The Reinvention of the Rose Read online

  The Reinvention Of The Rose

  Christina C Jones

  Copyright © 2020 by Christina C Jones

  Proofing by Trim & Polish

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Synopsis

  …

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  About the Author

  Also by Christina C Jones

  Synopsis

  Desperation.

  Not a phenomenon Tempest could typically claim, but certainly the catalyst for where she’s landed. Not in peril, or pain, but in dire need of the very normalcy she’s often emulated, but never been able to obtain.

  Now... there’s nothing in her way, except all those years of being everything except what she now has to become.

  Herself.

  As soon as she figures out who that is.

  For every one of us who has had to figure out who we are all over again, only to find out she was so much better than expected.

  If necessity is the mother of invention, we must consider then, the impetus of reinvention.

  - CCJ

  I’d done a lot of people-watching in my lifetime.

  Various reasons came into play with that, most related to the finding of facts, the gathering of information necessary to whatever task was at hand.

  Now, when I indulged the urge, it was much less about the utility of it.

  It was more to do with the pure curiosity of observing strangers going about their lives.

  Without a care.

  They were just… living.

  Going about their same schedules, their same routines, with zero vigilance.

  No real fear of things that went bump in the night.

  Or of those things – those people - like me, that were stealthy enough not to make a sound.

  Not that it mattered anymore.

  Not at a time when really, I should envy the overwhelming normalcy of these people – the thing that, for me, had been so damned elusive. Instead of blending in with the crowd, I was relegated to my window, watching.

  Well… I guess that implied I had to stay there instead of joining in, huh?

  In reality, it was more that these people, these days, had exactly no relevance to my life – I didn’t fit in, or belong.

  A little sad, considering I’d lived in the neighborhood for three months.

  Despite the insistence of my mentor, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to take advantage of any of the quaint neighborhood’s amenities.

  Not a single boutique or restaurant.

  Not even the coffeehouse across the street.

  That was where I saw the most eclectic sampling of the community, streaming in and out of there with hot and cold drinks, pastries in their hands. At night, it turned into a lounge – sometimes with lines reminiscent of a night club, and the throbbing music to match.

  I watched.

  I listened.

  And then one night, finally… I decided I would go.

  It took another three weeks to actually go through with it.

  Decisiveness had never been a problem of mine – at least not that I could remember. Not until now, when every single one of my own moments was up to me, from the minutiae to the big decisions.

  … not that I had many – any – of those.

  In the immediate, my most significant decision was what to wear to Urban Grind, the insanely popular coffeehouse across the street from the abandoned candle shop I’d purchased.

  Who the fuck needed an entire storefront for candles?

  Certainly not me.

  What I did need was somewhere that I could fade into the crowd – not so overpopulated that I couldn’t be aware of my surroundings, but inhabited enough that I could take advantage of the camouflage that came with living in the “city.”

  Mahogany Heights was perfect for that.

  And so was the apartment above the storefront.

  It was studio style, open and airy to make up for the fact that it was tiny, and it was all mine.

  There were no wake-up calls, no drills in the middle of the night, no rules – mostly – about what I could and couldn’t have.

  What colors I could use.

  What I could hang on the walls.

  What I could have in my closet.

  I smirked, very satisfied with myself as I slid the door back on the tiny space, peering in at the hangers that held my curated items. I happened to like the black, white, and gray palette imposed upon us in the Garden, so it was repeated here, but still.

  I’d handpicked them all, without a single thought to who else might like it.

  For tonight’s adventure, I chose a simple white top that bared my midriff, comfortable black jeans, and black and white sneakers, and basic silver hoop earrings – I wasn’t dressing to impress. I was dressing to look like any other late-twenty-something that might be there, so I could blend into the crowd instead of standing out.

  In the mirror, I tugged at the neckline of the top, which I’d never worn before, self-conscious about the tattoo just above my breast, near my armpit.

  The only tangible thing linking me to my old life.

  It wouldn’t do for that to be showing.

  Once I was satisfied the shirt did a good enough job keeping my “brand logo” under wraps, I grabbed my keys and wristlet to head out.

  This time, I made it all the way to the door that led out to the street before I stopped.

  What are you so afraid of?

  For the life of me, I couldn’t figure it out.

  There were very few people in the world who knew who I was, and even fewer cared. Of those who did, maybe some wanted me dead.

  Most wouldn’t put any money or resources behind it.

  My threat level was pretty low.

