Tux Quotes

You laugh, but you haven't seen me in a tux. Or maybe you don't like broad-shouldered guys with muscular chest and washboard abs?

I don't want to hurt anyone" Laszlo fiddled with a button on his tux jacket. "Can't we convince the CIA that some of us are peaceful?" "we'll have to try" Angus folded his arms across his broad chest. "And if they doona believe we're peaceful, then we'll have to kill the bastards." Roman frowned, somehow their Highlander logic escaped him.

Don’t be mad” was the first thing he said. He really was terrified, as if the most frightening reaper on the planet was no scarier than a mouse, and yet put him in a tux and it was the Apocalypse.

Tex (wearing a tux, and not happy about it) boomed from across the room, “Roxanne Giselle Lo… I mean, Nightingale! When are those fuckin’ harpists gonna shut the fuck up and so we can get some rock ‘n’ roll?

So you did get it?” I asked, suddenly babbling. “I wasn’t sure. I mean, sometimes we don’t get very good reception at school. But I guess you know that, living on a farm and all.” Shut up, shut up, shut up . He smiled slowly. “Hunter, are you nervous?” “Shut up.” “Are you going to ask me to prom?” he teased. “Shut up,” I repeated, choking on a horrified laugh. He grinned. “I look pretty good in a tux.” I rolled my eyes, suddenly comfortable again. “And you’re so refreshingly modest.

So, you invite a wild rabbit living in Italy to a party on the island of Crete. What’s it supposed to do, swim there? Its little tux would get wet.

He didn’t even know what it was, Vishous.” “The tux?” V lit a hand-rolled. “Of course he didn’t. He’s a real male.

Hey, it’s a party already,” Trez called out as he and iAm arrived. “Oh, nice tux. Isn’t that Tom Ford?” “Or was it Dick Chrysler,” Rhage interjected. “Harry GM—wait, that sounds dirty….

He's stubborn," Tux warned in a singsong tone. "Stay out of this," Mark spat. "And touchy," Tux added.

When his phone rang, he had to dig through his pocket to find it, and his fingers brushed against a pair of tiny earbuds he and Kat had last used in Monte Carlo. Hale smiled a little, realizing he hadn’t worn the tux in ages. It was just one of many ways his life had change in the years since a girl named Katarina Bishop crawled into his window and into his life." — Double Crossed by Ally Carter

That is a beautiful tuxedo,” Phury announced as he and Z pushed the door wide. “I have one just like it .” “Fritz has the candles lit,” Rehv said from behind the twins. “Hey, nice tux. I haveone just like it.” “Me, too,” Phury agreed. “The fit is fantastic, isn’t it.” “The shoulders, right? Tom Ford is the best—

I was told The average girl begins to plan her wedding at the age of 7 She picks the colors and the cake first By the age of 10 She knows time, And location By 17 She’s already chosen a gown 2 bridesmaids And a maid of honor By 23 She’s waiting for a man Who wont break out in hives when he hears the word “commitment” Someone who doesn’t smell like a Band-Aid drenched in lonely Someone who isn’t a temporary solution to the empty side of the bed Someone Who’ll hold her hand like it’s the only one they’ve ever seen To be honest I don’t know what kind of tux I’ll be wearing I have no clue what want my wedding will look like But I imagine The women who pins my last to hers Will butterfly down the aisle Like a 5 foot promise I imagine Her smile Will be so large that you’ll see it on google maps And know exactly where our wedding is being held The woman that I plan to marry Will have champagne in her walk And I will get drunk on her footsteps When the pastor asks If I take this woman to be my wife I will say yes before he finishes the sentence I’ll apologize later for being impolite But I will also explain him That our first kiss happened 6 years ago And I’ve been practicing my “Yes” For past 2, 165 days When people ask me about my wedding I never really know what to say But when they ask me about my future wife I always tell them Her eyes are the only Christmas lights that deserve to be seen all year long I say She thinks too much Misses her father Loves to laugh And she’s terrible at lying Because her face never figured out how to do it correctl I tell them If my alarm clock sounded like her voice My snooze button would collect dust I tell them If she came in a bottle I would drink her until my vision is blurry and my friends take away my keys If she was a book I would memorize her table of contents I would read her cover-to-cover Hoping to find typos Just so we can both have a few things to work on Because aren’t we all unfinished? Don’t we all need a little editing? Aren’t we all waiting to be proofread by someone? Aren’t we all praying they will tell us that we make sense She don’t always make sense But her imperfections are the things I love about her the most I don’t know when I will be married I don’t know where I will be married But I do know this Whenever I’m asked about my future wife I always say …She’s a lot like you

You are the prettiest pilot I ever saw.' 'Hey.' Grayson walked forward. 'Do you see me standing here in a tux? Get in line.

To business."Tux Dude extended his hand. "I am Prometheus." I was too surprised to shake."The fire-stealer guy?The chained-to-the-rock-with-the-vultures guy?" Prometheus winced. He touched the scratches on his face."Please, don't mention the vultures. But yes, I stole fire from the gods and gave it to your ancestors. In return, the ever merciful Zeus had me chained to a rock and tortured for all eternity.

I need to leave something behind. Something that will stay. This room should be a historical landmark, the site of the beginning and end of Colby and Bev. Several minutes have passed, and I know that if I wait too long there will be a knock on the door and I'll have to go, but I need to leave a mark. It has to be significant enough to last, but subtle enough that the maid won't notice and wash it away. As I'm looking around I realize that I never noticed the print above the bed. It's another in the family series - a faded wedding portrait. Groom in tux. Bride with pearls. It comes off the wall easily.I set the print on the bedspread and wit eht dust on the wall with the sleeve of my hood. I take out a Sharpie from my bag. The wall has yellowed to create a perfect rectangle where the photograph must have been hanging, unremoved, for years. I fill the whiter space with this: I never got to tell you how beautiful you are. And then I return the frame to its place on the wall and go back out into the night.

There you are," Hale told his mother when he found her. "Oh, darling, do you know Michael Calloway? His mother is the event chair. We've just been arguing over whether he is going to let me outbid him for this gorgeous antique clock," Mrs. Hale said, but her son didn't care. "Sorry," Hale told the man in the tux with the small bits of sweat gathering at his brow. "I need her," he said, pulling his mother from the table and toward the bank of elevators on the far sie of the room, the ones that appeared to be operational. "Mom, I need you to come with me," "But, darling," the woman protested, "its Swiss!" The elevator dinged and Hale pushed her inside it. "Sorry, Dad will meet you downstairs.

Didn't you have some big deal last night?" Peabody asked her. "Yeah, in East Washington. Roarke had this dinner / dance thing for some fancy charity. Save the moles or something. Enough food to feed every sidewalk sleeper on the Lower East Side for a year." "Gee, that's tough on you. I bet you had to get all dressed up in some beautiful gown, shuttle down on Roarke's private transpo, and choke down champagne." Eve only lifted a brow at Peabody's dust-dry tone. "Yeah, that's about it." They both knew the glamorous side of Eve's life since Roarke had come into it was both a puzzlement and a frustration to her. "And then I had to dance with Roarke. A lot." "Was he wearing a tux?" Peabody had seen Roarke in a tux. The image of it was etched in her mind like acid on glass. "Oh yeah." Until, Eve mused, they'd gotten home and she'd ripped it off of him. He looked every bit as good out of a tux as in one. "Man." Peabody closed her eyes, indulged herself with a visualization technique she'd learned at her Free-Ager parents' knees. "Man," she repeated. "You know, a lot of women would get pissed off at having their husband star in their aide's purient little fantasies." "But you're bigger than that, Lieutenant. I like that about you.

I still think I rocked that blue tux,” I told her as we bagged my purchases. “Oh, Amir.” She smiled sweetly and leaned in close, making my heart thump. “If you ever wear that again,” she whispered, “I’ll skin you alive.

