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1
EVIE
“You’re not going,” I state, staring at my sister with my hands firmly on my hips.
Her eyes are puffy and bloodshot, her nose glowing red and when she attempts to argue with me, she doesn’t even sound like my big sister.
“I have to,” she says, her voice all nasally. “We need the money, and I can’t let—”
“You won’t be letting anyone down,” I argue. “If I go in your place.”
“Evie,” she whines before falling into a coughing fit.
“You’re not well. You need to rest. And I am more than capable of handing out drinks to rich arseholes.”
“I know you are,” she concedes. “But you shouldn’t have to. And it’s not just the drinks—”
“Blake, I’m not going to let any of them do anything I’m not happy with.”
She slumps back on the sofa.
“I know. I know. I just… argh,” she groans, slamming her fists into the old, stained cushion beneath her. “I promised myself that you wouldn’t have to do any of this shit.”
“It’s one night. I can handle it.”
Her eyes hold mine, and while I hate seeing her weak and sick, I hate the guilt swirling in them even more.
“My uniform for tonight is hanging in a bag in the wardrobe,” she whispers, hating every second of this but knowing she doesn’t have a chance in hell of changing it.
She can’t go to work tonight dribbling snot all over the millionaires’ suits, and she knows it.
Sucking in a breath and metaphorically pulling up my big girl knickers, I spin around and walk toward the bedroom we share.
It’s a mess. There is stuff everywhere—mostly Blakely’s clothes, make-up and costumes—but no matter how much of a shithole our flat is, it’s ours.
Managing not to trip over her piles of stripper shoes, I reach the wardrobe and pull it open.
My eyes land on a bag covered hanger, and I reluctantly pull it out. I’ve seen more skimpy outfits than I ever wanted to in my life thanks to my sister’s career choice—not that she had much of a choice in it if we wanted to eat—but I was happy never to have to wear one.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter the second white fluff and red velour appear from beneath the cover.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Blakely says weakly from the doorway.
Summoning that inner courage up that I’m sure must be hiding within me somewhere, I look up, meeting her eyes.
I want to look determined, focused on what I need to do for our family. But her expression alone tells me that I’ve failed.
“I hate this.”
“Now you know how I feel every time you leave the house,” I counter.
It’s not fair, I know it’s not. But it’s the truth.
She’s given too much of herself to help protect us. And as much as I hate it, I’m also more grateful than she could ever know for what she’s done for me. For us.
Throwing the hanger with the skimpy outfit on the bed, she studies me as I stare down at it.
“You’re aware that this is going to look obscene on me, right?”
