Page 12 of Sloth
Three
The second Maxleft the room, Sloan rounded on her dumbass brothers. “You let Parker talk to me like that?Ooh, get a haircut, Sloan.Get a life, Parker, right?”
“You know”—Evan folded his arms, giving Sloan an exaggerated once over—“He’s not half wrong.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Shackles raising, Sloan slid off her stool and straightened her spine. The top of her head came to Evan’s nose. Damned male height. “I’m not that bad. I’ve improved plenty in the past few months. Check it, the tattoo is virtually balanced.”
He snorted. “No, it’s not. You’ve been sitting on your ass all day.”
“And you’ve not left your apartment in weeks,” Wyatt pointed out, again.
“Now you’re joining in? Ugh. Whatever. That’s not the point. The point is, there’s nothing wrong with my hair.” God, men were so stupid.
“No offense, Sloanie, but you could do with a bit of a…” Evan waved his big hand around Sloan’s face.
She gasped, shocked. She was perfectly fine. What did they know about personal presentation? Evan had black lines all over his body. He wore frickin’ flip-flops, and Wyatt… Wyatt… well, he wore black all the time. Boring.
“Is this what you think, too?” Sloan asked Wyatt.
He made an awkward face. “Maybe just a little.”
“Mama?” Sloan shouted to get Mary’s attention in the workshop. “Pops?”
Flint ducked his head, clearly not wanting any say in the matter, but Mary’s eyes softened and she held up a finger and thumb, pinching. “You could do with a small haircut,mija.”
Oh sure. Pick on the slothful one.
Emotion hit her in the throat. It tightened. Burned. Was she so terrible?
She swallowed it all down.
Don’t be a pansy. Just go look at yourself in the mirror.
Sloan walked to where tall glass cabinets housed Deadly Seven battle suits on mannequins. Behind each suit was a mirror. She’d brushed her hair today, but the truth was, they were right. Her hair was split, ragged and down to her waist. It was a weakness in battle. Their Art of War sensei had taught them better than this.
There was power in appearance. The ancient Spartans terrorized their foes by dressing dramatically and with intimidation. This tactic ensured their enemy’s knees buckled before any battle began. It was one of the reasons why the Deadly Seven had a uniform. They wanted criminals to cower when they saw her brothers and sisters coming for them. Saved a hell of a lot of pain when the criminal simply turned himself in rather than face the terror of the Deadly Seven.
Right now, Sloan’s appearance said,Walk all over me. I’m useless.
A ball of anxiety grew in her stomach.
It was entirely possible her last haircut was a home job using manicure scissors in her bathroom. A glance toward the gym. Max hadn’t let himself go at all. He’d buffed up. If anything, he looked better.
Screw him.
She could look better, too.
But she had no idea where to go. Sloan wasn’t a girly-girl. She was a Tom boy. The very thought of having to go into a salon made her heart palpitate. Just imagine, hairdressers swooping in to force opinions on her.Oh, yes, sweetheart. Those bangs look lovely on you.
She almost threw up in her mouth.
As if hearing her thoughts, Wyatt suggested, “Why don’t you ask Misha to take you to her salon? She loves all that—” He waved around his face with a perplexed look.
Sloan chewed her lip. “You think she wouldn’t mind?”
“Not in the least. But you’ll have to let Max or myself come along for protection. I won’t let Misha head out on her own, not in her condition.”
“She’s not an invalid. She’s pregnant.”