Every bride and groom in the history of civilization has gained weight after their wedding day. It is only a matter of time until archaeologists unearth a married caveman who's wearing a pair of old tux pants that were so tight he couldn't get the zipper closed.

And if she’d thought the man was dangerous in a football uniform, he was positively lethal in a tux.

Soy rara, todos lo saben. Y me gustaría estar segura de que a Tux le gusto por ser como soy... y no a pesar de ser como soy.

The trick to pinpointing the man with the biggest bank account in the room is not to look to the man in the nicest tux, but to the man not trying to impress.

What am I supposed to do?” “Tell her you’re not taking her.” “I can’t just… What would I even say?” She smiled like she was enjoying this. “Man up, Beau. Or rent a tux. Your choice.

... if hanging with other vamps means I have to go the whole movie cliché route, then forget it. Cemeteries? Acolytes? Partying in chilly mausoleums? Yuck-o. Also, nobody wears a tux this time of year unless they're going to a wedding. You look like an escapee from the set of Dracula Does Doris.

The others sat down to watch Iko work. She'd just finished teasing the hair at the crown of Scarlet's head when Scarlet asked, "Why is Wolf's tuxedo missing?" Cinder traded looks with the others. "It ... um ... we were ..." "Thorne came up and took it," interrupted Cress. "When you were changing." Scarlet frowned. "What for?" "Because .. he wanted to ..." Cress swallowed. "Um ... compare it to his own tuxedo. To make sure they were, uh ... matching?" Her gaze darted to one side as she realized how implausible that sounded, even for Thorne. "She means," interrupted Cinder, "that Thorne was concerned that he and Wolf might have purchased the same tuxedo, which I guess is considered a big faux pas. You know how Thorne is about that sort of thing. Can't be seen in the same tux as the groom! How embarrassing, right?

Guy cradled his tux, stroking it, running his fingers incestuously over the satin stripe on the trousers. There is a satisfaction that only superb clothing can offer, the joy of man raising himself from the mud, vindicating evolution. Life cannot lack purpose if a tuxedo exists—this is the obvious reply to the Samuel Beckett canon.

Pure entertainment is not an egotistical lady singing boring songs on stage for two hours and people in tuxes clapping whether they like it or not. It's the real performers on the street who can hold people's attention and keep them from walking away.

No hay problema," Orlando agreed. "But you haven't said where?" His eyes grazed over the rumpled tux, Aiden not having thought about where the tattoo might go. Isabel had an answer. "His neck." "My neck?" "Tiene cojones," Orlando said slyly grinning. "Yes, your neck. It'll be your thing, you know, when you're famous--like an insigna. It's sexy and dangerous. Aidan's going to be a famous rock star, Orlando." Aidan admired her confidence. "From her lips ..." "I surely hope, mis amigos, because putting that thing on your neck does not say nine-to-five employment.

No hay problema," Orlando agreed. "But you haven't said where?" His eyes grazed over the rumpled tux, Aiden not having thought about where the tattoo might go. Isabel had an answer. "His neck." "My neck?" "Tiene cojones," Orlando said slyly grinning. "Yes, your neck. It'll be your thing, you know, when you're famous--like an insigna. It's sexy and dangerous. Aidan's going to be a famous rock star, Orlando." Aidan admired her confidence. "From her lips ..." "I surely hope, mis amigos, because putting that thing on your neck does not say nine-to-fice employment.

My attention is diverted when Easton walks up from behind the floral arch with his oldest brother behind him. I nearly swallow my tongue. Easton Royal in a tux should be illegal. I wonder how many other women in the audience are getting pregnant just from looking at the two Royal brothers.

In the opening scene of the film, Bond glides through the mêlée in a skeleton mask and tux and slips into a hotel with a masked woman. Except, here’s the trick. The Días de los Muertos parade did not inspire the James Bond film. The James Bond film inspired the parade. The Mexican government, afraid that people around the world would see the film and expect that the parade exists when it did not, recruited 1,200 volunteers and spent a year re-creating the four-hour pageant.

You’re sure you want to do this,” Galen says, eyeing me like I’ve grown a tiara of snakes on my head. “Absolutely.” I unstrap the four-hundred-dollar silver heels and spike them into the sand. When he starts unraveling his tie, I throw out my hand. “No! Leave it. Leave everything on.” Galen frowns. “Rachel would kill us both. In our sleep. She would torture us first.” “This is our prom night. Rachel would want us to enjoy ourselves.” I pull the thousand-or-so bobby pins from my hair and toss them in the sand. Really, both of us are right. She would want us to be happy. But she would also want us to stay in our designer clothes. Leaning over, I shake my head like a wet dog, dispelling the magic of hairspray. Tossing my hair back, I look at Galen. His crooked smile almost melts me where I stand. I’m just glad to see a smile on his face at all. The last six months have been rough. “Your mother will want pictures,” he tells me. “And what will she do with pictures? There aren’t exactly picture frames in the Royal Caverns.” Mom’s decision to mate with Grom and live as his queen didn’t surprise me. After all, I am eighteen years old, an adult, and can take care of myself. Besides, she’s just a swim away. “She keeps picture frames at her house though. She could still enjoy them while she and Grom come to shore to-“ “Okay, ew. Don’t say it. That’s where I draw the line.” Galen laughs and takes off his shoes. I forget all about Mom and Grom. Galen, barefoot in the sand, wearing an Armani tux. What more could a girl ask for? “Don’t look at me like that, angelfish,” he says, his voice husky. “Disappointing your grandfather is the last thing I want to do.” My stomach cartwheels. Swallowing doesn’t help. “I can’t admire you, even from afar?” I can’t quite squeeze enough innocence in there to make it believable, to make it sound like I wasn’t thinking the same thing he was. Clearing his throat, he nods. “Let’s get on with this.” He closes the distance between us, making foot-size potholes with his stride. Grabbing my hand, he pulls me to the water. At the edge of the wet sand, just out of reach of the most ambitious wave, we stop. “You’re sure?” he says again. “More than sure,” I tell him, giddiness swimming through my veins like a sneaking eel. Images of the conference center downtown spring up in my mind. Red and white balloons, streamers, a loud, cheesy DJ yelling over the starting chorus of the next song. Kids grinding against one another on the dance floor to lure the chaperones’ attention away from a punch bowl just waiting to be spiked. Dresses spilling over with skin, matching corsages, awkward gaits due to six-inch heels. The prom Chloe and I dreamed of. But the memories I wanted to make at that prom died with Chloe. There could never be any joy in that prom without her. I couldn’t walk through those doors and not feel that something was missing. A big something. No, this is where I belong now. No balloons, no loud music, no loaded punch bowl. Just the quiet and the beach and Galen. This is my new prom. And for some reason, I think Chloe would approve.

NASA garb inside out and scattered like a tux on a wedding night,

Do you think he'll want me to wear an eye-patch matching his tux?

There, leaning against the doorway, was Rune. He had a spray of cherry blossoms in his hand … and he was wearing a tux. My heart splintered with light. He was giving me my wish.

I still think I rocked that blue tux,” I told her as we bagged my purchases.

Amir, you look hideous.” My fiancée, Samirah al-Abbas, stared at my outfit in horrified disbelief. “Really?” I looked down at myself. “But it’s a tux!” “A baby-blue tux!” “With a matching ruffled shirt and floppy bow tie,” I said defensively. “My uncle loaned it to me. I think it’ll impress your grandparents, don’t you?” “It’s Jid and Bibi’s fiftieth wedding anniversary!” Sam sputtered. “You can’t wear—” “Samirah.” My father emerged from the kitchen. “He is pulling your leg.” Sam’s reddish-brown eyes blazed dangerously, and I suddenly realized that playing a practical joke on a Valkyrie might not be the best idea I ever had.

