically everything he wasn’t.

“I like this one.”

“Calvin Klein Eternity. Very traditional—and the honeys like it.”

Xcor nodded as if he knew what he was talking about. Such a lie.

The salesman rang up everything. “Okay, your total’s five oh one ninety-two.”

Xcor took out the bills he’d shoved in his back pocket. “I have this,” he said, fanning the money out in his open palms.

The salesman’s brows popped. “Yeah, it’s not that much at all.” There was a pause. “Do you … yeah, okay, I need five of those, four of these, and two of the little guys.”

Xcor tried to facilitate the process of the man pulling specific denominations out that—apparently—meant something.

“And here’s your change and receipt. You want a bag for your old stuff?”

“Yes, please. Thank you.”

A big white bag with a red star was passed over the console. “Thanks for coming in—my name’s Antoine, by the way. If you want to come back for shoes.”

After shoving his former clothes inside, Xcor found himself bowing at the waist. “Your assistance has been much appreciated.”

Antoine raised his palm like he was getting ready to do a clap on the shoulder again. But once more, he caught himself and smiled instead. “Knock her dead, my man.”

“Oh, no.” Xcor shook his head. “That shan’t be necessary. This one I like.”

Layla left the mansion at eleven forty-eight by sneaking out the library’s French doors. No one seemed to notice; then again, Rhage and John Matthew were keeping an eye on the workmen in the billiards room, Wrath was up in his study with Saxton, Beth was at rest, the other Brothers were fighting, and Qhuinn and Blay were enjoying some quiet time on their night-off rotation.

Oh, and the staff were busying cleaning up after a celebratory First Meal.

Not that she was keeping track of everybody in the house.

Nah.

Dematerializing off the back terrace, she traveled to the meadow she was becoming so familiar with and re-formed at the base of the maple tree.

Dressed in her traditional robing, she had an overcoat on to keep warm, in the pocket of which she had put some Mace.

Qhuinn had insisted on teaching her self-defense as well as how to drive. So in case that other male showed up, she was prepared.

Slipping her hand into the coat pocket and palming the squat cylinder, she was careful to walk all the way around the tree. And note carefully the expanse of snow-covered meadow.

She was alone.