The last time I’d worn make-up other than lipstick and eyeliner had been the first day of tour. I hadn’t even bothered putting concealer over my bruise. The last time I wore something other than shorts and sweats had been the same day; wearing shirts without stains on them was the extent of my vanity. Body odor was also a regular worry. I’d been more focused on being comfortable than trying to look cute despite my brother’s constant teasing about how I looked haggard. People that came by the merch booth seemed to be okay with me wearing a tank top, having non-stinky breath and a ready smile, so what was the point in trying harder? I’d been making more tips over the last few days than I had before, and I had a feeling it was because of the purple and red coloring along the lower bones of my face.

But each night, I faced girls who had taken time with their appearance, and it made me feel a little down day after day, though I knew there wasn’t a point in trying when there was a show. I’d look like a drowned clown by the time we had to get back on the bus regardless of how much or how little make-up I applied.

Laila had always told me that she felt better when she knew she looked nice. In my case, I’d take feeling like a normal, clean girl in a heartbeat. There was nothing that a shower, the dress I’d grabbed from my suitcase and a good braid couldn’t give me a kick-start to.

Eli snuck into the back room of the bus with me after agreeing to shower quickly so we could lock the door and get to business.

“You have a lot of split ends,” Eli claimed an entire minute after I’d sat on the floor in front of him cross-legged. His fingers parted my hair with no care or gentility, but I knew better than to complain about how rough he was being. It was the usual.

“I’m pretty sure I asked you to braid my hair, not for your expert opinion on whether I need a haircut or not, Vidal Sassoon,” I laughed, digging my elbow into the meaty part of his inner thigh.

The bastard yanked on my hair hard while snorting. “I hope you go bald.” His large hands brushed through my hair once more before parting it again the way he wanted, not that there was that much hair on one side of my head anyway.

I was not going to whine about the shaved section that made my bone structure look rounder. Nope.

Eli had learned how to braid my hair when we were nine because Mom had broken her hand and couldn’t do it for me. What had started as a simple braid down the back of my head had turned into a full-blown interest that led him to learn how to French-braid the hell out of my hair. He’d even nailed a fishtail at some point; when or how he did it, I wasn’t sure, and I sure as heck wasn’t going to ask either.

The fact was, he was better at it than our mom had ever been. His talent was also one of those things that we kept between the two of us and our parents. Gil and Rafe had never said anything about it so I wasn’t even sure they knew. I never gave Eli shit about braiding; it was something he’d learned how to do because he loved me—and I’d begged. I didn’t want to taint it with jokes and ruin a good thing.

“I still can’t believe you punched Brandon in the throat,” he snorted as some of his fingers grazed over the buzzed section above my ear.

I really was quite proud of myself, and I’m pretty sure I preened at Eli’s compliment. Then I remembered what Brandon had said and my good mood plummeted. That fucking prick. “Did you hear what he said?”

“Not all of it. I heard bits and pieces when you were yelling at him, but then you got this crazy-ass look on your face, and it got me wondering why the fuck you were smiling like that.” He didn’t even pretend to not be nosey. “What’d he say?”

I sighed and reclined against the seat more, the sides of my twin’s gigantic thighs pressing against my shoulders. “He pretty much admitted he started talking to that girl he’s dating before we split up, and that it’d been a hard decision and he didn’t want to hurt my feelings…”