Chapter 13
The Abomination
PRESTON
Three Days Before the Gala
“Show me.”
I am standing in the centre of Luke’s bedroom in Queens. I am wearing sunglasses indoors because the morning light is aggressive, and I am holding a latte from the Breville machine I so graciously donated to this household.
Luke is standing in front of his closet, guarding the door like it contains state secrets.
“Preston, it’s fine,” Luke says, crossing his arms. “It’s a tuxedo. It has pants. It has a jacket. It covers my body. That meets the dress code.”
“The dress code is ‘Black Tie,’” I remind him. “That implies a certain aesthetic standard. If you show up looking like a waiter from a mid-tier cruise ship, my mother will eat you alive. She feeds on polyester, Luke. It strengthens her.”
Luke sighs. He looks pained.
“It’s not… modern,” he admits. “I bought it for senior prom. My mom said it was ‘dashing.’”
“Your mother is a saint who clearly loves you too much to tell you the truth. Now, move.”
I nudge him aside with my hip. I reach for the garment bag hanging in the back. It is plastic. It is dusty.
I unzip it.
I scream.
It is a short, sharp sound of pure aesthetic terror.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, recoiling. “Luke. Lucas. What is that?”
Luke rubs the back of his neck, looking at the floor. “It was 2014. Styles were different.”
“Styles were not this different,” I gasp.
I pull the hanger out.
The tuxedo is white.
Not a subtle, ivory, James Bond Goldfinger white. It is a blinding, reflective, radioactive white. The lapels are satin and wide enough to land a plane on. The fabric is 100% pure, unadulterated polyester that feels like it would melt if it got within ten feet of a candle.
And the shirt?
The shirt has ruffles.
“It’s…” I struggle for words. “It looks like a marshmallow had a breakdown.”
“I looked good in it!” Luke defends, though his face is bright red. “I had frosted tips. It was a vibe.”
“It is a crime scene,” I correct. “If you wear this to the gala, they will arrest you. Not the police. The fashion police. They have snipers in the rafters.”
I shove the monstrosity back into the closet and slam the door.
“Get your coat,” I order.
“Why?”
“Because we are going to see Giovanni. And we are burning this apartment down on the way out to ensure that thing never sees daylight again.”
Giovanni’s shop smells of espresso and judgment. It is the only place in the city where I feel truly understood.
When the bell chimes, Giovanni looks up from his cutting table. He is measuring a piece of silk with the intensity of a surgeon.
“Preston!” he exclaims, throwing his arms wide. “The Prodigal Son! I haven't seen you since the… what was it? The velvet incident?”
“It was a smoking jacket, Giovanni, and it was iconic,” I say, embracing him. “But I am not here for me. I have brought you a challenge.”
I step aside, revealing Luke.
Luke is standing by the door, looking like he’d rather be intubating a angry badger. He is wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and he is eyeing the bolts of fabric with deep suspicion.
Giovanni lowers his glasses. He circles Luke slowly. He pokes Luke’s bicep.
“Solid,” Giovanni murmurs. “Dense. Like the other one.”
“The other one?” Luke asks.
“Dr. O’Connell,” Giovanni explains with a shudder. “The vending machine made of meat. I dressed him for Christmas. It took three fittings to accommodate the trapezius. You have the same problem.”
“It’s called lifting patients,” Luke says defensively.
“It is called a geometry problem,” Giovanni corrects. He grabs his tape measure. “Up on the block. Shoes off.”
Luke looks at me. “Do I have to?”
“Yes,” I say, sitting on the leather ottoman and crossing my legs. “Do as the man says. He’s a wizard.”
Luke sighs and steps onto the podium.
Giovanni begins to measure. Inseam. Waist. Chest. He mutters numbers under his breath, shaking his head.
“He is broad,” Giovanni complains to me. “But the waist is narrow. If I fit the shoulders, he looks like a box. If I fit the waist, he rips the seams when he hugs someone.”
“We need structure,” I advise, sipping the espresso an assistant magically placed in my hand. “But we need movement. He’s a trauma surgeon. He moves fast.”
“And no black,” I add. “Everyone wears black. He needs to stand out. He needs to annoy my mother.”
Giovanni’s eyes light up. “Annoy Catherine? Say no more.”
He vanishes into the back room.
He returns a moment later holding a jacket.
It is midnight blue. It is velvet. It is the colour of a bruise in moonlight, deep and rich and dangerous.
“Oh,” Luke breathes.
“Try it,” Giovanni commands.
Luke slips his arms into the sleeves.
It fits.
It doesn’t just fit; it transforms him. The velvet absorbs the light, making his shoulders look wider, his posture straighter. The deep blue makes his skin glow and his dark eyes look almost black. He looks like a prince who just killed the king and took the throne.
But he’s struggling with the cuffs.
“The buttons are stiff,” Luke mutters, fumbling.
