We’re in The Crimson Dove, the same boutique sporting the dress Stephanie May wore the other day. Yet if someone in Eva’s family is going to get married, then the only place to shop for a bridesmaid dress is here. And poor Eva has been roped into being a bridesmaid for the first time in her life.

She looks hilariously miserable.

“They told me I could wear a suit,” she mumbles, looking at herself in the mirror and picking at the spaghetti straps clinging to her bony shoulders. “Wouldn’t it be weird if I’m the only woman out of eight who is wearing a suit? I thought wearing a dress wouldn’t be so bad. Especially when they told me the color had to be red or a dark pink. Who wears a suit of that color? I would look so stupid.”

I mean, she has a point.

Even so, Eva Warren is not a woman who struts around in dresses like the ones The Crimson Dove sells. When I agreed to come shopping with her this Sunday afternoon, I knew it would be a doozy. I plan on picking up a few new things myself, but first I need to see this bullshit unfold.

I am so not disappointed.

The worker unfortunately named Gertrude brings out another red dress for Eva to consider. Part of the problem is that she’s so tall. Like, over six feet tall. Put her in some heels, or even slightly raised flats, and she’s a giant. Works well for the BDSM club and intimidating those around her, but doesn’t do much to give off a feminine air in a dress.... especially when you’re a butch lesbian who is so sour it makes your lips pucker.

“What do you think?” She holds up the red halter dress Gertrude brought over. “Please be honest. I don’t want to be embarrassed at my brother’s wedding.”

I cock my head in serious consideration. Another employee brings me a refill of champagne, but I’m still full from the last one. “You need something sexy, but not too sexy for a wedding. Something mid-length, hm?”

“Yeah, well, when you’re my height, everything is mid-length, even those so-called maxi dresses.”

“Point. You definitely don’t want any sleeves either. You have gorgeous collarbones and spine. You should show those off. Cover the tits.”

Gertrude, who has been listening to my thoughts, rushes to the other side of the store and hauls over a white dress matching those specifications. Before we can protest, she assures us that it’s perfect for dyeing a shade of red to go with Eva’s fair skin and hair. The seamstress on hand will be more than willing to come out with some dye swatches and match them to Eva’s skin tone. With red, that’s pretty important.

“Try it on,” I say. “You can’t do much worse than what you’re already wearing.” You have no idea how much I want to start guffawing like a baboon watching Eva scuttle off the dais and back to the changing room, pulling wedgie after wedgie out of her ass. Girl does not know how to walk in dresses like that.

While she’s gone, I get up and peruse the wares, so to speak. The woman who brought me champagne asks if I need help, but I tell her I’m happy to browse for now.

I have no real need for a new dress, although I know the Mathers will want me to wear something recent and stylish for the hotel opening in a few weeks. So, it doesn’t hurt to look, even if I’m 50k down a month now.

Yup. Still bitter.

Although I’m a woman, and I’ve had a lot of cash to burn my whole life, I’ve never been into the fashion scene. I enjoy shopping. I love trying on a cute dress and then wearing it out to lunch with friends or on a date with a guy like Ian. The one great thing about being filthy rich is that money is rarely an option. If I like a blouse, I get it. I can even get them tailored to fit my breasts, shoulders, and abdomen. (I feel for women who can’t afford to get a jacket that actually closes over their chests!) It does mean I have way too many clothes, but I give them away to my assistants or make sure they’re put to good use somewhere. For my last charity, I sold a lot of my old designer clothes I no longer think suit me. Brought in a few thousand!

Except I’m not “into” fashion. I don’t have any designer friends. I don’t go to fashion shows unless there’s someone I like who really wants me to come.

So coming to The Crimson Dove once in a while means I get to see some pretty nice clothes that all seem brand new to me.

There are a few dresses I might try on when Eva’s finished. A little black number that’s off one shoulder and sports diamonds along the hem. Another is a deep, forest green and has a mosaic sash to die for. Then there’s this soft blue number that would look great with my hair.

I wonder which one Ian would like most.

Damnit.

“Well?” Eva walks out – in flats, this time – and shows off the white dress. White is definitely way more her color than red, but that’s beside the point. We’re supposed to be looking at the cut and fit of the dress in the hopes of dyeing it later.

Eva has a difficult frame to work with. She’s supermodel tall, has bony shoulders but a wide chest. Her hips are about average, her abs muscular, and her thigh gap the envy of every woman we know – don’t ask her how she gets it, because it’s purely genetics. Eva knows how to dress in pants to make her look great, but dresses and skirts are a different story. Especially with the blond pixie cut and a demeanor that screams butch in charge.

The bust accentuates her breasts while the straps blend into her collarbone. The dress cinches at the waist and ends above the knee. Gertrude comes out with a diamond-studded belt to show how the look can be accessorized. Yes, the dress is stupid simple, but that’s what a woman as striking as Eva needs.

“Get it,” I say. Then, to the girl with the champagne, “How about those color swatches? I think my friend would like to leave before she has a brain hemorrhage.”

Eva clasps her hands and dramatically thanks me, Gertrude heaving her own thanks beneath her breath. The girls here work on a nice commission.

The swatches come out. Everyone blanches at the red-oranges against Eva’s skin. The pinker we go, the more we laugh. Yet when we go darker, to the crimsons and the scarlets, her pale skin is so washed out that I can only feel sympathy for her.

“I’m so tired of this. I don’t care what color it is. Make it not look like shit on me. That’s all I ask.”

Isn’t that the only thing any of us asks?

They have to wait for the woman in charge to come in before they can continue, so Eva sits down in her white dress and encourages me to try on some clothes. I take the opportunity to try on those three dresses I mentioned earlier, disappearing into the changing room with Champagne Girl and letting her help me so she can get her commission.

I don’t bother walking out with the green dress. It’s hideous!

I parade the black dress out, however, and Eva is too tired to do more than whistle her approval. After some turning on the dais, I’m convinced it flatters my ass enough to be considered for purchase.

The blue dress, on the other hand, is the one that rouses Eva from her near-slumber on the couch.

“Honey, if you were gay and I didn’t feel like shit, I would be hitting on you with that ensemble.”

It doesn’t only flatter my figure. The blue does exactly what I anticipated with my hair – namely, make it one of the focal points of my look. I can’t help but grin at the way it rests on top of the sultry blue.

For the briefest second, I wonder what Ian’s favorite color is. I don’t think I’ve ever asked. I bet it’s a shade of blue.

“Since you’re not gay, though,” Eva continues, “I’ll have to consider it from the point of view of a man like your boyfriend.” She sticks her hand between her legs and gives me a thumbs up. I know what she really means.

“Shut up.”

My blushing gives me away. “Uh huh. You know he’d rip that dress off you in two seconds. Or at least want to.”