“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.