We found out yesterday that Robert has won the Drama Desk Award for Possessed, a huge Broadway honor. Jeff—who is over the moon about it—is planning a fiftieth birthday party/award celebration. Of course I have to be there . . . and of course Calvin will be, too. No way am I going solo. I need major reinforcements, and nobody makes me laugh harder than Davis. “I know where this is going,” he says once I’ve explained the situation. He lets out a long sigh. “Does this mean I need to get a plane ticket and rent a tux?” “Well yeah, because I want my date to look hot.” “That is some Flowers in the Attic stuff, Holls. Don’t be weird.

I still think I rocked that blue tux,” I told her as we bagged my purchases. “Oh, Amir.” She smiled sweetly and leaned in close, making my heart thump. “If you ever wear that again,” she whispered, “I’ll skin you alive.

Seinfeld was typically American in that show. He was a pretty funny guy, but he had no sense of style. Tacky like a Texan tux. Tasteless dressing and tasteful jokes. That's Seinfeld for me. I would have preferred it the other way around.

A MAN HITS YOU ONCE and apologizes, and you think it will never happen again. But then you tell him you’re not sure you ever want a family, and he hits you once more. You tell yourself it’s understandable, what he did. You were sort of rude, the way you said it. You do want a family someday. You truly do. You’re just not sure how you’re going to manage it with your movies. But you should have been more clear. The next morning, he apologizes and brings you flowers. He gets down on his knees. The third time, it’s a disagreement about whether to go out to Romanoff’s or stay in. Which, you realize when he pushes you into the wall behind you, is actually about the image of your marriage to the public. The fourth time, it’s after you both lose at the Oscars. You are in a silk, emerald-green, one-shoulder dress. He’s in a tux with tails. He has too much to drink at the after-parties, trying to nurse his wounds. You’re in the front seat of the car in your driveway, about to go inside. He’s upset that he lost. You tell him it’s OK. He tells you that you don’t understand. You remind him that you lost, too. He says, “Yeah, but your parents are trash from Long Island. No one expects anything from you.” You know you shouldn’t, but you say, “I’m from Hell’s Kitchen, you asshole.

Would you like to dance?" I knew I had frosting on my nose. Alex leaned over and wuped it off with his thumb. "Well?" I could only nod. I had a full mouth, too. I stood up, swallowed, and accepted the napkin he was holding. "You're here." "I'm here," he agreed, like it hadn't been a ridiculous thing to say. "I am crashing your sister's wedding. Hope she won't mind." "She won't mind." He was wearing a tux. A real tux, complete with bow tie and silk lapels. I stroked one. "I'm guessing this isn't a rental." He squirmed a little. "No, it's mine. Nice dress." I looked down at the snug purple monstrosity my sister had chosen. At least it had a mandarin collar and some sleeves. "It's a cheongsam," she'd announced proudly. "It's Eggplant Ho Lee Mess" was Frankie's take. My pear-shaped cousin Vanessa got strapless. Now she looked like an eggplant. "You look beautiful," Alex said, but the corner of his mouth was twitching. "Well,you look like...like..." I sighed. "Okay, you look really really good." Then, again, "You're here." "I'm here." "Why?" "I missed you," he said simply. "It's only been four days." "A very,very long four days. But your e-mail helped." He reached for my hand. "Now,are we dancing or not?" We did, and it wasn't as complicated as I'd thought it might be. I stood on my toes, he bent down a little, and we fit together pretty well. The song ended way too soon. "So," Alex said. "So." "We can stay here if you want to...or if you have to. But I have another suggestion. Let's go watch the sun rise." It sounded like a good idea to me. Except... "It's ten o'clock. And it's freezing out there." "Trust me," he said. "okay.

Where is he?” I said, pulling back. She hushed her voice into conspiratorial tones. “Waiting for you in the woods past the field.” She giggled. “This is all very exciting.” “Ha! I knew it would work.” I sprinted out of the gym and made it to the forest. “Eros?” A puff of pink smoke later, he appeared. In a tux. He gave me a cool look. “Bond. James Bond.

Freud: "Overt homosexuality in women is the result of masturbation. A woman who has discovered her own clitoris is a woman who will seek the clitoris in others.

The fourth time, it’s after you both lose at the Oscars. You are in a silk, emerald-green, one-shoulder dress. He’s in a tux with tails. He has too much to drink at the after-parties, trying to nurse his wounds. You’re in the front seat of the car in your driveway, about to go inside. He’s upset that he lost. You tell him it’s OK. He tells you that you don’t understand. You remind him that you lost, too. He says, “Yeah, but your parents are trash from Long Island. No one expects anything from you.” You know you shouldn’t, but you say, “I’m from Hell’s Kitchen, you asshole.” He opens the parked car’s door and pushes you out. When he comes crawling to you in tears the next morning, you don’t actually believe him anymore. But now this is just what you do. The same way you fix the hole in your dress with a safety pin or tape up the crack in a window. That’s the part I was stuck in, the part where you accept the apology because it’s easier than addressing the root of the problem, when Harry Cameron came to my dressing room and told me the good news. Little Women was getting the green light.

a twelve-foot-tall, male-model look-alike fake employee, no less, who wore a tux so perfectly fitted it had to be custom-made, who was armed with a snarky smile and a mischievous eyebrow, and whose cologne made my cock stiffen every time the air-conditioning blew a delicious whiff of him in my direction—I might have said it was impossible and called the whole thing off.

I don't have the slightest desire to wear a tux and condemn myself to one woman for the rest of my life. Something happens to couples after they walk down the aisle. They change. At least I'm honest about it. It saves one poor woman from being stuck in bed home alone, wondering where her husband is at night and what he's shoving his dick into. When that happens, you end up with bastards like me walking around.

The clock ticked away toward seven; news circulated that the tuxedo-clad Marlboro Man had arrived. He’d spent the day with his groomsmen and guests, driving them to the big city and treating them all to black cowboy boots to match their tuxes. Black patent slip-ons--and monogrammed Dopp kits--weren’t exactly his style. Even Mike got his own pair of shit-kickers, which he proudly displayed to guests walking into the church.

Everyone's here except for St. Clair." Meredith cranes her neck around the cafeteria. "He's usually running late." "Always," Josh corrects. "Always running late." I clear my throat. "I think I met him last night. In the hallway." "Good hair and an English accent?" Meredith asks. "Um.Yeah.I guess." I try to keep my voice casual. Josh smirks. "Everyone's in luuurve with St. Clair." "Oh,shut up," Meredith says. "I'm not." Rashmi looks at me for the first time, calculating whether or not I might fall in love with her own boyfriend. He lets go of her hand and gives an exaggerated sigh. "Well,I am. I'm asking him to prom. This is our year, I just know it." "This school has a prom?" I ask. "God no," Rashmi says. "Yeah,Josh. You and St. Clair would look really cute in matching tuxes." "Tails." The English accent makes Meredith and me jump in our seats. Hallway boy. Beautiful boy. His hair is damp from the rain. "I insist the tuxes have tails, or I'm giving your corsage to Steve Carver instead." "St. Clair!" Josh springs from his seat, and they give each other the classic two-thumps-on-the-back guy hug. "No kiss? I'm crushed,mate." "Thought it might miff the ol' ball and chain. She doesn't know about us yet." "Whatever," Rashi says,but she's smiling now. It's a good look for her. She should utilize the corners of her mouth more often. Beautiful Hallway Boy (Am I supposed to call him Etienne or St. Clair?) drops his bag and slides into the remaining seat between Rashmi and me. "Anna." He's surprised to see me,and I'm startled,too. He remembers me. "Nice umbrella.Could've used that this morning." He shakes a hand through his hair, and a drop lands on my bare arm. Words fail me. Unfortunately, my stomach speaks for itself. His eyes pop at the rumble,and I'm alarmed by how big and brown they are. As if he needed any further weapons against the female race. Josh must be right. Every girl in school must be in love with him. "Sounds terrible.You ought to feed that thing. Unless..." He pretends to examine me, then comes in close with a whisper. "Unless you're one of those girls who never eats. Can't tolerate that, I'm afraid. Have to give you a lifetime table ban." I'm determined to speak rationally in his presence. "I'm not sure how to order." "Easy," Josh says. "Stand in line. Tell them what you want.Accept delicious goodies. And then give them your meal card and two pints of blood." "I heard they raised it to three pints this year," Rashmi says. "Bone marrow," Beautiful Hallway Boy says. "Or your left earlobe." "I meant the menu,thank you very much." I gesture to the chalkboard above one of the chefs. An exquisite cursive hand has written out the morning's menu in pink and yellow and white.In French. "Not exactly my first language." "You don't speak French?" Meredith asks. "I've taken Spanish for three years. It's not like I ever thought I'd be moving to Paris." "It's okay," Meredith says quickly. "A lot of people here don't speak French." "But most of them do," Josh adds. "But most of them not very well." Rashmi looks pointedly at him. "You'll learn the lanaguage of food first. The language of love." Josh rubs his belly like a shiny Buddha. "Oeuf. Egg. Pomme. Apple. Lapin. Rabbit." "Not funny." Rashmi punches him in the arm. "No wonder Isis bites you. Jerk." I glance at the chalkboard again. It's still in French. "And, um, until then?" "Right." Beautiful Hallway Boy pushes back his chair. "Come along, then. I haven't eaten either." I can't help but notice several girls gaping at him as we wind our way through the crowd.

