The Reinvention of the Rose Read online

  “Okay mom.”

  Again, she laughed, not bothered by my dry tone because she knew – like I did – that she was probably right.

  I’d spent the better part of a year drifting until, through mutual contacts, I heard that Alicia was looking to connect with any “stray” Roses who needed a place to land. And even after that, I hesitated to reach out, unsure if I could trust her, or anyone.

  It took a while for me to come to the realization that… I kinda had nothing to lose.

  I didn’t lose though.

  Even with all the uncertainty, it felt, to some degree, like I’d won.

  I was free, mostly, to do what I wanted.

  It was a point now of really figuring out what that was.

  And… doing it.

  “Dacia and Pen will be happy to know you called. They’ve been asking every other day. You do have their numbers, right?”

  I sighed. “Yeah. I do.”

  “Just making sure. Since I asked them both to give you space to make first contact, and… I dunno, talk? Be friends?”

  I let out another sigh. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  Maybe if they didn’t remind me so much of what I’m trying to get away from…

  “Don’t let me pressure you,” Alicia insisted. “Just… remember that you’re not as alone as you might feel. Or rather… you don’t have to be.”

  “I hear you.”

  “That’s all I ask.”

  We said our goodbyes from there, and I got off the phone… feeling good that I’d called. Was I going to call or text Penelope or Dacia, both of whom I’d been at the Garden with?

  No.

  At least, not today.

  But it was comforting to be reminded that I had the option.

  I spent some time cleaning, and researching more about this whole candle thing, and obsessively tracking my supply orders. Finally, once an acceptable hour for it had been reached, I donned some actual clothes and made my way across the street to the coffee house for the tea I’d taken to getting every morning.

  Even though I should probably know better than to form a routine.

  My lack of sleep had caught up with me, and I needed a remedy for that.

  The weather was much improved over what it had been for the last week or so. The rain had finally broken, giving way to beautiful sunny weather that had people out breathing it all in – including, apparently, my neighbors.

  “You must be the lil’ cute weirdo Keem was telling me about,” I heard shouted at me, as soon as I stepped from underneath the awning.

  Shielding my eyes from the sun with my hand, I peered around until a raucous chuckle drew my attention upward, to the balcony above the store front next to mine, where a fair-skinned man was sitting, shirtless, cocktail in hand.

  It’s not even seven in the morning yet.

  “Um… I guess so?” I answered, making a snap decision to actually follow Alicia’s advice and try to engage people more.

  And since I did know who “Keem” was.

  I’d met him pretty shortly after moving in – inevitable, since he owned the storefront directly next to me – an atelier and styling service. I knew from personal experience that could go one of only two ways – men who cared about clothes were either insufferable or great, no in-between.

  Luckily, Keem seemed great.

  I could only guess that the shirtless, light-skinned man of obvious leisure on the balcony was the husband he’d mentioned when he introduced himself.

  Carlos.

  “Nothing wrong with being weird – these regular motherfuckers are boring,” he called down to me, then took another sip of his drink. While I watched, he sat forward, lowering his shades to peer at me. “He was right. You’re gorgeous. You’re not wasting that face and body not being somebody’s sugar baby, are you?”

  I laughed, shaking my head. “As a matter of fact, I am wasting this face and body on exactly that.”

  “Mmm,” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “Damn shame. If I looked like you, I wouldn’t pay for shiiiiit.”

  My eyebrows went up. “You’re definitely prettier than me.”

  He snatched his shades off to grin down at me. “I like you bitch.”

  “Thank you, I think.”

  He tossed me a wave, and then went back to… tanning, I guess. Whatever he was doing, I was clearly dismissed, so I returned to my business of getting across the street, and into Urban Grind, which was already packed.

  Prime people watching material.

  I made a quick decision that instead of leaving with my drink, I would actually stick around, finding myself a quiet corner. Halfway through the line, I heard my name called, bringing an instant frown to my face as I peered up to the counter, where the woman I’d identified as a manager was holding up a cup, and looking straight at me.

  “Tempest – I’ve got your Mocha-Matcha Melee ready.”

  Confused, I stepped out of line to approach Anika – that was her name, according to the badge pinned to her chest. “Um… I haven’t even ordered yet…”

  “Yeah, but you get this every day… unless you were switching it up?”

  “No,” I admitted. “I guess it didn’t occur to me that anybody was paying that much attention to me.”

  I definitely should’ve.

  “We make it a point to identify our regulars,” she grinned, handing me the cup. “No creepiness intended.”

  I shook my head. “It’s fine, really. At least I don’t have to wait in line. It’s three-eighty-two, right?”

  Her grin stretched wider. “You’re already taken care of, actually. Tristan had me put you on his tab.”

  Really?

  Unbidden, a smile came to my face before I mentally smacked it back down, realizing that shit like this was… exactly what I didn’t need.

  Probably.

  “Motherfucker,” I grunted, and Anika’s eyes got big, the grin dropping from her face.

  “Ah, hell – I thought it was a cute thing since he obviously likes you, but I’m not accidentally helping that nigga with any stalker shit, am I? Cause I can have his ass kicked for you. It might take a few people,” she murmured, frowning as she really considered it.

