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