I won’t let anyone talk to my wife that way, Gray said, his voice with a steely edge. I know that underneath that expensive tux you’re nothing but a mama’s boy sucking off your father’s money and looking for a wealthy woman to keep you doing nothing for the rest of your life. I just want you to understand that beneath my tux is a rough and tumble cowboy who will kick your ever-loving ass to hell and back if you ever talk about my wife in derogatory terms again.

Cory rested his leg on his opposite knee, apparently not concerned about his steel-gray tux. The guy might’ve stepped off a page in GQ, he was that handsome. In fact, she might’ve called him the most gorgeous man in the room, if not for the blond, eye-maskless pirate scowling at the head table. He would win that contest, effortlessly. In jeans and a T-shirt. In a flawless tux. Or better yet, completely naked. “You could choose to look at it as a hand, not a handout.” “I can take

She sorted through the clothes. “Do you mind wearing Emilio’s underwear?” She turned back to him with the two different styles that she’d found. “You’re about the same size. And they’re clean. They were wrapped in a paper package, like from a laundry service.” Max gave her a look, because along with the very nice, very expensive pair of black silk boxers she’d pilfered from Emilio, she’d also borrowed one of his thongs. “What?” Gina said. It was definitely a man-thong. It had all that extra room for various non-female body parts. “Don’t be ridiculous.” “I’m not,” she said, trying to play it as serious. “One, it’s been a while, maybe your tastes have changed. And two, these might actually be more comfortable, considering the placement of your bandage and—” He took the boxers from her. “Apparently I was wrong.” She turned away and started sorting through the pairs of pants and Bermuda shorts she’d grabbed, trying not to be too obvious about the fact that she was watching him out of the corner of her eye. To make sure he didn’t fall over. Right. After he got the boxers on, he took off the bathrobe and . . . Okay, he definitely wasn’t as skinny as he’d been after his lengthy stint in the hospital. Emilio’s pants probably weren’t going to fit him, after all. Although, there was one pair that looked like they’d be nice and loose . . . There they were. The Kelly green Bermuda shorts. Max gave her another one of those you’ve-got-to-be-kidding glances as he put the bathrobe over the back of another chair. “Do I really look as if I’ve ever worn shorts that color in my entire life?” She tried not to smile. “I honestly don’t think you have much choice.” She let herself look at him. “You know, you could just go with the boxers. At least until your pants dry. You know what would really work with that, though? A bowtie.” She turned, as if to go back to the closet. “I’m sure Emilio has a tux. Judging from his other clothes, it’s probably polyester and chartreuse, but maybe the bowtie is—” “Gina.” Max stopped her before she reached the door. He motioned for her to come back. She held out the green shorts, but instead of taking them, he took her arm, pulled her close. “I love you,” Max said, as if he were dispatching some terrible, dire news that somehow still managed to amuse him at least a little. Gina had been hoping that he’d say it, praying even, but the fact that he’d managed to smile, even just a bit while he did, was a miracle. And then, before her heart even had a chance to start beating again, he kissed her. And oh, she was also beyond ready for that particular marvel, for the sweet softness of his mouth, for the solidness of his arms around her. There was more of him to hold her since he’d regained his fighting weight—and that was amazing, too. She skimmed her hands across the muscular smoothness of his back, his shoulders, as his kiss changed from tender to heated. And, God. That was a miracle, too. Except she couldn’t help but wonder about those words, wrenched from him, as if it cost him his soul to speak them aloud. Why tell her this right now? Yes, she’d been waiting for years for him to say that he loved her, but . . . Max laughed his surprise. “No. Why do you . . .?” He figured it out himself. “No, no, Gina, just . . . I should’ve said it before. I should have said it years ago, but I really should have said it, you know, instead of hi.” He laughed again, clearly disgusted with himself. “God, I’m an idiot. I mean, hi? I should have walked in and said, ‘Gina, I need you. I love you, don’t ever leave me again.’” She stared at him. It was probably a good thing that he hadn’t said that at the time, because she might’ve fainted. It was obvious that he wanted her to say something, but she was completely speechless.

Brett: Husband! Father of my child! Dance partner, emergency grilled-cheese maker. The kind of fellow who knows how to pick the wine. The kind of fellow who looks great in a tux. Also a zombie-tux. The guy with the generous laugh and the glorious whistle. The guy who has the answer. The man who makes my child laugh till he falls down. The man who makes me laugh till I fall down. The guy who lets me ask all sorts of invasive, inappropriate, and intrusive questions about being a guy. The man who read and reread and reread and then reread, and not only gave advice, but gave me a bourbon app. You’re it, baby. Thanks for marrying me. Two words, always.

Oh. I get it." Abby laughed. "This is where you bid on someone to wash your car." "Naked," Charli said. "Or check the shower tiles." "Also naked." Abby laughed. "I'm guessing that as long as there's wet and naked, we're all good." Fiona let out a long sigh. "What was that?" Charli asked with a lift to her perfect brows. "Have you got a victim---I mean a participant in mind?" Fiona glanced across the hall. "Have you seen Jackson's fireman buddy?" "No." Charli looked across the room. "Should we?" "Too late," Fiona said. "I've got first dibs." At that moment, Abby noticed the Wilder boys walk across the front of the room near the stage. Individually, they were stunning. As a group, they looked as appetizing as a decadent box of chocolates. Abby couldn't tear her eyes away from Jackson. Put him in a fireman suit, a tux jacket and jeans, or a simple T-shirt and cargo shorts, and he took her breath away. Truthfully, she liked him best in noting at all. "Holy guacamole." Charli gestured to a tall, dark, and devastating man walking with the group. "Is that who you are talking about?" Fiona nodded. "I want to lick him up one side and down the other like a cherry Popsicle." "Honey, you bid as high as you can go," Charli said. "And if you run out of money, you just let me know. I'd be happy to chip in.

