Page 92 of Saxon

Saxon

It's like watching a magician perform a trick. You know it's a trick, but you're still amazed. She takes my measurements four or five times—the length of my arms from fingertips to armpit, around my chest, my waist, my hips, my inseam. Jots notes down. Rummages through rolls of fabric until she finds what she's looking for.

Then it's a flurry of things I don't understand. Tracing cutting, measuring. I'd expected to be bored, but watching her work is anything but boring. She seems to mostly tune me out as she works—she yells for Alexa to play music and the device blasts blues. Stevie Ray Vaughn, Albert King, BB King. Not what I'd have expected from her, but then, nothing about Terra Connelly is predictable.

I've lost track of time. The sewing machine hums and hums and hums, and she hums along to the music, pins wedged in her lips.

"Right, here we go. Try these on." She gets up from the sewing machine with a pair of slacks and a jacket.

I shuck my pants and take the new pair from her, step into them. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but they fit…well, like they were custom-made for me. Which, seeing as my parents were filthy fucking rich, my suits have always been bespoke.

But this…

This is on another level. The material she used is serious money. Light, breathable, with a little flex. She paces around me with a critical eye to the fit.

"Almost." She tucks a fold near my butt. "Gotta show off them cannonballs you're packing." I feel her pin the fabric in place. She fusses with the hems at my ankles, muttering to herself. "Now the jacket."

She helps me into it, and repeats the process, identifying where to adjust it so it tapers at my waist just so. The fold of the lapels. "A few adjustments, and then the shirt, tie, and pocket square."

A few adjustments to her, apparently, means at least an hour of flipping the garments inside out and doing…things. More sewing—hummm hummm hummm, pause, mutter, foot pedal squeaking, hummm hummm hummm.

And then the shirt. More measurements. More cutting and tracing and pinning. Glancing at me, not seeing me but the shape of my body, presumably.

Without daylight to track or clocks to look at, I have no idea how long she works, but it feels like a few more hours.

Finally, she stands up. "Done. Try on the whole tux."

I can feel the quality as I dress—this is world-class. I should know—I've had suits made by the best suit makers in London, Hong Kong, and Paris. The Cabal expects you to represent them, you see. Look good. Be professional.

It fits me like a second skin—clinging where it’s supposed to cling, draping where it's supposed to drape. The 3-pane mirror shows me that it looks every bit as good as it feels.

"Terra…holy shit." I twist, button the jacket, and unbutton it. "I mean, I…"

"Seeing is believing." She looks tired but proud. "You look hot."

"You saw the house I grew up in," I tell her. "I grew up watching my dad's tailor work. He'd come to the house and take measurements. Come back two weeks later with some shit held together with pins. More measurements. It took months for my dad to get the finished suit."

She rolls her eyes. "That's just laziness. They charge up the ass, take an eternity, and call it 'luxury'." A shrug. "That's what sets me apart—I work fast. I can have a custom gown done in a week because I don't fuck around. When you don't eat if you don't get paid, it behooves you to get the work done fast."

"I've always had custom suits, honey. Growing up, and then working for the Cabal. This is, by far, the best tux I've ever worn."

The pride and heat in her eyes melt something inside me. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Cabot."

"I'm not flattering you, I'm telling you the goddamn truth. This material is fuckin' expensive, honey. You are seriously, seriously talented."

She swallows hard. "Thanks, Saxon. Coming from you, that means more than I can say. Now take it off and go get us food. I need to eat and sleep so I can make mine."

"Your wish is my command."

My Range Rover is still there, so I toss my watchdogs a hundred each, and I bring them back food, as well. There's not much around, so my only real option is fast food—I bring back a sack of cheeseburgers and fries and some Diet Cokes.

We make quick work of the food, and then Terra leads me to her room and peels out of her clothing until she's in nothing but the red thong.