The Reinvention of the Rose - Christina C. Jones Page 0,1

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 private 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