Dirk Gently Jacket Novels & Stories

Just exhaustion. "I know," Derek said softly. "And I am going to make this right. I promise." "Just tell me what the jacket looks like so I can grab it and get out of there fast," I said. "It is black leather with a gray hood," Derek described. "Old and worn. It has a small tear on the left sleeve that my mom never got around to fixing." My heart ached at the tenderness in his voice when he mentioned his mother. "Okay," I said. "I will get it. But Derek, if I get caught—"

For the first time, it felt easy. But when I stepped toward the tent, something inside me stuttered. It wasn’t the same as when I left it. The flap was open. Light spilled through it in streaks of pale gold, cutting across the ground. The air inside smelled faintly of smoke, leather, and pine, Killian’s scent, but there was something else too, something colder. Movement. He was there. Dressed. Standing tall, rigid, his shoulders squared, back turned to me. The dark jacket he wore hugged him perfectly, the same one from Howlborne, black with silver threading at the seams, marking him for what he was.

And damn him, he smelled better fresh out of his shirt than most men after a shower. Focus, Jace. This is the man you’re supposed to kill, not crave. I cursed myself inwardly. I grabbed a charcoal-gray jacket from the pile and shoved it toward him. “That one looks very subtle and it doesn't scream I'm a man who is here to sell drugs." He studied me for a beat before nodding, a way of saying he approved of it. I watched him dress from wearing a long sleeved shirt to putting on a jacket. I hated the thought that crossed my mind: he looks perfect and alluring too.

A bone-deep exhaustion coated my words—it was impossible to hide. But Derek’s face remained cold and unyielding, his ice-blue eyes cutting through me like sharpened blades. He didn’t answer, not immediately. Instead, he looked past me, his gaze zeroing in on the Black Wood heir's jacket draped across the corner of the sofa where I’d been resting.

Their gestures lifted my spirits, if only slightly. And then Nathan stood. From behind his chair, he retrieved a sleek package wrapped in dark leather. He walked over to me, standing almost too close, his piercing blue eyes softening as he held it out. "A leather jacket," he explained before I could ask. "Custom-made with protective features. Reinforced against most silver-based attacks. I remember you mentioning once how you hated wearing overly restrictive armor." I gingerly unwrapped the package and unfolded the jacket. It was perfect—sturdy yet lightweight, with little details that showed his attention to my preferences.

But after the relentless suffering Detective Ote had inflicted—and was clearly intending to inflict again—he couldn't afford to be passive. He had to find the link, the key to the killer's movements and decisions before Detective Ote fabricated one to fit his warped narrative and lock Danny away forever. His survival depended on finding the truth that Detective Ote actively ignored. His gaze fell on the jacket he was wearing, a heavy, dark garment that smelled faintly herbal, like dried cedar. It wasn't his. It was too soft, too high-quality, and certainly not police-issue or tainted by the stench of the interrogation room.

North’s POV I straightened my jacket, smoothing down the fabric. Calvin Klein. East and Winter had already tried to claim it the moment they saw it, arguing over who would wear it next like it already belonged to them. It was one of the many things Jeremy had gotten for me. Part of the image. Part of the role. Dark fitted jeans, a clean white tan top underneath, the jacket sitting perfectly on my shoulders. My hair was done, not too much, just enough to look effortless.

All I knew was that the suite, once a sanctuary of heated arguments and the heavy scent of Matteo, was now a kill box. I turned back into the room, my eyes landing on the vanity. The emerald silk dress I had worn to dinner lay crumpled on the floor like a dead thing. I ignored it. I reached into the back of the wardrobe, past the silks and the lace Matteo had bought to dress his "mate," and pulled out my old gear. The reinforced denim, the heavy boots, and the leather jacket that smelled of oil and independence. As I pulled the jacket on, I felt a weight in the inner lining. My fingers brushed against a small, hard cylinder.

Darien commanded, his voice a low, gravelly snap that cut through the quiet room. He didn't look at the board documents Jackson was trying to hand him. His grey eyes were locked entirely on me, tracking the way my shoulders were shivering under the thin green dress, wet from the damp New York air. Before I could even process the rows of silks, Darien unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket and ripped it off his shoulders. In two long strides, he crossed the marble floor, throwing the heavy, warm wool jacket over my frozen shoulders. His hands stayed on my collarbones for a fraction of a second, his taped fingers warm and rough against my bare skin, sending a violent shiver straight down my spine.

I down the rest of my brandy, and turn to the vision and reason of everyone here, and she is more fucking beautiful than when she left me. Her body is encased with black leather pants, a thick belt that has three hunting knives in the grooves, and legs that go on for fucking ever are covered with a thick pair of riding boots that are an easy four grand. I take in her leather jacket, it's a dark gray and the hood is material. My frown comes when I get to her neck as she unzips her jacket, and it gets more prominent when she looks at the guy carrying who I guess is an unconscious Harley on his shoulder.