  In fact… I was probably safer now than I’d been in a very long time, much more than I’d been when every public outing had a dossier attached, including details of who I was supposed to be at any given time.

  I was one girl now.

  Just me.

  And there was no mission besides living my life however I wanted.

  Nobody was coming for me.

  And really… maybe that was the problem.

  I could step, masterfully, into any role I was handed without missing a beat, without detection.

  But this wasn’t a role.

  It was life.

  Something I had painfully little experience with.

  I pushed the door open and stepped out, refusing to allow myself the comfort of going back upstairs. It was barely ten o’clock, and the spring weather was beautiful, so there were plenty of people out and about.

  I ignored them all, locking the door behind me and heading for the crosswalk, keeping my focus narrow.

  Across the street.

  Through the front doors.

  Up to the counter to order a spiked chai with a drizzle of chocolate.

  A cozy seat with my drink, close enough to the stage to enjoy the music, but tucked away enough to not be bothered.

  You did it.

  You’re here.

  I allowed myself a priv
ate smile about this silly ass “accomplishment” before I resumed my usual people-watching, only up close this time. The Heights was a majority Black neighborhood, and Urban Grind attracted a pretty diverse subsection of that – all ages, interests, economic levels, whatever.

  Without even… trying.

  It was nice.

  It was really nice, actually.

  Especially when I found myself swaying along to the live music, really enjoying it.

  This felt good.

  The throng of bodies, the loud music, the sweet stench of marijuana faintly mingled with liquor… I couldn’t say it was necessarily familiar, but it was comforting. For the first time in a while, actually, there was an unmistakable feeling of ease lightening the usual tension in my shoulders, as I raised my chai to my lips, taking it all in.

  Feeling bizarrely guilty about it.

  Being comfortable and relaxed, enjoying yourself… those things didn’t keep you alive – apprehension and vigilance did.

  But… I hadn’t been able to exercise even those particular muscles as well as I’d have liked over the past year. Though an argument could be made that my persistent caution had kept me safe from the usual harm that came along with my former profession… a somewhat opposite case could be made as well.

  A case that I was overthinking this shit.

  Because no matter what could have happened, if I’d done this thing or that thing differently, the fact was that… there had been no bump in the night.

  No one had come for me.

  There was no bounty on my head.

  No one fucking cared.

  For a different woman, that could’ve been a blow to the ego, but for me, there was a certain freedom in that.

  The freedom to sit in a crowded, semi-dark coffee house listening to live neo-soul music that was – despite being embarrassingly cozy – actually… really good.

  The freedom to just… enjoy myself.

  “Pretty bitch like you shouldn’t be sitting here alone.”

  Shit.

  Perfection never did last very long, huh?

  I kept my face blank as I turned to the man who deemed himself significant enough to interrupt my solitary vibe. Not that it mattered how he looked, what he might have to offer, what-the-fuck-ever.

  I wasn’t on that right now.

  Especially not for a man with that haircut.

  “No,” I said, simply, then tried to give my attention back to my mug.

  “Yo, excuse me?” he asked, obviously not getting the picture since he stepped closer.

  Rolling my head back in his direction again, I gave him another quick-once over.

  In addition to the wack haircut, his clothes were ill-fitting too.

  Ugh.

  I let out a sigh, resigning myself to the fact that a one-word answer was clearly not enough.

  “Stop. Talking. To me.”

  I let my gaze linger on his, my face pulled into a drab expression long enough to make sure I’d communicated effectively this time. His brow knit together in a frown as my words connected – bingo.

  I gave my attention back to the stage, focusing hard on the pretty singer and her pretty boyfriend on the keyboard.

  Well… I tried.

  Again.

  It was hard to keep my focus there when some motherfucker had his hand in a vice grip around my forearm, yanking me up from the bench where I’d been seated and almost making me spill my mug.

  It had been so long since I killed a man.

  Damn.

  I spent a split second erasing my mental days without incident board, and then I snatched my arm away from… whoever the hell this dude was, as I struggled to keep myself calm. My mentor would be really disappointed in me, if I handled this the way I wanted to.

  So I was trying.

  “Who the fuck you think you talking to, huh?” His breath was sour with one too many shots as he hissed in my face, obviously emboldened by the darkened room, and the crowd’s attention on the stage.

  A smile played at my lips as I looked him right in the eyes, deciding right then that I couldn’t let this ride. “If you don’t walk away and leave me alone… a dead man. That’s who.”