“Let me,” I say.
I stand up. I set my coffee down.
I walk up to the podium. I step between Luke’s legs.
The air in the shop shifts. Giovanni, sensing the moment (or perhaps just fearing a repeat of the Max/Jax changing room incident), quietly retreats to the back to find fabric swatches.
“Hold still,” I whisper.
I take Luke’s wrist. My fingers brush the pulse point. It’s hammering.
I fasten the cuff link. Then I move to the other side.
“You have nice wrists,” I murmur, smoothing the velvet. “Strong.”
“They’re wrists, Preston,” Luke croaks. His voice is tight.
I reach up to his collar. I fix the lapel. I slide my hands down the front of the jacket, feeling the solid heat of him underneath the layers.
“You look…” I swallow, my throat dry. “You look devastating, Luke.”
Luke looks down at me. We are inches apart. I’m standing on the floor, he’s on the block, so for once, he is towering over me.
“Yeah?” he whispers.
“Yeah. My mother is going to hate it. It’s too bold. It’s too sexy. It’s perfect.”
I rest my hands on his waist, gripping the fabric.
“This jacket,” I say softly. “It tells people you aren't just staff. It tells them you own the room.”
“I don't own the room,” Luke says. “I rent a one-bedroom in Queens.”
“Not tonight,” I say. “Tonight, in this jacket? You’re the King of New York.”
Luke’s gaze drops to my lips. His hands twitch at his sides, like he wants to grab me.
“Preston,” he warns. “We’re in public.”
“Giovanni has seen worse,” I say. “Ask him about Max and the hem tape.”
Luke lets out a huff of laughter. He leans down. His forehead rests against mine.
“Thank you,” he whispers. “For doing this. For… seeing me.”
“I always see you, Luke. Even in the white polyester nightmare. I just prefer you in this.”
I step back before I do something reckless, like unzip his pants in a place of business.
“We’ll take it,” I call out to the empty shop. “And throw in the pants. And a shirt that does not have ruffles.”
Giovanni pops his head out from the back, grinning.
“Excellent choice,” he says. “I will put it on your father’s account?”
I grin at Luke.
“Absolutely,” I say. “Put it under ‘Medical Supplies.’ He won’t verify it.”
Luke shakes his head, looking at himself in the mirror. He straightens the cuffs I just buttoned. He looks at the reflection of me standing behind him.
He smiles.
And for the first time, he doesn't look like the scholarship kid. He looks like a man who is ready for war.
“Okay,” Luke says. “Let’s go crash a party.”
PRESTON
The St. Jude’s Spring Gala is not a party. It is a hostile environment with an open bar.
I am standing in the foyer, conducting a final gear check on Luke.
“Stop moving,” I hiss. “You are vibrating. It’s ruining the silhouette.”
“I’m not vibrating,” Luke says through gritted teeth. “I’m recoiling. A woman just asked me if I was the ‘entertainment.’ She thought I was a magician, Preston. Because of the velvet.”
“You are a magician,” I correct, smoothing his shoulder. “You made my father buy a fruit basket. Now, chin up. Shoulders back. Maintain situational awareness.”
“Situational awareness?” Luke asks. “Preston, we’re at a fundraiser, not a landing zone.”
“It’s a target-rich environment, Luke,” I say, quoting the Book of Jax. “Hostiles are everywhere. The dress code is black tie, but the rules of engagement are guerrilla warfare. Now, let’s move out.”
I grab his hand. His grip is tight.
“I bought you a jacket that makes you look like a sexy vampire prince,” I whisper. “It’s excellent camouflage. Let’s go.”
We breach the perimeter (the double doors).
The ballroom is a sea of penguins and gowns that cost more than a Honda Civic. As we step onto the carpet, the roar of gossip dips. Heads turn. Luke Silva in midnight blue velvet is a flash-bang in a dark room.
“Contact front,” a familiar voice draws over the noise.
We are intercepted immediately by our Forward Operating Base.
Jax O’Connell is leaning against a pillar, looking ruggedly out of place in his charcoal suit and combat boots. Next to him, Maxwell looks like he was carved out of marble and anxiety, gripping a glass of sparkling water like it’s a grenade pin.
“Velvet,” Jax whistles low, pushing off the pillar to circle Luke. “Bold. High visibility. I like it. You look like you’re about to drop the hottest R&B album of 1996.”
“Thank you?” Luke asks, bewildered.
“It’s a compliment,” Max sighs, straightening his own perfect tie. “He means you look distinct. Mother is going to have an aneurysm.”
“That’s the mission objective,” I say. “Max, you look rigid. What’s the sitrep on Alistair?”
“Father is drinking something blue,” Max says, his voice flat. “He calls it a ‘Blue Lagoon.’ I call it ‘Chemical Warfare.’ And he is currently in a heated negotiation with the Archbishop.”
“Negotiation?” I ask.