  “No, nothing like that,” I quickly cleared up, before she took those thoughts too far. “It’s not really a problem. I … I’m… shit.”

  “Not sure about him?” she asked, leaning over the counter so she could lower her voice. “If it helps, I’ve not heard anything bad about him. He’s only lived here a few years – Blackwood transplant. He does security for us a couple nights a week. Cute. Funny. Never seen him on any disrespectful or inappropriate energy, all that. He’s cool.”

  “Yeah… I don’t know. He’s a little too fine. Too smooth.”

  Anika nodded, laughing as she straightened up. “I will not front like I don’t understand that. I spent as long as I could dodging it, personally, so… I get it. But… you paying for your own drinks, or running his pockets?”

  “He got it,” I answered, joining her in a laugh before I moved on so she could get back to her job.

  Just like I’d planned, I found myself some solitude in a cozy corner and planted myself there.

  To watch.

  For so long that I got desensitized to the bell over the door, because there was so much more to look at.

  Well.

  Until he came through the door.

  With his arm wrapped over the shoulder of a much younger woman.

  Actually… not a woman at all, even though she was tall.

  A fucking teenager.

  The youth in her face told the real story as Tristan leaned down to speak into her ear, saying something that made her burst into laughter, showcasing hot pink rubber bands on her braces. I was already out of my seat, my face hot with rage as I gripped my empty mug, thinking about how much force I’d have to use to put it through his temple.

  She couldn’t be older than maybe fourteen.

  Maybe.

  But then Tristan looked up.

  Noticed me.

  Smiled.

  Said something to the girl who was way too young to be with him, causing her to look up too – she, as opposed to him, shrank away.

  “Daddy, she looks like an assassin.”

  Tristan scoffed. “See? I told your mama you watch way too much damn Netflix. An assassin, really?”

  “Look at her face.”

  I could hear their conversation, of course, but my mind was still stuck way back on one word.

  Daddy?

  “You have a kid?” I finally said out loud, some of the tension leaving my shoulders.

  His eyebrows went up. “Yeah. Temp, this is Kiara. Kiara, this is Tempest. I told her about your storm tattoo,” he explained.

  “The assassin tattoo,” she muttered, and he nudged her in her side, hissing stop at her.

  “Why are you calling me Temp?” I asked.

  “You don’t like it?” his forehead wrinkled in… adorable confusion. “I thought it was cute.”

  “It is cute,” I agreed. “Do I look like a cute nickname kinda person?”

  A smirk spread over his lips. “Actually, you--”

  “Don’t fucking say it!” I hissed, then immediately pressed my lips together, embarrassed, for cursing in front of his kid. I glanced at her, then back at him. “Sorry.”

  “She’s not sorry, Daddy. She’s definitely gonna kill you,” Kiara murmured, shaking her head.

  “I’m not gonna kill anybody,” I defended, only half remembering this kid didn’t actually know what I was.

  What I used to be.

  I didn’t think I was gonna kill anybody…

  “Don’t pay her any mind,” Tristan said. “It’s the tween imagination – overactive and getting the best of her.”

  Kiara crossed her arms, lips pursed. “If you’re not an assassin, why are you dressed like one? It’s spring.”

  My gaze dropped to my clothes, and I almost smiled, but I held it back before I looked up again, meeting her eyes. “Fair point,” I admitted, since my black crop top, black leggings, heavy black boots and ponytail were pretty much a television super-spy uniform. “I like black. I’m not an assassin. Would an assassin drink out of this cutesy mug?”

  “Yes,” she nodded, looking just like a pretty version of her father.

  So much so that it was embarrassing I’d thought it was anything else at first.

  Perils of being exposed to a constant parade of the absolutely worst in humanity, for so long.

  “How can I prove myself?” I asked her, not even knowing why it mattered, but… it did, kinda.

  “You can’t. The more you prove you aren’t, the better your cover must be,” she shrugged, then looked to her father. “Can I get back in line for my lemonade?”

  “Yes,” Tristan sighed, shaking his head. “But hurry up, so we can get you to school.”

  She opened her mouth to say something else, but Tristan gave her a look of censure I never would’ve known he was even capable of if I hadn’t seen it for myself. Kiara trudged past us, muttering more about assassins making her late – an insistence that might’ve concerned me a little if Tristan didn’t say…

  “Please don’t mind her – she’s been watching some spy shit she’s really not old enough to be watching, and she’s obsessed,” he explained, shaking his head. “Her and her mom.”

  “How old is she?” I asked.

  “Thirteen. Going on goddamn twenty.”

  I met his gaze. “And how old are you?”

  He blinked, the briefest flash of shame crossing his face before he answered the question. “Thirty. Yes, I had a kid young, but we’re doing right by her, which not everybody can say.”

  “Are… you really used to being judged about that or something?” I asked. “Cause… you don’t have to be defensive about it. I was just asking, because I didn’t know. You don’t seem old enough to have a teenaged kid, but I don’t mean that in a bad way. And I didn’t mean any harm.”

