The Reinvention of the Rose - Christina C. Jones Page 0,3

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.

It was a state I’d never – to my memory – experienced until this past year or so. Maybe I’d been too mentally occupied before, with analyzing my past performance or planning future excellence, but these days… man.

I was really on my own fucking nerves.

That was the only way, even privately, I could articulate how it felt to be standing in the mirror, the sharpest of my blades in hand, unnecessarily dramatic as I contemplated carving off my rose.

It was ridiculous.

Logically, I knew that, and yet… I didn’t feel like I could live with it, a single second longer.

It had been there as long as I could remember, branding me as an asset rather than a fully-realized person. A single red rose, petals beautifully spread and intricately detailed – a loveliness that belied the underlying cruelty it represented.

An exquisite flower, on a dangerous woman I didn’t want to be anymore.

Didn’t have to be anymore.

And yet… I was still marked.

On a deep breath, I lifted the blade to my skin, barely flinching as I pressed it into my flesh. It pricked, yes, but I couldn’t bring myself to draw my own blood, even though I’d been trying for the last hour.

Histrionic much?

I tossed the knife onto the dresser, running over the tattoo with my fingers instead. It was flat to the touch, but even with my eyes closed, I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t there – it was too deeply embedded, in more than my skin.

An ugly stain, in the fabric of who I was.

Yeah.

I can’t look at this shit anymore.

I quickly ruled out the knife, knowing damn well I’d never gather the fortitude to flay it off my skin – not under these conditions. In some type of high-danger, life or death situation, I’d slice the damn thing off and keep it pushing.

In a reality where I could just as easily walk across the street for a tea and leisurely enjoy it from the comfort of a plush chair in the coffeehouse window without a care in the world?

Not so much.

Full removal required more paperwork and follow-up than I was comfortable engaging quite yet, so it wasn’t an option. I knew a few other girls like me, who’d opted for a coverup, and felt at ease with that option.

Now that I’d started making the mental shift from “survive” to “actually have a life” … maybe that would help me, too.

This wasn’t