Kissed by a Rose: A Dead Roses Novel

by Workman, RaShelle

  I laugh. “I will.”

  She flips on her music but keeps it down, and I go back to working on my puzzle. Out of the blue, she asks, “So when are you going to tell me about your tattoos?”

  “Huh?” I raise my head, feigning innocence, though there’s no point. Of course, I should’ve known she saw them. Gina doesn’t seem like she would miss anything.

  “Don’t play coy. I saw two when I came in this morning. I never would’ve guessed you were the tattoo type.” Her face is lifted, waiting for me to answer, but I’m caught off guard. I’ve thought about telling her, but the timing’s been off. And now? She’s dealing with so much. How can I further weigh her down with my problems?

  Gina closes her book and climbs off her bed. “Let’s see them.”

  My heart starts to race, and I press my arms to my sides. She’s standing in front of me, moving her hands, and directing me to raise my shirt.

  I shake my head. “I’d rather not right now.”

  She spins around and throws herself back on her bed. “I spilled my guts to you this morning. Told you stuff I’ve never told anyone, and you can’t even show me your tattoos? Lame.” She flips open her book, whipping the pages so hard I think she’ll rip them.

  “It isn’t that I don’t want to tell you about them. I do. They mean something. They aren’t random or silly. They’re important.”

  “Yeah, whatever. You’re a tragic soul. Your life is hard. Blah. Blah. Blah. And boo-hoo.” Gina stops flipping pages and glares. “You’re nothing special, you know. Whatever problems you think you have, someone always has worse.” She slams her book shut, slides on a pair of black combat boots. “I’m out of here.” She flings open the door.

  There’s a guy standing at the opening, his hand raised to knock.

  “Hey.” He waves nervously.

  “What do you want?” Gina asks in a huff.

  “Is—” he pauses and looks at the card. “Rosie Hansen here?”

  I notice he’s holding something in his hands. Like a present. I climb off the bed.

  “I’m Rosie,” I say, curious.

  “Of course, it’s for you. The virgin tattoo girl.” She pushes past the guy, knocking him out of the way.

  I step closer. “Who’s it from?” I’m thinking maybe my aunt and uncle sent me a present. They seem to sense when I need a pick-me-up.

  The friendly smile he wore moments ago vanishes. “Look, I have no clue. Do you want this or not?” He holds out the bag like it contains poison.

  “Yeah, okay.” I take the card and the pink gift bag.

  The guy walks away, shaking his head.

  “Thanks,” I holler after him.

  He raises a hand but keeps walking.

  I close the door and sit on my bed. The card had my name on the outside. Inside are two words: Call me. With a phone number underneath. I know that phone number. I’ve got it memorized. Nervous butterflies flutter in my belly. I set the card on the bed, push aside the tissue, and look inside the bag.

  It’s a cell phone. I pick up the card again, knowing full well who it’s from. But I can’t believe it. Why? I pull the phone out. It’s one of those prepaid ones. Opening the instructions, I figure out how to turn it on and then find out how many minutes I have. It says 5000, and that they can be used for texting. A rush of excitement shivers down my spine. I’ve always wanted a cell phone. I’ve always wanted to text.

  I study the card again. The phone pings in my hand, and I jump. A message pops on the screen.

  Freckles, call me!

  I stare at the words on the screen and know they’re from Cole. He remembers me. My heartbeat picks up speed as I ponder the revelation. He called me Freckles when we were kids. No one else did that.

  But of course he knows who you are now, you told him your name, I think. I try not to get excited, but I can’t help it. I stare at the message wondering how to respond. Should I call or play dumb?

  Who is this? I text back, pushing the gift bag off my lap and leaning against my pillows. Several seconds pass and I start to wonder if he’s going to respond. I try to relax and focus on my Sudoku, but the numbers on the page are a blur.

  I think about Gina and the way she huffed out of the room. Sitting up, I punch her number into my phone and type a message.

  Sorry Gina. I want to tell you about my tattoos. I don’t know what happened earlier, except I was in shock. Hope you’re okay. By the way, this is Rosie and I now have a cell phone.

  Who gave you a phone? She texted back.

  I pause, debating whether I should tell her. Then type: Cole.

  Are you still a virgin?

  I snort. Heat blooms through my whole body. Why would she ask me that? What does my still being a virgin have to do with Cole giving me a phone? Unless…

  “Ugh,” I shout at the ceiling. “I’m not easy.”

  Yes, I’m still a virgin!

  Nothing kinky?

  No!!!

  Would you tell me if you and Cole did get kinky?

  There were no handcuffs or whips involved.

  I didn’t think you were that kind of girl, but we can work something out if you’d like.

