“Instead of a thigh-high miniskirt or a leather bustier, I wore my usual ensemble—dark jeans, heavy boots, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a black fleece jacket. Since it was almost Christmas, I’d donned one of my more festive T-shirts to celebrate—thick crimson cotton with a giant candy cane in the middle of my chest. The fabric was dark enough that Vinnie Volga’s blood wouldn’t stand out on it—much. Happy holidays.”

“I dressed in my bedroom, tugging on a pair of jeans, T-shirt, and heavy brown sweater that I’d picked up at a thrift store and loved down to holes.”

“Leaning over me with his chest bare, he pressed his wadded-up t-shirt to my ear. It was his Poser t-shirt that he wore to school at least twice a week,and he was willingly staunching my blood with it.He must be in love.”

“I looked him up and down. Once before I’d seen Jericho Barrons wearing jeans and a T-shirt. It’s like sheet-metaling a W16 Bugatti Veyron engine - all 1,001 horsepower of it - with the body of a ‘65 Shelby. The height of sophisticated power sporting in-your-face, fuck-you muscle. The effect is disturbing.He had more tattoos now than he’d had a few days ago.when I’d last seen him wearing nothing but a sheen of sweat, his arms were unmarked. They were now sleeved in intricate crimson and black designs, from bicep to hand. A silver cuff gleamed in his wrist. There were chains on his boots.“Slumming, huh?” I’d saidYou should talk, said those dark eyes, as they swept my black leather ensemble.”

“How had I managed to tie my boots? I didn’t even remember getting dressed. I was out here in public at the mall. What was I wearing? Jeans. I could feel socks. I had my boots on. I plucked at the edge of my t-shirt and saw it was red. I was wearing Dad’s spare Army jacket, and there was a heavy weight in the right pocket that had to be something deadly.”

“His hair was still wet, and he was in a black long-sleeved T-shirt and tattered blue jeans. His feet were bare. Casual. Comfortable. Gorgeous.”