I thanked him and took the bag; my hand had barely left my chin when both men hissed. I froze in place. “Is it that bad?”
Carter said “no” at the same time Sacha grimaced and tipped his chin down just enough for it to be counted as a nod.
He didn’t even try to bullshit me. The “yes” that came out of his mouth was loud and clear.
Ah, hell.
Chapter Seven
Isawthe cinnamon roll first—of course I did—before I saw the long masculine finger pushing the small plastic plate my way. I didn’t need to look up to know whom it belonged to. I closed my book slowly—this week I was onThe Story of Edgar Sawtelle—and set it down on the merch table.
Sacha stood there, still in his everyday clothes though the doors were about to be opened any minute. His face was contrite and hopeful and way too sweet-looking to stay pissed off at. “Eli told me they were your favorite,” he offered.
Cinnamon rolls weren’t my favorite; they were Eli’s. I was more of a glazed donut kind of girl. But I didn’t tell him that, and I didn’t make a face either, mostly because it would hurt too much. The truth was, everything ached, but it was mostly my face that bothered me. I once worked with a woman that never smiled because she said she didn’t want to waste the collagen in her face. Back then I didn’t understand how the hell that even seemed like a sensible idea but with the way my face was hurting… yeah, I was keeping my facial expressions to a minimum.
“Thank you,” I thanked him like a mature woman that wasn’t hung up on the huge bruise on her jaw because I really wasn’t. It’d been a total accident. Plus, it wasn’t like I hadn’t had worse done to me.
My brand-spanking-new haircut, on the other hand, was a different story.
Subconsciously, my fingers began reaching up to touch the section of my head directly above my right ear, until my brain reminded them that there wasn’t hair there anymore. There was fuzz. There was fucking fuzz where my long hair used to be. Twenty-four hours ago, my merch buddy had taken clippers to part of my head.
Carter had become the chosen one because I trusted that he wouldn’t have an “accident” that would lead the clippers across my eyebrows. Also, obviously, because he had experience shaving the back of his own head like a boss every week. In the time since the haircut, I’d rationalized that there were worse things in the world than having a third of your head shaved. Like root canals. Cancer. Charley horses in the middle of the night.
I’d gotten off easy.
The words that had come out of Julian’s mouth once we’d all piled back into the tour bus after my near facial reconstruction went along the lines of, “We decided you don’t have to shave all of your head since… you know,” he pointed in my direction, tracing the shape of a circle with his index finger.
He said it as if I should have gotten down on my knees and kissed their feet for making such an accommodation.
Then he added, “Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?”
Realistically, I wasn’t surprised. If anything, I was surprised they weren’t going to make meV For Vendettamy scalp. Fortunately, Eli wasn’t on the opposing team, otherwise I’m sure he would have petitioned for them to shave off my eyebrows too… maybe even said something about shaving my upper lip to be a smart-ass. When they buzzed off all of Carter’s beautiful, long black hair without him batting an eyelash, I tried to calm myself down. Eli grumbled through his entire cut but did it. Then the rest of the guys went through with their shaves with only minor complaints.
Was I going to be the one to pitch a fit when everyone else went through with it? Nope.
All I heard when I sat down in the chair they’d set up outside the venue, the clippers connected to an extension cable, was Mason asking Carter, “Can you do this?”
To which Carter answered, “Yup.” Then he paused before asking, “Gaby, do you want a mirror so you can see what I’m doing?”
“No.” Absolutely not. “Just remember how much I like you, okay? Remember.”
And that was how I ended up with what they jokingly called the ‘Viking Girl’ haircut. One-third of my hair was shaved off above one ear, from my forehead to all the way to the back of my neck. All in all, it could have been worse but still. I wasn’t that vain but a girl’s hair—whether it’s short or if it’s long—is her hair. I hadn’t suffered through those painful hair ties with balls at the ends as a kid for nothing. Plus, it wasn’t as if I had fine cheekbones and a long face. On a good day, someone might say it was heart-shaped.
“I’m really—” Sacha started again, bringing me out of my memory of the day before.
“It’s fine,” I assured him, watching his face as his eyes went over the big reddish-purple spot that reached from my chin to halfway up my jawline on the way to my ear.
He frowned but plopped his butt onto the corner of the white table, hands on his lap. “I feel like shit.” Those gray eyes drifted down to my chin, the wince on his face was more than noticeable.
“I promise it’s okay. I know it was an accident.” I smiled at him that was all lips, ignoring the twinge of pain coming from my jaw. “You aren’t on my hit-list.”
Sacha blinked very seriously. “Who’s on it?”
Wiping my hands on my shorts, I tore a piece of cinnamon bun off. “Mason—”
He nodded, understanding off the bat why I’d put Mase on the list. He’d been way too eager about making sure my head got shaved.
“I’m still on the fence with Freddy for missing his shot—”