  “What?” I sit up, reread her message and start to text back when I see the name at the top of the text. It didn’t go to Gina. It went to Cole.

  “Oh my goodness.” I toss my phone away as though it’s a red-hot coal.

  I bury my face in my pillow and scream with humiliation. I’ve done plenty of embarrassing things. Like the time the heel of my shoe caught on the hem of my skirt when I stood after playing my song at a piano recital. That’s why I wear ballet flats now. No heels to worry about. Or the time I went down a slide at the waterpark and my top came off, which is why I no longer wear bikinis. Then there was the time I wore white pants to the grocery store. A little boy pointed and asked if I was going to die because of all the blood. And there are more, many, many more. But in all those times, in all those places, never have I been more mortified than I am right now.

  My phone is at the foot of my bed, and I hear it ping. I sit, desperate to know what it says, but at the same time I’m terrified.

  I don’t care what he thinks. I don’t care what he thinks. I don’t care what he thinks. I say the words over and over in my head, but I do care. A lot. Even though I know I shouldn’t. Even though my brain is telling he isn’t worth it.

  What would my parents think? Am I honoring them with my feelings for a murderer’s son?

  Another ping. I can’t resist. Ever so slowly I pick up the phone, turn it over and read the text.

  It’s from Gina.

  No response. :(

  I hurry and text her back.

  Texting shame. I sent the message meant for you to someone else. The words handcuffs and whips were included.

  OMG. Who?

  Cole.

  LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL

  I can’t respond to that. She’s laughing at me—in writing. I’m sure that’s what Cole is doing too. My face blisters hot.

  Rosie, why won’t you call?

  This time I check the number. It’s from Cole.

  I send back. You call me! I would call him, but the idea of dialing the numbers, forcing myself to recognize the truth. I want to talk to him. Each digit bringing me closer to the inevitable. I’m not brave enough to do it. But if he calls, then all I have to do is answer. Or ignore it.

  Fine. I will.

  The phone rings. The ringtone is a minuet. I stare at it, recognizing the number. It’s Cole. He really called.

  Gina pushes open the door.

  I click ignore, and stuff the phone under my leg.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself.” She’s fidgety and seems a little out of it.

  “So, you wanna talk?” I ask, patting the spot next to me on my bed.

  She shrugs. “It’s okay. I was thinking I might go to the party tonight after all. I need to get out.”

  My heart drops into my stomach. “Really?”
/>   Gina laughs. “No, not really. I just wanted to see the look on your face.” She throws herself onto my bed. “I’m dying to know what possessed virgin girl to get tattoos.”

  15

  Thanks For the Chat

  Rosie

  Gina and I talk and talk and talk, until we can’t talk any more. I tell her everything. About Cole. About my parents. About my shrink. I tell her about the tattoos, how they relate to the seven stages of grief. And show them to her.

  Turns out she’s afraid of needles.

  I’m an only child. And I always wanted a sister. Gina has taken the role. It took eighteen years. I can’t help but think of those cackling senior girls that put us together. Maybe they are smarter than I gave them credit for.

  Gina is a foster kid. Raised in the system. She was dropped off at a homeless shelter when she was a baby. No note. No explanation. Her home life was a series of rejections, beatings, and starvation. When she turned eighteen, a lawyer contacted her and informed her that a trust had been set up in her name. It was anonymous. The only condition on receiving the money was she had to go to college. Which is why she’s here.

  And I’m grateful.

  “How often do you talk to your shrink?” Gina asks.

  “Before I started college, it was once a week. I haven’t talked to her since getting here, though. What about you?”

  “Sometimes daily. Luckily Luca is available 24/7.” She wriggles her eyebrows playfully.

  “Luca? Is that your therapist’s name?” I want to be clear. She’s giving off the vibe that there might be more than talking going on between her and her shrink.

  “Yeah. He’s the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome.”

  I blanch.

  “Don’t worry. Nothing’s happened. Yet. Luca says I put myself in dangerous situations so I’ll need more therapy. He isn’t wrong.”

  * * *

  It’s midnight, and she’s lying next to me on my bed. Cole’s called two more times, but I keep pressing ignore. Gina hasn’t given me any crap about it. Just keeps raising her eyebrows and giving me questioning looks. I should text him. Ask him to stop. Probably even give back the phone.

  But I’m too tired.

  And I love the phone.

  Another first. Thanks to Cole.

  “Why are you blaming Cole for something his father did?” Gina blurts, giving me a sideways glance.

