Chapter 8: Red Lace and a Sister's Blessing
The dissertation notes spread across Evie’s bed might as well have been written in a foreign language. The words bled together, meaningless. All she could think about was the coming night, and the gnawing, panicked question of what to put on her body.
Her wardrobe yawned open, a monument to camouflage. Grey sweaters, black sweaters, a navy sweater she’d had since sixth form. Ripped jeans, faded jeans, jeans that bagged at the knees. She yanked out a black t-shirt dress, held it up, and let it fall back into the closet with a sigh. It hung like a sack. It was safety. It was everything she wasn’t feeling.
“You look like you’re preparing for a funeral, not a fuck.”
Evie jumped. Mia leaned in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, a smirk already in place. She was dressed for her own night out, in a sheer top and leather pants, her makeup sharp and perfect.
“I don’t know what to wear,” Evie admitted, the defeat raw in her voice.
Mia pushed off the doorframe and entered their shared space like a force of nature. She glanced at the pile of discarded sweaters on Evie’s bed, her nose wrinkling. “Obviously. You’re packing for a library siege. He’s seen you, Evie. He’s had you. The mystery box is open. Now you dress for the encore.”
Before Evie could protest, Mia crossed to her own dresser, yanked open the top drawer—a chaotic mess of silk and lace—and rummaged for a second. She pulled out a scrap of fabric the colour of fresh blood. “Here. Start with this.”
She tossed it. Evie caught it on instinct. It unfolded in her hands: a red lace balconette bra, the cups delicate and sheer, with a matching thong so insubstantial it felt like holding a breath. The lace was intricate, slightly scratchy against her fingertips. She’d never owned anything like it. The idea of it against her skin, under her clothes, felt absurdly, terrifyingly bold.
“Mia, I can’t wear this.”
“Why? It’ll fit. We’re the same size, remember?” Mia said, already turning back to Evie’s closet.
“That’s not… I mean, what if it… gets ruined?” The memory of the motel, of rough hands and the sound of straining fabric, flashed behind her eyes.
Mia turned back, one eyebrow arching high into her forehead. A silent, eloquent question. Isn’t that the point? She shrugged. “It’s just fabric. It served its purpose. Now stop being a princess and put it on.”
The casual permission unlocked something. It’s just fabric. Evie nodded, clutching the red lace. She slipped into their small bathroom, closing the door. The fluorescent light was unforgiving. She stripped, shivering in the cool air, and fastened the bra. It fit perfectly, lifting her, the red a shocking violence against her pale skin. The thong was a whisper. She stared at her reflection, a stranger with her own face, dressed in a secret.
When she emerged, Mia was holding up a simple black skirt from the back of the closet. “This. With no tights.”
“It’s cold,” Evie said automatically.
“And? He’s picking you up on a bike, you’ll be cold for five minutes. Tights are a bureaucratic delay. No tights means easier access.” Mia said it with the clinical authority of a general outlining a battle plan. She found a pair of fabric scissors in their desk drawer. “Hold this.”
Evie held the waistband. Mia knelt, took the hem, and in one clean, decisive motion, cut a good three inches off the skirt. The fabric fragment fluttered to the floor. The skirt now hit mid-thigh. Mia nodded, satisfied. “Shirt. Tight. You have a great rack, for god’s sake, use it.”
She found a tight black cotton t-shirt, not sheer, but form-fitting. Evie pulled it on, tucking it in. The outfit came together in the full-length mirror on the back of their door.
The girl staring back was a revelation. The short skirt showed her legs. The shirt outlined the red lace beneath, a hint of texture and a bold colour at the neckline. She looked small, but not fragile. Contained, but promising. She pulled on black ankle socks and her worn white trainers—a grounding touch of herself amidst the transformation.
Mia came to stand behind her, their reflections a study in contrasts: Mia, the obvious flame; Evie, the banked fire. “See? You don’t have to hide in his shadow. You can stand next to him. Different, but equal.”
The low, visceral rumble of a motorcycle cut through the evening quiet, pulling up somewhere on the street below. The sound was a key turning in Evie’s stomach. A thrill, sharp and clean, shot through her.
She spun and grabbed her sister, hugging her tightly. Mia smelled of perfume and hairspray. “Don’t wait up,” Evie whispered into her shoulder. “I might not be back until tomorrow.”
She felt Mia stiffen slightly, then hug her back, hard. When Evie pulled away, Mia’s eyebrow was perched high again, a mix of shock, curiosity, and sisterly concern. But Evie was already grabbing her small backpack, the one with her toothbrush and a change of underwear inside.
She was at the door, then out in the hallway. The concrete floor felt solid under her trainers. She didn’t walk. She half-ran, half-skipped, the short skirt swishing around her thighs, the red lace a secret covenant against her skin. She didn’t look back.
She didn’t look back.
The evening air was a cold slap after the dorm’s stuffy warmth, and it rushed up her bare legs, raising goosebumps. Jay was leaning against his motorcycle, a shadow carved from the streetlight’s orange glow. He wasn’t on his phone; he was just waiting, watching the door. When he saw her, a wide, uncomplicated grin spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes.
He pushed off the bike in one smooth motion. “Jesus, Evie.” His voice was a low rumble that matched the idle of the engine.
He closed the distance before she could speak, his hands finding her hips and pulling her into him. His kiss wasn’t gentle. It was hard and possessive, all heat and firm pressure, swallowing her small gasp. One hand slid down, palming her ass right under the shortened skirt and he squeezed, pulling her tighter against the hard line of his body. He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against hers, his breath warm. “Been thinking about that all fucking day,” he murmured, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.
A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold raced through her. “Yeah?” was all she could manage.
“Yeah.” He gave her one more, softer kiss, then turned, grabbing a spare helmet from the bike’s seat. “Come on. I’m making you dinner. Promised.”
He swung a leg over the machine, settling into the seat with a familiar ease. Evie put the helmet on, the world muffling instantly, and climbed on behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, her front pressing into the solid warmth of his back, the leather of his jacket cool under her cheek. The bike roared to life beneath them, a potent vibration that traveled up through the metal and into her bones.
He pulled away from the curb, and she held on tighter. The city lights began to blur into streaks. Every shift of his weight, every subtle lean into a turn, she felt it in her own body, moving with him. And with every bump in the road, every deep thrum of the engine, she felt the direct, insistent vibration through the thin bike seat.
It translated into a persistent, startling hum against her, the flimsy red lace of the thong offering no meaningful barrier. The seam of her jeans had been a barrier before; now there was only this whisper of fabric and the overwhelming mechanical shudder. It was an unintended teasing, a constant physical reminder of where she was and who she was with. She squeezed her thighs together slightly, a reflex, and buried her face deeper into his back, her grip tightening as heat pooled low in her stomach, a secret echo of the engine’s pulse.