Page 53 of Over You
And I did exactly as she asked.
Georgia twirled a strand of my hair around her finger. “Does the label still make you go to Travis to get your hair trimmed?”
Travis was my personal stylist assigned to me be Devil’s Side to ensure my hair was kept up to the brand standard. It was ridiculous. “Yep. Good old Travis.”
“It’s crazy how much of your life they dictate.”
They dictated too much of it. I sang a few more bars, thinking about the slow metamorphosis I’d undergone over the past few years. I felt like the only thing that hadn’t changed were my Vans and Georgia Anne. And I wanted the label-created version of me dead.
I stopped singing and inhaled. “Do you have any scissors?”
“Why?” Her eyes tapered.
“This.” I fisted a handful of my ridiculous mane. “Isn’t the Spencer I want to be.”
“You keep screwing around, the label will drop you.”
“I don’t care.” I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress, grabbed my boxers from the floor, and pulled them on. “Where are your scissors.”
“The nightstand.”
I rummaged through the drawer and took the pair of shears shaped like the Eiffel Tower. Placing the blades in my palm, I held them out to Georgia. “Please.”
She slipped into her robe before taking them from my grasp, and I followed her to the bathroom. The fluorescent light above the vanity flickered to life. I gripped the edge of the sink and stared at my reflection. The man in the mirror was never who I wanted to be. He was chaos, and the woman beside him was heaven.
There was no room for chaos in heaven. “Cut it,” I said.
Georgia stared back at me in the mirror. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Cut it all off.”
Inhaling, she took a strand of blonde hair and snipped. The trimmings scattered the vanity.
Her uncertain gaze met mine again when she made the next cut. She clipped until hair filled the sink and covered the floor, until I looked like an older version of the guy that climbed onto her roof and took her away from her shitty life. Not threw her into one.
Sinners sought baptism and absolution, and maybe that’s what this act symbolized—a cleansing, me falling at the altar of her love and begging to be atoned.
I didn’t want to look in the mirror and see the man who’d let her down, and I didn’t want her to look at me and remember who that man was.
The next morning,I woke without shakes or sweats.
The first thought I had was of Georgia. Of the smell of fried meat that crept underneath the door—not of how great a line would be. I ran my hand through my short hair, and I felt a sense of freedom. Even if the road to recovery could wrap around the world twice and I was only two steps in, for the first time in forever, I felt hope. And hope did a hell of a lot.
I got dressed and started downstairs. A sudden, loud cackle echoed up the stairwell. “She’s a nutter!”
I rounded the corner to the living room. Georgia flipped something in the skillet while Lottie stood at the counter with her back to the doorway.
“I’m gobsmacked. I just—” Lottie spun around, blinking twice when her gaze landed on me—or more specifically—my hair. “Whoa. Where’d the sexy mop go?”
I scrubbed a hand through my bedhead and padded toward the stove. “In the bathroom trash.”
“Why would you toss it? Georgia! You could make a killing selling it on the—” Her brow twitched, and she faked a cough. “What I meant to say was that you’re even sexier with short hair.”
Georgia placed a palm to my chest when I gave her a kiss. “Mm. Morning breath.”
“You like it.” Grabbing her hips, I slammed my mouth over hers again.
“Sick.” Lottie’s lip curled. “You’re just a normal, nasty bloke, aren’t you?”