In record time, I’m out of the shower, hair dripping, my T-shirt sticking to my still-damp body, running out the door to the SUV in the driveway. My dress and Logan’s tux are waiting for us at the palace, where the glam squad will make me presentable. Harry, a young, carefree security guard with shoulder-length brown hair, argues with Bartholomew, a bulkier bodyguard, in the driveway. “You don’t have it in you, mate.” “Oh, I have it in me—you can believe that.” I have no idea what their pissing contest is about, but I don’t have time for it. “You’re both gonna have my foot in your asses if somebody doesn’t drive me to the palace right now!” I yell. They both look shocked. And then they move their asses. “She’s kind of a violent little thing, isn’t she?” Harry says to Logan as he climbs in the backseat with me. Logan just laughs. And looks at me. “You’re going to make a good mum one day.” I shake my head at him. “That’s what you got out of my statement? Really?” “Sure—you sound just like Tommy’s mum and she’s the best one I know.” And something occurs to me—something we haven’t talked about yet. “Do you want that one day?” I imitate Logan’s accent. “To be a da?” “I do.” His face softens. “As long as you’re the mum, I’d like very much to be the da.” My stomach gets warm and fluttery. “Me too. Should probably make me a Mrs. first, though.” Logan kisses my palm, smiling. “That’s the plan.” Good to know.

When I come down the stairs, Peter is sitting on the couch with his mom. He is shaking his knee up and down, which is how I know he’s nervous too. As soon as he sees me, he stands up. He raises his eyebrows. “You look--wow.” For the past week, he’s been asking for details on what my dress looks like, and I held him at bay for the surprise, which I’m glad I did, because it was worth it to see the look on his face. “You look wow too.” His tux fits him so nicely, you’d think it was custom, but it’s not; it’s a rental from After Hours Formal Wear. I wonder if Mrs. Kavinsky made a few sly adjustments. She’s a marvel with a needle and thread. I wish guys could wear tuxedos more often, though I suppose that would take some of the thrill away. Peter slides my corsage on my wrist; it is white ranunculus and baby’s breath, and it’s the exact corsage I would have picked for myself. I’m already thinking of how I’ll hang it over my bed so it dries just so. Kitty is dressed up too; she has on her favorite dress, so she can be in the pictures. When Peter pins a daisy corsage on her, her face goes pink with pleasure, and he winks at me. We take a picture of me and her, one of me and Peter and her, and then she says in her bossy way, “Now just one of me and Peter,” and I’m pushed off to the side with Trina, who laughs. “The boys her age are in for it,” she says to me and Peter’s mom, who is smiling too. “Why am I not in any of these pictures?” Daddy wonders, so of course we do a round with him too, and a few with Trina and Mrs. Kavinsky. Then we take pictures outside, by the dogwood tree, by Peter’s car, on the front steps, until Peter says, “Enough pictures! We’re going to miss the whole thing.” When we go to his car, he opens the door for me gallantly. On the way over, he keeps looking at me. I keep my eyes trained straight ahead, but I can see him in my periphery. I’ve never felt so admired. This must be how Stormy felt all the time.

First came the flower girls, pretty little lasses in summery frocks, skipping down the aisle, tossing handfuls of petals and, in one case, the basket when it was empty. Next came the bridesmaids, Luna, strutting in her gown and heels, a challenging dare in her eyes that begged someone to make a remark about the girly getup she was forced to wear. Next came Reba and Zena, giggling and prancing, loving the attention. This time, Leo wasn’t thrown by Teena’s appearance, nor was he fooled. How could he have mistaken her for his Vex? While similar outwardly, Meena’s twin lacked the same confident grin, and the way she moved, with a delicate grace, did not resemble his bold woman at all. How unlike they seemed. Until Teena tripped, flailed her arms, and took out part of a row before she could recover! Yup, they were sisters all right. With a heavy sigh, and pink cheeks, Teena managed to walk the rest of the red carpet, high heels in hand— one of which seemed short a heel. With all the wedding party more or less safely arrived, there was only one person of import left. However, she didn’t walk alone. Despite his qualms, which Leo heard over the keg they’d shared the previous night, Peter appeared ready to give his daughter away. Ready, though, didn’t mean he looked happy about it. The seams of the suit his soon-to-be father-in-law wore strained, the rented tux not the best fit, but Leo doubted that was why he looked less than pleased. Leo figured there were two reasons for Peter’s grumpy countenance. The first was the fact that he had to give his little girl away. The second probably had to do with the snickers and the repetition of a certain rumor, “I hear he lost an arm-wrestling bet and had to wear a tie.” For those curious, Leo had won that wager, and thus did his new father-in-law wear the, “gods-damned-noose” around his neck. However, who cared about that sore loser when upon his arm rested a vision of beauty. Meena’s long hair tumbled in golden waves over her shoulders, the ends curled into fat ringlets that tickled her cleavage. At her temples, ivory combs swept the sides up and away, revealing the creamy line of her neck. The strapless gown made her appear as a goddess. The bust, tight and low cut, displayed her fantastic breasts so well that Leo found himself growling. He didn’t like the appreciative eyes in the crowd. Yet, at the same time, he felt a certain pride. His bride was beautiful, and it was only right she be admired. From her impressive breasts, the gown cinched in before flaring out. The filmy white fabric of the skirt billowed as she walked. He noted she wore flats. Reba’s suggestion so she wouldn’t get a heel stuck. Her gown didn’t quite touch the ground. Zena’s idea to ensure she wouldn’t trip on the hem. They’d taken all kinds of precautions to ensure her the smoothest chance of success. She might lack the feline grace of other ladies. She might have stumbled a time or two and been kept upright only by the smooth actions of her father, but dammit, in his eyes, she was the daintiest, most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. And she is mine.

My typical day began at five o'clock in the morning when I would finish reading scripts by the side of Rebecca's bed until she woke up at seven. It was thrilling to find a script that I loved, something I desperately wanted to make. And when I found one, my day was made by seven A.M. If I didn't have a script to finish, I had notes to make on those I had read. And if I'd finished my notes, I went downstairs to exercise. After mornings with Rebecca, I'd arrive at the office at nine-thirty. The phone calls had started long before I got there. By ten o'clock I was in a staff meeting, and depending on the day of the week, it was either a production, marketing/distribution or business-affairs meeting. By eleven-thirty, I might be in a meeting with an executive about a particular movie or problem. By twelve, I was meeting with a director I was trying to seduce back to the studio. By twelve forty-five, I'd get in my car and drive across town to a lunch meeting with an agent, a producer, a writer or a movie star. While driving, I'd start to return the phone calls that had started before I ever arrived at my office. At two-thirty, I was back in the car, returning more phone calls, the calls from early morning, from mid-morning, plus East Coast and Europe calls that came in during lunch. At two forty-five, I was back in the office. Inevitably, there were people waiting to see me, executives with personal problems, political problems, and/or production problems. In between, I returned and made more phone calls. At three-thirty, there could be a meeting with someone I was trying to bring to the studio. At four-thirty, there was a script meeting with an executive, writer, producer and/or director. At five o'clock, there were selected dailies of the movies we were shooting. And if I hadn't finished watching them by six-thirty, the rest were put on tape for me to watch later at home. At six-thirty, I'd jump into my car and return more phone calls on my drive home. The call sheet numbered one hundred to one hundred and fifty calls a day. And I always felt it was very important to return every call. The lesson here is people remember when you don't call them back. I'd go home to be with Rebecca. If I didn't have a business dinner or a sneak preview of one of our movies, I had to go to a black-tie event. There was at least one of them a week, honoring someone from our industry. I went out of respect for the talent involved and my counterparts at the other studios. So Rebecca would keep me company while I washed off my makeup, put on new makeup, dressed in black tie, kissed her good-bye and shot out the door. That's where men really have it good: they just put on a tux and go. After I got home at ten-thirty, I would sit on the chair next to Rebecca's bed. Watching her sleep dissolved all the stress in my body. Then I would get up, either finish watching the dailies, or read a script, wash my face and fall into bed at eleven-thirty. But the part of my workday that made me the happiest was when I was closest to the actual making of a movie.

