Fire And Ice

“Formal Christmas party tonight,” Jena wrote, along with an address. “Meet me there at six.”

He took the suit out again and draped it over the back of a black leather chair, a slip of paper floating to the floor by his feet. He bent over and snatched it up. It wasn’t a rental. Jena had dumped good money by buying the damn thing.

Tommy absently rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension building there. When was the last time he’d worn a tux? It didn’t take him long to remember. He’d been nineteen at his oldest sister Jamie’s wedding. And he’d completely ruined the rental by pulling and plucking and generally setting out to destroy the confining suit of clothes before it destroyed him.

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