  “Ay, what’s going on over here?” a deeper, heavier voice broke in, and another man stepped between us, looking in my direction long enough for me to register the “security” label printed across the front of his tee shirt. “Are you fucking with her?” he asked the guy, then gave his attention back to me. “Did I see him put his hands on you?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t have handled on my own,” I assured, looking around him to glare at ol’ boy, who was suddenly a lot less bold than he’d been with me.

  “I wasn’t trying to cause any problems, this bitch just—”

  “Bruh,” Mr. Security interrupted, snatching ol’ boy by the collar of his shirt. “You know damn well it don’t work like that in here. Let’s go,” he insisted, practically dragging the guy away.

  It only took me a moment to realize that little exchange was garnering unwanted attention, so I wasted no time slipping away before somebody decided to pull out a camera phone.

  Something I hadn’t even thought about when I was considering killing his ass.

  Good thing I didn’t have to.

  I was waffling on a decision to stay or go when the final notes of music rang out, closing the show. And then the lights were back up, illuminating the room full of strangers and reminding me of where I was.

  This had been eventful enough.

  It was time to go.

  My tea was cold now, but it couldn’t hurt to see if I could take one back across the street with me.

  “Another spiked chai. To go,” I told the barista after I’d patiently waited my turn, then took a seat at the steadily emptying bar until it was ready. Now that the music was done, I assumed they must be closing soon, based on the thinning crowd.

  “Sorry about that.”

  My eyebrow lifted at the sound – and feel – of somebody in my ear, way too deep into my personal space. I turned in my seat, enough to find the security guy standing over me, so close that I could feel the warmth of his body without him actually touching me.

  Too close.

  “Back up,” I said, lifting my hand in a stop motion to emphasize my point. The demand made him lift an eyebrow, but he honored it. “What are you apologizing to me for?” I asked, once he did.

  “Ol’ boy,” he answered, with a vague gesture toward the front door. “I saw him approach you… saw you dismiss him. I didn’t know he was going to take it where he did.”

  I shrugged. “So you were watching me, is what I’m hearing.”

  He smiled, and it was a very nice smile.

  Full lips, white teeth, the works, especially potent against his rich brown skin.

  “What can I say? You’re a beautiful woman. So yes, you caught my attention.” His eyes were warm, full of interest as he waited for my response – probably expecting me to be flattered by his apparent attraction.

  More than anything, I was amused.

  “What, exactly, should I do with that?” I asked.

  His eyes narrowed, confused. “With what?”

  “Your attention. The way you’re talking about it, I’m getting the impression it’s a high-value item around here, but… I’m not from here. Are you the neighborhood hottie or something?”

  He chuckled about that, but… I was serious.

  The material was there.

  The height, the solid build, the beard, the locs, the full sleeves of ink covering that pretty milk-chocolate skin.

  A near-perfect male specimen who wouldn’t have been out of place as one of my peers.

  “So you think I’m hot, is what I’m hearing,” he countered, leaning in even closer.

  I smiled at him. “I’m not blind. But I’m also not interested.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, with a respectful nod. “You have a good night.”

  “You too.”

 
My drink was delivered to me before there was a chance for awkwardness, but before I could pay for it, he stepped in.

  “That one’s on me, Nik,” he told the pretty barista from across the bar, blocking the money I was trying to offer. “Put it on my tab.”

  “You got it,” she answered, smiling, moving on without giving me a chance to protest.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I said, but he was already backing away.

  “I know. Good night,” he said again, and then he was gone, leaving me with my gifted drink in hand, feeling… confused.

  It wasn’t as if it were the first time a man had paid for my drink.

  My meals.

  My wardrobe.

  A foreign property here and there.

  That island, out in the Indian Ocean.

  I was beautiful, like every other woman who bore the same mark I did, and had been impeccably trained in the art of charming money, information, and any manner of other things out of men.

  That was supposed to be behind me though.

  And… yeah, this was just a hot tea, but it still felt… weird.

  I couldn’t dwell on that.

  I got my ass back across the street, through the shop, up to my apartment. By the time I got myself back into my comfy lounge clothes, my tea had cooled enough to comfortably sip.

  In the window.

  While I watched.

  Maybe he’d blended in before, but this time, nearly an hour after I’d been home, I spotted him coming through the door. He stood in front of the shop with a group of guys for a while, talking, laughing, just… being.

  He was beautiful.

  I hadn’t lied about my lack of interest, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t look.

  I got really, really, exhausted with myself sometimes.