Oh-" I rest my back against the door to my apartment and purr as I slide down to the floor. "I need to get a tux too." "GREAT. We'll stop at the Tux Boutique tomorrow... while we're out making babies. I mean DELIVERIES. Sorry-" "I'd love that. Making babies... that is...

Dayna, wait,” she called ahead. “I hear Tux up there.” She pointed at the tumbled rocks. She saw Dayna slowly turn Champagne and head back at a slow walk. “Why would Shane’s dog go up there?” she drawled. “Maybe he found Bando.” Liv tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “Isn’t that what we’re all trying to do?” “I don’t hear any barking,” Dayna said doubtfully. Liv blew out an exasperated breath. “Well, I heard him. Are you coming with me to look, or not?” “Oh all right, but this is a total waste of time,” she heard Dayna mutter behind her. “We’re never gonna find that colt alive.” “Don’t be so sure.” Liv called over her shoulder as she leaned forward to help Cactus Jack climb over the stony surface. “These Spanish horses have survival skills your fancy palominos could only wish for.” Dayna caught up. “That’s a laugh.” She shrugged. “My dad says your grandparents’ horses are just scruffy little leftovers from the past. The herd is down to, what? Thirty-three horses now and it’s gonna keep shrinking. So much for their survival skills.” “We can build it up again. And there are thirty-four horses if we can find Bando.

Look, Dayna--this isn’t the end.” The narrow beam of her light showed a slit in the cave wall to their right. Beyond was darkness. “If you think I’m goin’ in there--” Dayna’s protest was interrupted by a distant yelp. “That’s Tux, for sure,” Liv cried. “Maybe he’s found Bando.” “And maybe he’s found another cougar.” Dayna twisted out of Liv’s grip and ducked for the cave entrance. “He’s just a dumb dog.” “Shane’s dog,” Liv reminded her. “All right, Shane’s dumb dog! You are really startin’ to get on my nerves, you know that?” Dayna muttered.

Did you just tell me to take my shirt off?” Shane stared at her. “Why on earth would I do that?” “For T-Tux,” Sophie stammered in her eagerness to explain. “Throw your shirt down to Liv. She can use it as a sling to carry Tux up the ladder. She’s lighter than you are.” “Like one of those baby slings,” Liv called from below. “Brilliant. Do it, Shane.” “All right. But I hope you girls know what you’re doin’.

Phew!” Liv gasped. “I don’t think I’d like to try that again!” Shane untied the sleeves from around Liv’s neck and scooped Tux into his arms, shirt and all. He felt carefully around the dog’s hind end, with Tux madly licking his face and whining with joy the whole time. “I’m pretty sure nuthin’s broke,” Shane said. “Just mebbe twisted, or sprained.” He smiled. “Tux looks pretty good wearin’ my shirt, don’t you think?” Sophie hugged Liv hard. Tux looked good in anything at this point, and Shane looked amazing without a shirt. She was glad he couldn’t see her blushing in the dim light.

I sobbed out the story of the day thus far, too far gone in my relief to see Drake to care that I was watering his tux again. “Kincsem, I understand that it was difficult to be banished in that way. I do not understand why you believe your hands are possessed, but I am confident you will fill me in on that aspect of your day. We must leave now, however. I cannot protect this house, and I will not have you at further risk.” I sniffled and accepted the tissues that he had recently started carrying. “I know. And I want to go. I’m just so glad you’re here. Sometimes things get so overwhelming, and only when you’re around do I feel better.” Drake tipped my chin up, his eyes sparkling with a brilliant emerald light. “That has to be one of the nicest things you’ve said to me. You have made yourself necessary to me, as well.” I balled up my fingers and punched him in the stomach. He laughed as he rubbed his belly, then pulled me tightly against his chest. “All right, I will say it, but you must make note that this fulfills the requirement for the day.” “Too much talking and not enough kissing,” I said as I grabbed his head and pulled it down to me. His kiss was as hot as his dragon fire, scorching more than just my lips. His tongue danced along mine, driving me into squirming against him, wanting what only he could give me. “Give it,” I whispered into his mouth, and quivered to the tips of my toes when he opened his mouth and let his fire sweep through me. It blazed a trail along my veins, burning my blood, carrying me along in an inferno of desire, love, and need. “I love you more than all the treasures of the world, Aisling. Our love will burn for an eternity until we have taken our last breaths, and even then it will continue to shine as a testament to that which we are together, a beacon of passion for all to see like a glittering star in the darkness of the night sky.” “You sure know how to sweep a girl off her feet,” I said, kissing the corners of his delectable mouth as his dragon fire faded away. I felt empty inside without it, as if a part of me was missing, a sadness so profound it made my soul weep. “I love you, too.” “We must leave. I do not like this place.” “I know the feeling

Put Lenin in a tuxedo and use him as a seat filler at the Academy Awards. At the Oscar ceremonies they have this big holding pen full of attractive people in gowns and tuxes and whenever the Academy gives away the awards for achievement in sound and everyone flees into the lobby, seat fillers are zoomed in so that the cameras scanning the audience won’t register any vacant seats. When Daniel Day-Lewis has to go to the bathroom, the cameras could zoom in and see a picture of Sigourney Weaver sitting next to … Leninl” DUSTY:

powder-blue tux that smelled like cats had peed on it. Or were still peeing on it, like it had hidden compartments in the tux for urinating cats to do their thing. He was a total dork, but I gave him head afterward anyway, because, you know, everyone does that at their senior Other One. Because you only get one chance. Well … except for the other Other One.” “Are you finished?” “I wouldn’t ask Lila

wit had made her career, and it’s what had attracted him to her in the first place. He still loved Heather plenty, but too often she seemed incapable of having an adult conversation. “Do you want me to get the school calendar? I know what the ‘things’ are. Lila’s is a dance. Not prom. The other one.” “Oh, ‘the other one.’ I remember my Other One. I wore pink chiffon. My date was Jimmy Breslin, and he could only get this powder-blue tux that smelled like cats had peed on it. Or were still peeing on it, like it had hidden compartments in the tux for urinating cats to do their thing. He was a total dork, but I gave him

Jesus comes looking for us because people, like sheep, have a knack for getting lost. And when He finds us, we usually aren't dressed in a tux.

She wore a glittering blush-pink lehenga from Falguni Shane Peacock, the Mumbai designers who generally made outfits for Beyoncé and Lady Gaga but took on a regular old brown girl every once in a while; he—Neil, my ex—wore a tux. Tom Ford, according to the tag. He looked trimmer. Fitter.

He nipped at her upper lip. "I bought the tux." She blinked. "You bought the tux." Bubbles of happiness burst into life inside her, rich and golden. "More cost-effective than renting one if you plan to use it a lot.