  Running his tongue over his teeth, he nodded. “Yeah… my bad. I am used to people getting weird about it, so… yeah.”

  “You good?”

  He smirked. “I’m good. You good?”

  “I’m great,” I answered. “Thanks for the drink,” I said, holding up the mug he’d come close to having put through his head. “I really don’t need that, though.”

  “Not about what you need. Did it make you smile?”

  Instead of answering, I dropped my gaze, which only made him chuckle.

  “See… you can’t even help yourself,” he teased. “What are you doing tonight?”

  My eyes shot up. “What?”

  “What are you doing tonight? As in, with your free time, after eight o’clock? It’s open mic. You should slide through.”

  I frowned. “I don’t… hm.”

  I had to stop short of saying I didn’t think I would be into it, because… I kinda didn’t know what I was into. I had to experience it, to figure that out.

  “I’ll think about it,” I told him, earning myself a grin and a parting wave before he moved on to join his daughter.

  And then I moved on, back across the street, back to the sweet solitude of my apartment above the shop.

  I had no problem finding sleep this time, even with the caffeine in my system.

  It had been an eventful morning for me.

  I should’ve asked if this was like… a date.

  It couldn’t be, right?

  I’d told Tristan I would think about it, and he’d been fine with that answer, because he would be at Urban Grind tonight either way.

  My presence – or absence – wouldn’t have any real effect on his night.

  So… definitely not a date.

  Establishing that in my mind was of zero consequence, I realized, as soon as I eliminated the possibility as an excuse. Still, even knowing this was something casual…

  I had no idea what to wear.

  What would Dacia do?

  I blinked as those words flashed in my mind – a common refrain she’d insisted upon back in the Garden. Often, she would curate the wardrobes the Roses under her tutelage traveled with, or whatever items were in our cover identity’s closet. When we went out into the world, without the luxury of having her over her shoulder, we had a very specific guiding light – What would Dacia do?

  Hm.

  She… would dress like it was a date anyway.

  So that’s what I did.

  Skinny jeans and heels, and a top that hung off one shoulder – showing off my tat, and freshly washed and blown out hair. Red lips, lots of mascara, big silver hoops.

  Dacia would be proud.

  Open mic started at eight, Tristan had said, so I waited until precisely eight-twenty-eight to step out of my door. Like earlier, the weather was pleasant and warm, punctuated with enough of a crisp breeze to make it – to me – perfect.

  Already, this was going well.

  Across the street, I slipped into the crowded coffeehouse, knowing my chances now of getting a quiet spot to myself were slim to none. It struck me, quickly, in this room full of strangers how massively alone I was.

  And how vulnerable.

  “Hey, you made it!”

  I barely had time to register his voice before Tristan’s hand was at the small of my back, serving as the early warning that he was approaching me from behind. His arms wrapped around me in a hug, pulling me into the warmth of his body, surrounding me in the clean smoky-sweetness of his cologne and… something else.

  I couldn’t focus too much on it at the moment, not with his fingers laced through mine, tugging me to “Come on, we’ve got a table.”

  I didn’t know who we was, but I went along with it, still dazed by both the familiarity of the way he’d greeted me and the fact that I’d kinda enjoyed it.

  More than kinda.

  We, apparently, was a small collection of people Tristan knew, some of whom I’d seen in different places across the neighborhood as I forced myself to venture out more and more. He introduced me to them in a blur of names and faces I was too staggered to retain, then pulled me into seat beside him in the booth.

  Like it was some kinda norm.

  “You look good as fuck,” he said, his eyes noticeably low as he pulled back to stare. “I see you’ve got my ink on display.”

  “I do,” I told him, my own eyes narrowed as I tried to figure out what was different about him, because there was definitely something. I leaned in, taking a deep inhale, and just like that, I figured it out, meeting his gaze with a smirk. “You’ve been smoking, haven’t you?”

  His face cracked into a slow, easy smile that answered my question before he’d even opened his mouth. “A lil’ bit,” he admitted. “Had an early shift at the shop, then was there all fuckin day,” he groaned. “So… yeah. I may have done something to take the edge off.”

  “I didn’t know edge was even possible with you. You’re so laid back,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Everybody has their shit, you know?”

  “I don’t, actually.” I raised an eyebrow at him. “I don’t know much about you at all.”

  “I could say the same, so what are we going to do to fix that?”

  “What makes you think it’s something to be fixed?”

  “Because I say it is. That’s enough, right?” he asked, with a fresh grin that made me… squirm a little in my seat.

  I didn’t like how much I liked the way he made me feel.

  Very suddenly, the others started up a round of loud whistles and cheers, with Tristan joining in. I followed their attention to the stage, where a man and woman who were obvious crowd favorites had stepped forward.

  “That’s Eddie,” Tristan explained, answering the question that must’ve been apparent on my face. “He owns the tattoo shop. Astrid is his lady, she owns the yoga studio.”

  Yeah.

  Looking at them, it tracked.

  “What are they about to do?” I asked, unable to pull my eyes away from them. They were both beautiful.