Page 39 of Lace

“Come on. Put it on. I have to see it on. And take this.” Again, Mitchell reached outside and came back with the black leather jacket Caleb had coveted since he’d seen the drawing.

“I can’t.”

“You can, and you will. I never would have been able to do this without you.”

“You would have found someone to help you sew on a few belts and buttons,” Caleb scoffed.

“I would have. But I never would have had the guts to go through with the whole thing if you hadn’t been right there by my side the whole time. You brought people here who actually want to use my designs. You made this happen for me, and I can never thank you enough for that.”

“I just did what anyone would.”

“No one would risk putting on a show like this, and you know it.”

“Well, we did it for the kids, right?”

“Right. Now move. Angel is only going to be able to stall for so long. Those people who came and donated their hard-earned cash aren’t going to sit around forever.”

Caleb straightened from pulling off Mitchell’s show-stopping skirt and held it out to exchange for his own. “You do know that a lot of the audience is here because they wanted to see your designs, right?”

“To see how freaky it was.”

“Maybe some of them, but you were right about them all along. They don’t matter. You gave everyone else something to admire, and you’re going to walk away with bursaries for the rest of your classes, a contract or two, a huge sum of money for the kids, and more pride than any of those jerk-offs who tried to heckle you have in their little fingers.

“And a good friend, too. Right?” Mitchell kept his fingers and his attention busy on buckling up the straps holding Caleb’s new skirt in place, but his lower lip was clamped tight between his teeth.

“I hope so,” Caleb agreed.

“Good. Now.” Mitchell stepped back, all business. “I think take off the tank top and just wear the jacket.”

“Bare chest?” Caleb watched his blush creep up his cheeks as he gazed at his reflection in the mirror.

“Yep.” Giving the hem of the loose tank a tug, Mitchell tilted his head and made a face. “For one thing, it’s sweaty, and you don’t want to go out there looking bedraggled. Or show up on Levi’s doorstep after a sweaty mess, and for another—trust me. I’m the designer, and I know what works. Take it off.”

“If you say so.”

“I say so. Now move it. Angel’s got about a minute left in his speech before he calls us out there, and then your man’s not going to wait all night.”

Caleb drew in a deep breath and let it out in a long, steady gush. “Who says he’s waiting at all? That might have been goodbye. That might have been him saying he doesn’t want me and my skirts?—”

“Don’t be an ass.” Mitchell held up the coat for Caleb to push his arms into the sleeves. It fit as snugly as if it was made for him, which in retrospect, it probably was. “He wants you—in your skirts—so he can get you out of them. An idiot could see the want all over his face earlier.”

“What if…?” Caleb twisted about to examine himself. He looked good. Damn good. He knew it. He looked dangerous, even in a skirt, or maybe because of the skirt and all the black leather and buckles. He frowned. “Don’t want to look dangerous. Don’t want to feel dangerous. Not tonight.”

“So?”

“I have to lose the pants.”

“Those boots,” Mitchell groaned. “This is going to take forever.”

“They are a pain in the ass, it’s true. But I have to lose the pants. If I’m doing this skirt, if I’m going up to his room in a skirt, I’m doing it right. Where’s my bag?”

“Fine.” Turning to sweep the curtain aside, Mitchell stepped out of the booth. “I’ll find your bag. You take off those idiotic boots and pants. You.” He nabbed Eric, who hadn’t changed yet, and pointed to the stage. “Slip out there and tell Angel I’m giving my thank you speech before the donation presentation. Caleb needs a minute more to change.”

Eric nodded and nipped up the short staircase, nimbler on his heels than Caleb would have expected for a jock, then sashayed onto the stage.

Mitchell delivered the bag, then hurried off again to make his speech, giving Caleb time to get out of the boots and pants. He paused, once they were off, looking in the mirror at his outfit, wondering if Levi was prepared for his shaved legs.

Alone in the flimsy excuse for a change room, he rooted through his pack for the small bag of delicate underwear in the bottom. He fished out the package. Tonight was going to end his inner debate over whether the expensive lingerie was actually softer. He pulled the new skivvies out of the tissue wrapping and held them up. Black, of course, because black silk lace was, in its own way, just as sexy as black leather, the panties were a style he already knew would comfortably support his package.

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