A knock came at the door and I stiffened, getting to my feet so that I could open it. Darius stood outside wearing a black tux which looked like it had been made specifically for him. It fit perfectly and my mouth dried up as my gaze roamed over him. His dark hair was slicked back and the rough stubble lining his jaw ached for me to brush my fingers over it. No, no, no. Bad Tory. “Darcy’s not here yet,” I said in place of a greeting. “I can see that,” he replied. Before I could lose myself to the spell of his unfairly good looks, I turned away from him, heading back to the mirror which hung on the wall as I applied another coat of lipstick which wasn’t in any way necessary. He stayed by the door, leaning against the frame as he watched me. “You’re not wearing the dress I sent you.” “This might be a good time for you to realise, I don’t tend to do as I’m told,” I said dismissively. “I think I like this one better anyway.” I turned to look at him in surprise as his gaze slid over me in a way that made heat rise along my skin. “Nice to know you can admit when you’re wrong,” I said. “So you’re actually going to stick to your word about being nice?” Darius flashed me a smile which transformed his face in a way I’d never seen before. “I am. Just try not to fall in love with me though, it could make things awkward when we go back to fighting with each other tomorrow.” I scoffed at that and tossed my lipstick into my clutch just as my Atlas pinged. Darcy: I bumped into Orion by The Orb. He says he’s coming with us and that you should meet us here... I raised an eyebrow in surprise and tapped out a quick response. Tory: Okay, I’ll be there to rescue you from his grumpy face ASAP x “Darcy says she’s going to meet us at The Orb. She ran into your bestie and he told her he can’t bear to spend the evening away from you so he’s tagging along. I just hope that this party isn’t going to be dull, because inviting a teacher has really lowered my expectations for debauchery,” I said as I moved out of my room and locked up behind me. “In all honesty, Lance is more likely to add to the debauchery than detract from it,” Darius said, offering me his arm. “Ooo Lance has a first name. Will he want me using that or is it a special right only given to those who get a tattoo in his honour?” I asked, touching my fingers to Darius’s forearm where I knew the Libra brand sat on his skin beneath the fancy suit. I didn’t take his arm though and started walking down the corridor unassisted. “What makes you think that tattoo is for him?” Darius asked, falling into step with me easily despite the fast pace I set. “Oh is it a secret? I thought everyone knew he was your Guardian and you’ve got that little soul bond thing going on.” “Who told you that?” Darius demanded, his voice dropping an octave. “You just did.” I flashed him a smile and he scowled at me. “Done playing nice so soon?” He released a long breath as we reached the common room but didn’t reply. A lot of eyes turned our way. I guessed the sight of the two of us suddenly hanging out was pretty weird. (Tory)

You’re looking delicious tonight, sweetheart,” he murmured as he drew back, smiling like we were sharing some great secret. I could feel the other Heirs watching us and I swallowed the lump in my throat without looking their way. My gaze fell on Orion who looked back at me with a flat stare which made me feel like he’d heard the hitch in my pulse as Caleb had touched me. He looked weirdly at home in his own tux, his youth more apparent beside the Heirs now that they were all dressed the same. I was used to seeing him in a suit while we all wore our uniforms but he didn’t even look out of place in our group. It was weird to think of him as a normal guy. I turned my attention from him, glancing at Caleb again as he pushed a hand into his curls. ... I stumbled forward a step in my stilettos and Darius caught my arm to steady me. My hand landed on his bicep which flexed beneath my grip and I bit my lip as I glanced up at him, thanking him before I could stop myself. “No problem,” he said, still holding onto me even though I didn’t need him to anymore. “Sorry!” Darcy gasped behind me and I turned, finding her scrambling out of Orion’s lap on the gravel at our feet. “Predictably clumsy as always, Blue,” Orion said but his tone was more teasing than really annoyed. I guessed he wasn’t channelling his inner grump so hard tonight. He stood up, casting magic to remove the dust from his pants and I bit my lip to stop myself from laughing. Darcy’s cheeks flushed red and the Heirs failed to stifle their laughter in response. (Tory)

But of course my horse had to go ruin all my plans and injure himself just in time for show season. Tux needed surgery and now I’ll just spend my summer feeding him carrots and obsessively brushing him.

I also bought an evening dress suit from a secondhand clothing store in Charing Cross Road. It was double-breasted and in a very heavy, uncomfortable material, and I looked, frankly, stupid in it, but it was the only one I could afford. Miss Leigh announced to us one day that Gone with the Wind was going to be rereleased theatrically, and she requested the pleasure of our entire company at the premiere, which would be my first. And so, also for the first time, I had to wear that tux in public. I had by this time bid farewell to my friends and moved out of the boardinghouse, to slightly nicer digs that were walking distance from the London Coliseum in St. Martin’s Lane. This meant that I would not need to get out of a taxi and walk the red carpet—I knew that I looked idiotic in my tuxedo and wanted to keep a low profile. Inside, there was a champagne reception before the film in the upstairs bar, and my castmates had a field day making fun of me and my shit suit. Evidently, Miss Leigh caught sight of this scene and took pity on me. For all of a sudden, her boyfriend, John Merivale, was at my side, whispering into my ear that he was going to be sitting on one side of Vivien at the screening and that she had requested that I sit on her other side. I was already besotted with her, and this act of kindness only intensified my feelings. The capper was that, once I was seated beside her, I addressed her as “Miss Leigh” and she took my hand in hers. “Patrick,” she said, “you are to call me Vivien.” My erstwhile Irish roommate was right: The memorable experiences were already piling up. One more happened that evening. The film had been running for about an hour when Vivien—I still couldn’t quite believe I got to call her that—turned to me and again took my hand. I could see that she was crying. “I am so sorry, Patrick, but I am going to have to leave,” she said. “So many of these dear people I worked with are now dead, and it is making me so sad. I hope you enjoy the rest of it.” And off she went into the night.

Anyway, I wanted to tell you this story, since it just rolled into my gourd while I was into that 1950 Lighthouse shot. I never told you about the Legend of the Gigantic Fart, did I?” “Put the beer in a paper bag. Let’s get it on the road.” “No, man, this story became a legend and is still told in the high schools around the county. You see, it was at the junior prom, a very big deal with hoop dresses and everybody drinking sloe gin and R.C. Cola outside in the cars. Now, this is strictly a class occasion if you live in a shitkicker town. Anyway, we’d been slopping down the beer all afternoon and eating pinto-bean salad and these greasy fried fish before we got to the dance. So it was the third number, and I took Betty Hoggenback out on the floor and was doing wonderful, tilting her back like Fred Astaire doing Ginger Rogers. Then I felt this wet fart start to grow inside me. It was like a brown rat trying to get outside. I tried to leak it off one shot at a time and keep dancing away from it, but I must have left a cloud behind that would take the varnish off the gym floor. Then one guy says, ‘Man, I don’t believe it!’ People were walking off the floor, holding their noses and saying, ‘Pew, who cut it?’ Then the saxophone player on the bandstand threw up into the piano. Later, guys were shaking my hand and buying me drinks, and a guy on the varsity came up and said that was the greatest fart he’d ever seen. It destroyed the whole prom. The saxophone player had urp all over his summer tux, and they must have had to burn the smell out of that piano with a blowtorch.” Buddy was laughing so hard at his own story that tears ran down his cheeks. He caught his breath, drank out of the beer glass, then started laughing again. The woman behind the bar was looking at him as though a lunatic had just walked into the normalcy of her life.

It swept him forward, and though the crowd grew denser with every step—his advance was checked several yards short of the stage by a wall of spike-studded leather jackets—he was now closer than he had ever been to live music, save for at his bar mitzvah. The sheer monophonic power of this sound blew away any impression those tuxed fucks had left. It was an avalanche, hurtling downhill, snapping trees and houses like tinkertoys, taking up every sound in its path and obliterating it in a white roar. As Charlie felt himself being taken up into it, totally, unable to decide whether it was good or bad—unable, even, to care.

He crowded her against the wall. "I'll fuck you until you admit there will never be anyone else who can bring you pleasure." A low and husky laugh erupted from deep in her chest. She trailed her hand down beneath his tuxedo jacket, over sculpted abs, to cup her hand around the hot length of him pressing against the tux trousers. She stroked him. "Promise?

William Brennan did not live to see his son, now a remarkable transformative actor, win his first Academy Award, for Come and Get It, the first time the award for supporting actor was given. Edward Arnold’s superb performance of a less than sympathetic character was not even recognized with a nomination. Walter said he was surprised at receiving the award and had not planned to attend the ceremony, but his studio insisted, giving him evening clothes when he said he did not have a dress suit. As a result, he remembered, “I stepped up to receive that unexpected Oscar in tux Number 34 from the Western Costume Company.

Storytellers I just a simple storyteller at heart, but when I put on my tux ~ I become a raconteur!

summer tourists were long gone, the Christmas shoppers had left and it was just bare and beautiful and recovering, getting ready to start all over again.

tux lapel.

