The rumble of a bureau drawer came from the bedroom, and Jason could see Rafe vividly in his mind’s eye. Putting away the wedding clothes, jade cufflinks placed gently in a padded lacquer box, a daylily boutonniere unpinned and set on top of the bureau in a water glass, a red silk tie rehung on the rack in the closet, and the suit sliding off shoulders and hips to be draped carefully on its heavy wooden hangers.
And then–the explosion. Hooking a pair of crumpled jeans out of a corner by a belt-loop, shooting one leg in, then the other, stopping, still unzipped, for an emergency cigarette because smoking was not allowed during the ceremony. Then he would remember his plastered-down hair, and thoroughly ruffle the morning’s wet comb job into a mess while stepping into a pair of ankle boots, and at the last second, he’d stick his arms through a random sleeveless undershirt plucked from a pile of dirty laundry.
The bedroom door swung open. There was nothing special about Rafe’s appearance, as fashion magazines would have it. His black jeans and white undershirt were ordinary, his hair finger-tousled, his cheeks sucking on his cigarette with a junkie’s desperate urgency. Except that he was glamorous, with no effort at all.
Life sucks, thought Jason. Maybe it’s the boots. Hell, I can’t figure out how he does it. Why do some people have glamour and others not? The goddamn public thinks my job is a fashion show with background music. They don’t give a shit about my guitar playing.
One satisfied exhalation later and a narrow-eyed stare at nothing, and Rafe was ten times more glamourous.
Life REALLY sucks, thought Jason. Rafe’s undershirt was too small, as if it belonged to Alexis instead. The taut material outlined every muscle and ridge of bone beneath it.