“Forgive me,” Xcor muttered. At least he hadn’t outed one of his weapons.
“No problem.” The handsome, well-dressed man smiled. “You looking for something specific?”
Xcor glanced around, and nearly walked back to that fancy stairwell. “I require a new shirt.”
“Oh, cool, you got a hot date?”
“And pants. And socks.” Come to think of it, he never wore underwear. “And undergarments. And a jacket.”
The salesman smiled and raised a hand as if he were going to clap his customer on the shoulder—but then caught himself as he clearly rethought the contact.
“What kind of look are you going for?” he asked instead.
“Clothed.”
The guy paused like he wasn’t sure whether that was a joke. “Ah … okay, I can work with non-naked. Plus it’s legal. Come on with me.”
Xcor followed, because he didn’t know what else to do—he’d gotten this ball rolling; there was no reason not to follow through.
The man stopped in front of a display of shirts. “So I’m going to go with the it’s-a-date thing, unless you tell me otherwise. Casual? You didn’t mention a suit.”
“Casual. Yes. But I want to look…” Well, not like himself, at any rate. “Presentable.”
“Then I think what you’re going to want is a button-down.”
“A button-down.”
The guy regarded him steadily. “You’re not from here, are you.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I can tell by the accent.” The salesman passed a hand over the dizzying array of folded-up squares with collars. “These are our traditional cuts. I can tell without measuring you that the European stuff isn’t going to do you right—you’re too muscled in the shoulders. Even if we could get the neck and arm size right, you’d bust out of them. Do you like any of these colors?”
“I don’t know what to like.”
“Here.” The man picked up a blue one that reminded Xcor of the backdrop on his phone. “This is good with your eyes. Not that I go that way—but you gotta work with what you got. Do you have any idea of your size?”
“XXXL.”
“We need to be a little more exact.” The salesman got out a cloth tape measure. “Neck? Arms?”
As if to help the whole cognition thing, the man made a little circle in front of his own throat.
Xcor looked down at himself. He was wearing nothing but the cleanest muscle shirt he had, a pair of military combat pants, and his boots.
“I do not know.”
The man reached out with the tape, but then hesitated. “Tell you what, how ’bout I give this to you—just wrap it around your neck and I’ll read the number.”
Xcor took the thing and did as asked.
“Okay, wow.” The salesman crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, you won’t be wearing a tie, right?”
“Tie?”
“I’ll take that as a no. Will you let me measure your arm?”
Xcor extended his left one and the man moved fast. “That’s almost normal in length at least. Width? You’re talking the Rock territory, easy. But I have an idea.”
A minute and a half of rifling later, Xcor had three different shirts to try on.
“What about slacks?” the salesman asked.
“I do not know my size or preference.” Might as well be efficient. “The same is true about jackets.”
“I had a feeling you were going to say that. Come with me.”
Before he knew it, he was buck naked in a dressing room, jacking his body into the clothes, his weapons hidden under the pile of things he’d worn walking in.
“How is it?” his new best friend asked on the far side of the door.
Xcor glanced at himself in the mirror and felt his brows rise. He looked … not good, no. That would never be him. But he didn’t appear as stupid as he felt—or as rough as he’d been in his own wardrobe.
Taking off the dark jacket that had been suggested to him, he strapped on his guns and knives and then put the thing back on. It was a little tight in the back, and he couldn’t quite button it—but it was so much better than his bloodstained leather duster. And the pants stretched across his thighs only slightly.
Stepping out, he handed over the two other shirts. “I shall take all this.”
The salesman clapped his hands. “Nice. Big improvement. You need shoes?”
“Mayhap later.”
“We’re having a sale at the end of the month. Come back then.”
Xcor followed him over to the checkout, and took a pair of scissors out of a pen holder to cut the tags that were hanging off his wrist and his waist. “Do you have scent?”