What if we viewed a bride walking down an aisle toward a tuxedoed groom standing anxiously at an altar as the first step on a lifelong march toward justice and the common good? What if we understood that white dress and tux as work clothes, and the wedding rings as essential equipment for building a strong social foundation? What if a pledge of permanence meant more for economic security than just the fulfillment of sexual ecstasy?

As amazing as you look in that tux, I haven't been able to stop thinking about seeing you out of it.

Do you still have the tux you wore as Boudini?” “It’s in the loft at the cabin. Why?” “You’ll need it in order to pose as a server. Unless you’d rather be a male companion?” “No thanks.” An evil little part of me is dying to say he has more experience as a companion, given his time with Prudence, but I bat it down.

Kind of a naughty secret. I’m the only one here tonight who gets to see the real you beneath the tux. To everyone in the ballroom you look like a polished businessman, but I get to reap the benefits of this bad boy

Seeing you like this tonight makes me think of how much I want to marry you. Me in a tux, and you in a gorgeous dress with the hair and makeup and sparkles and heels. A beautiful reception where we share our first dance as husband and wife. And afterward, the seal between us will become permanent under God. Our wedding night will be the best night of my existence. It was foolish of me to assign it so quickly, but you make me do foolish things.

The Best for His Father The man went to the mortuary to make arrangements for the funeral of his father who had just died.  The man explained that he wanted the very best for this father and not to spare any expense. After the funeral he was sent a bill for $20,000.   He knew his father had received the best the mortuary had to offer, so he gladly paid the bill. The next month he received a bill for $125.  The following month he received another bill for $125.  The third month he received a bill for $125 again.  He thought he had better figure out what these monthly charges were for, so he called the mortuary. The person he had worked with at the mortuary reminded the man that he had asked for the very best for his departed father.  In addition to the best coffin, the best flowers, and the best ceremony, they also rented for his father a tux.

What are you doing?” Tucker grabbed a bottle of water, making his way to the bedroom. He stopped in the doorway and dropped the water bottle. Austin was in a tux, kneeling on the floor with a box in his hands. “Austin?” “Marry me, Tucker. Because –” “Yes.” “You didn’t let me finish,” Austin grinned. “I don’t want you to change your mind,” Tucker chuckled. “I’m

Parker checked his watch. “I can give you a ride to DC in about an hour. I have to get fitted for a new tux.” His expression suggested he’d rather jump out of an airplane without a chute. “You already have a tux,” said Frazer. Parker’s lips pinched. “Apparently, I need another one to get married in.” “Mal’s worth it.” Frazer suppressed a smile and slapped Parker on the back. “Glad you think that way because you’re my best man. You’re gonna need one, too.” Frazer squeezed his eyes closed.

I asked Carl to go to the event with me, and he agreed. We rented him a tuxedo, and he looked very handsome in it, if a little uncomfortable. The tuxedo was only the beginning of a miserable evening for Carl. Everywhere we went there were crowds of people, including photographers, and everybody made a big fuss over us. Carl sat through the ceremony and patiently waited afterward while I shook hands and accepted congratulations from a throng of music-industry people. I thought he was really handsome in his tux, but you could tell by the look on his face it suited him like a sock on a rooster. He didn’t say much all evening long, but on the way home, he took off his tuxedo jacket and tie and then even his shirt. I’ll never forget the way he looked sitting there in the car with his suspenders across his bare chest. Finally, he turned to me and said calmly, “Honey, I love you and I will support you in your career any way that I can. I know it’s a big part of you and you wouldn’t be the same person if you didn’t do it. But the limelight’s just not for me. I’ll be there at home waiting for you, but I am not going to any more of these wingdings.” He has been a wingdingless man of his word ever since.

I look up and see Gabriel leaning against the door frame in his tux. Fuck. There should be a law against someone looking that good in a suit.

Michael Oliver, did you have groceries delivered to my door via my neighbor, or did I imagine that?” The deer-in-the-headlights expression on his face makes me laugh. “Will you be mad if I admit that was me?” “Why would I be mad?” He shrugs. “You like to do things on your own. Didn’t want to mess with your girl power vibe.” Girl power vibe? “Plus, we’d had that horrible conversation at the store. Didn’t want to upset you again, but at the same time, I couldn’t stop worrying that maybe you needed some groceries.” I’m momentarily speechless. As we sway to the music, I dust off some lint on his tux. “You know, I baked you a pie and left it on your doorstep to thank you. Did you get it?” He stops moving. Tilts his head. Growls. “Johnny ate my damn pie!” His outrage puts another smile on my face. “It probably wasn’t even that good.” “Everyone knows you’re a damn good cook, Maggie.” Little flutters fill my belly at the compliment, and I make a mental note to bake him another one.

Humiliation spread through my body where shock had just been. How had I not seen it? “You’re not embarrassing me like this.” He snapped the lapels of his tux jacket. “I’ll buy some extra time while you get presentable.” A shard of steel lined my spine. “I’m in a wedding dress with pretty ringlets cascading from my head like an icy waterfall. Isn’t that presentable enough for you?” He shoved my shoulders and the back of my head thunked against the wall. “I’ll deal with that mouth tonight.” “I don’t want what you have planned for it.” He pulled his arm back and too late I saw the fist aiming for my gut. My lungs turned to ice. I couldn’t breathe. Then, he was yanked away from me and slammed into the wall across from me. A pair of wide, familiar shoulders blocked my vision, longish dark brown hair with a slight curl touching the collar. The curved wooden handle of a cane stuck out from between the men, horizontal to the floor. Boyd was pinned to the wall by a cane.

Tux perched his head on my leg. Like always he knew when I wasn’t doing so good. I’d ride a good wave for a while until something bumped me off and I was starting to feel that bump approaching.

It’s so hot. It’s so fucking hot how good Theo is at what he does. He’s stronger and funnier and smarter than any man in the room. He looks better in a tux than any of them. He’s worked harder than any of them to get to the top. If biology tells us to choose the apex predator, the strongest hunter, then I choose him.

Theo in a tux is dangerous to any woman’s health. He should come with warnings. Staring directly at Theo Archer in a bow tie may cause heart palpitations, difficulty breathing, and a sensation of heaviness in your limbs. Add stomach flutters to the list of symptoms. And dry mouth, while you’re at it.

I love you, Josh. I hope you know that.” “I love you too,” he said, leaning in for a kiss. “And now you have to help me with these cuff links. I haven’t worn a tux since my senior prom.” Chapter Forty-Nine AINSLEY A rainbow of evening gowns filled the hotel ballroom, punctuated by the somber jackets of men in black tie. People checked the massive seating charts displayed on easels at the back of

Sometimes I wondered whether all this open-mindedness hadn't robbed their daughters of the rebellion they so badly seemed to want. Maybe if they had put up monstrous opposition to, say, their daughters' joining the Gay-Straight Alliance in middle school, maybe if they hadn't been there with camera and hugs when their daughters wore a tux to prom - maybe if they'd faked horror or moral opprobrium they didn't feel and unleashed a tirade or lecture or fit of exasperation worthy of a John Hughes movie, maybe their daughters would have declared victory and deemed their War of Independence a success.

Girls will run for queen, and boys will run for king-there's definitely no accounting for people who might not identify as either. And the hardest for me to ignore, same-sex couples aren't allowed to attend together. We can dance with each other once they get there, maybe, if no chaperones care enough to stop them, but they can't officially go as dates. And just in case they hadn't made their prejudice clear enough if your gender identity doesn't explicitly align with the one you were assigned at birth you can't come dressed the way you might want. Girls wear dresses and the boys's wear tuxes. And that's the end of it. The whole thing royally sucks in my opinion.

At this point one might question why the mask, costume and actual murder were necessary. You can just about justify the tux, and the mask at a push, but the murder seems a bit OTT.