The Reinvention of the Rose - Christina C. Jones Page 0,52

training like I used to - I wasn’t training at all. Wasn’t being challenged in the ways in which I’d grown accustomed.

I was eating too much macaroni and cheese at Pot Liquor, doing too much hanging out and laughing with Anika and Jules, too much texting with Dacia and Pen.

I was gonna open the candle shop. Willow handled most of the paperwork for that, but there was still a need to make a shit ton of candles.

Another deep distraction.

And then - worst? - of all… I was incredibly, disgustingly wrapped up in Tristan.

And I was… happy.

You’d be even happier if you get your ass to that hair appointment..

Oh shit.

Yes.

I was already dressed and ready to go, just had to stop musing about the meaning of life long enough to actually set the alarm on the shop and leave. I was still getting used to it, but it was simple enough.

On the other side of the door, I took a step back, admiring the logo printed on the new - expensive - glass. It was simple, but it was mine, and made me feel… solid.

Yeah.

“Tempest Lane?”

The sound of my name made me turn around, to see two cops approaching me. Instantly, my shoulders tensed, but I put on a neutral face.

“Yes?”

It was a quick conversation.

Apparently, my little creep friend - the one who’d grabbed me at Urban Grind, harassed Kiara, etc. - was a fucking criminal all around. He’d been picked up for something else, and immediately started screaming about how “That candle shop bitch deserved what she got, that bitch cut me!”

Did I know anything about him being cut?

No, officer, of course not. That’s crazy!

He’d say anything to get himself out of trouble, right?

They bought it. And they moved on from there, assuring me that he wouldn’t be seeing the streets of the neighborhood anytime soon, which I guess was supposed to give me some of comfort.

Not really.

Really I wanted them to go away, cause their asses made me nervous too.

It felt… too easy.

Not that I wanted to be looking over my shoulder for whoever had broken into the shop, but in the list of possibilities for who might’ve been behind that break-in, ol’ boy had been low to me.

Or maybe I was overthinking it… expecting the worst.

Anyway.

I was definitely late for my appointment now, but the stylist was cool, brushing off my apology with a wave when I did arrive.

“My last client just walked out of here like two minutes ago, so you’re fine,” she insisted, ushering me into her chair. “Otherwise, I’d be feeling bad for having you waiting. Let’s get you started today.”

I’d forgotten what it felt like to have someone else doing this stuff for me.

In the Garden, it had been standard – professional haircare, skincare, the works. We learned the basics of doing it all ourselves if necessary, but when a certain level of aesthetics was a requirement of the business model, you mostly left it to the experts.

Since it all fell apart, I’d been doing it myself.

Now, it was amazing to have skilled hands doing the shampooing, detangling, deep conditioning, all that. Beyond the actual haircare, the salon itself was a soothing environment, rich and vibrant with all its smells and loud voices and the hum of the dryers and laughter.

“You have such nice strong hair,” Andrea – my stylist – complimented as she combed through my tresses, preparing for my blowout. “I can tell you’ve been taking good care of it.”

“That’s all her hair?!”

I rolled my eyes at the sound of Nya’s voice. She’d been staring a hole in the side of my head since she came in, but I’d opted for simply ignoring her.

“You watched me shampoo her and all that – you know it’s her hair,” Andrea replied, sounding annoyed.

At the next station, Nya sucked her teeth, clearly bored while her client was under the dryer. “I’m just saying, it was looking like some kinda homemade extensions the way she was walking around here looking. My bad.”

“Find some damn business.”

I kept my lips shut, letting the conversation remain between Andrea and Nya. I’d had a great morning with Tristan, and no interest in letting her rile me.

“I’ve got plenty of business,” Nya snapped. “When I finish up my client, I may go down to the tattoo shop to see about some new ink. I’ve gotta find a new artist.”

Andrea picked up her dryer, but didn’t turn it on yet. “Why do you need a new artist? Tristan finally get sick of