Straight Jacket Novels & Stories

Richard carefully washed and prepped the fresh ingredients he had bought in the Brooks family's spacious, sunlit kitchen that was filled with the warmth of everyday life. He had taken off his expensive tailored suit jacket and wore only a white shirt. His sleeves were rolled neatly to his forearms, showing the clean lines of his strong muscle. Around his waist was the pink apron Maria used to wear, printed with little strawberries. It looked out of place against his usual image as the cold, decisive head of a corporate empire.

A card was inside, so she opened it after setting the bag on the kitchen table. “Congrats on your first day. Sorry I have been a little out of sorts lately, Jarod.” Josey felt excited suddenly and opened the shopping bag. It was a new winter coat, the same color as the suit jacket Agatha had given her as a gift, except it was thick and sherpa lined with a hood and button closures. “Oh, wow,” she said, looking the jacket over. She tried it on, and it felt nice. It fit her well also. Then, suddenly feeling bad for doubting Jarod’s intentions, she pulled out her cell phone to call him.

He pushed open the glass door to his office. There and then, he froze in shock. There draped neatly across the back of his office chair was a charcoal suit jacket. Alex stared at it. For a moment he couldn’t move. The fabric was unmistakable. It was quality. It was perfectly tailored and shone in luxury. It was definitely not his. His heart began beating Slowly and cautiously, he stepped closer. His fingers brushed the sleeve. The material felt expensive. The faint scent of cologne still lingered in the fabric.

Myself included. Jaykob is wearing a three-piece suit for the first time in his life. His hair is slicked back instead of the usual mess it is. His tattooed hands are clean, his nails buffed, and he actually accessorized today. Instead of his usual self-rolled cigarette, there's a cigar between his lips. It smells really pretty. He doesn't look like the brother I grew up with. He's taking his Alpha role seriously.

"Yesterday. My sisters obligated me, so I accompanied them." "You need persuading to come out to a fair?" "Sometimes." He shrugged, leaning his weight on the counter. "Doing fun things also requires a good amount of energy." "Says the guy that hikes and jogs." He kissed his teeth. "Guilty. Did you enjoy it?" "I got this today." She showed off the knitted cropped jacket she bought, holding it open and turning left and right. "It's very flattering, don't you think." Dimitri's eyes fell on the jacket, and he grinned. "It suits you perfectly."

Then comes the jacket. Long. Dark. Structured. I slide it over my shoulders and roll them once, feeling it fall into place. The fabric is heavier than modern suits, built to last, built to command attention. I step toward the mirror. The man staring back at me doesn’t look like the Beta who tried to build a different future. He doesn’t look like the man who let himself care too deeply, who believed love could soften sharp edges. This man looks like the head of a syndicate and that is what I am.

In the nexus of it is Sasha. His legs are spread wide, muscular arms thrown over the back of the cushions. His pose screams royalty. This is a man comfortable in his control. He didn't have to sit in his car, building himself up before coming inside, like I did. He's dressed in a crisply ironed pair of ashen slacks with a matching suit jacket. His shirt, which pulls across his broad chest, is a rich sienna. If someone snapped his photo now, they could sell it to GQ magazine for a spread about cologne and make millions from the royalty rights.

I usually wore black, blue, once in a while grey, but not often. Then the shirt. It was black. Silk. Collared and short-sleeved. My shirts, my formal shirts, were all long-sleeved, cotton, white, blue, the odd pink, but no black. The material was mostly cotton, maybe a mix of rayon or other synthetic blend, but not silk. I had possibly never worn that make of cloth in my life. It was clear that the jacket was supposed to come off at some point. Why else would the inner shirt be short-sleeved? Why would it be so fitted?

She dresses herself too. I notice it as she shrugs into her jacket—black leather, tailored sharp at the shoulders, cropped just enough to show intent. Underneath, a deep charcoal top that clings without restricting movement. Her pants are fitted, reinforced at the seams, boots solid and heeled just enough to hurt if she kicks someone. Functional. Deadly. Deliberate. She catches me looking. “What?” she asks. I tilt my head. “Didn’t expect the mafia princess to dress like she’s ready to brawl.”

There he was—Ronan. He leaned casually against the front entrance, an embodiment of danger draped in sleek sophistication. Clad in his signature dark attire, he exuded an aura that was impossible to ignore. The fitted black shirt clung to his broad chest, outlining muscles honed to perfection, while tailored slacks accentuated the powerful lines of his frame. The jacket that hung effortlessly from his shoulders was more than just an article of clothing—it was a declaration of his authority, a shield that didn’t soften his menacing presence.