  It’s a solid question. Even Abigail asked it when I first began seeing her. I know I shouldn’t. He didn’t pull the trigger. He didn’t take them from me. My mom and dad actually liked Cole. My mom teased me about him all the time. But he’s his father’s son. Who’s to say Cole won’t become like him? Who’s to say he isn’t already like him?

  My aunt and uncle used to argue constantly about Chief Morrison, about how he wanted to come after me. But Cole’s dad never did. And two words always came up in my aunt and uncle’s arguments: blackmail, revenge. I could never understand what they meant. Was someone blackmailing them? Did Chief Morrison want revenge? On me?

  It seemed likely. I’d seen him with a gun in his hand, leaving my house.

  When I was fifteen, my aunt and uncle’s arguments abruptly stopped. Or they figured out I could hear them and kept their quarreling for times when I wasn’t around.

  I didn’t want revenge. I wanted justice. To see Chief Morrison rotting away in a prison cell forever.

  At some point, I know he stepped down as the chief. A new man took his place. I asked my aunt what happened. All she said was, “He got what he deserved.” I asked what she meant, and she shushed me. Told me not to worry about it.

  Now that I’m going to school with his son, I can’t help but worry, and wonder if I should research his dad on the Internet. It’s something I’ve done a handful of times, under the supervision of my aunt.

  “Rosie?” Gina touches my arm.

  “I don’t blame Cole. I don’t.” I shake my head, realizing I mean it. “But when I see him, or I’m near him, I remember what his father did to my parents. And if his father is evil, well then…” I don’t finish the sentence. My body has rebelled against my mind. My aunt’s words, bad parents raise bad kids, fling themselves through my thoughts. My body doesn’t believe it.

  “You think Cole is evil too.” She takes a deep breath, crossing her arms. “I get that. I do. Obviously, my mom chose not to deal with her problems, and I’m the same way.” She sniffs. “But you should give Cole a chance, especially if you feel so strongly about him.” She rolls on her side, faces me. Her eyes are the color of dark chocolate, and they’re staring at me intently.

  I gasp, wishing I could let it all go. Close my eyes and forget. But I can’t. I’m not made that way. “I-I don’t know if that’s possible. Alcohol helps.” I take a deep breath, feeling ashamed for stating the fact so bluntly. Although after the last time, I don’t want to drink again.

  Gina busts out laughing. “Yeah, it does. If only it didn’t have those nasty morning-after side effects.”

  “We should come up with something. We’d be world heroes.” I laugh with her.

  Gina leans over and kisses my cheek. “Thanks for the chat.” She climbs off my bed and falls onto hers. “I’m sleeping straight through tomorrow. Wake me for class on Monday.”

  “Night, Gina.”

  Minutes later, her breathing has evened out and I know she’s asleep. It doesn’t come as easily for me. I can’t help thinking about Cole and my reasons for shutting him out. Without debating the consequences, I pick up my new phone and text Cole.

  Sorry. Roommate and I were talking. Thanks for the phone.

  I stare at the screen for several minutes, waiting for him to respond. He doesn’t, and I roll on my side, pull my comforter up to my neck, and close my eyes.

  I’ve been asleep either thirty seconds or three hours when the phone pings.

  You’re welcome.

  16

  My Heart is in My Throat

  Rosie

  I’m nervous about meeting the other half of my duet. Professor Jenkins told me to meet my partner in Piano Room 3. I’ve been to the room several times already. Professor Jenkins teaches his private lessons in there so I’m familiar.

  But I’ve have no idea who my partner is. What if she’s bad? What if she’s hard to work with? What if she hates me?

  I enter the Fine Arts building, walk down stairs, and open the heavy door leading to the practice rooms. I can’t help the intense sigh of relief that enters and exits my lungs. I imagine this is what religious people get from church. It’s calming. Fortifying. And I offer a silent prayer. Please let this duet work out.

  There’s still five minutes until our meeting time, so I walk slowly, enjoying the muffled sounds of music filling the hallway. As I get closer to the designated room, a strain of music rises above the others. It’s heartbreaking, full of longing, sadness, and hope. I stop, unable to move. It’s beyond beautiful. I have to see who’s playing. My heart demands it.

  I run to the door and peer through the small rectangular window. My body registers my partner’s identity before my mind does, and my mouth falls open. New sets of butterflies have hatched inside my stomach, fluttering around wildly. Never in my wildest dreams did I think he played the piano, or even liked classical music.

  But he’s always liked poetry, I think, pushing open the door.

  The music stops and he looks up. Surprise creases his brow, turns his lips into a smirk.

  “It’s you.” I’m unable to stop the grin that blooms across my face.

  He steps away from the piano and approaches me. It looks like he hasn’t shaved in a while. His face is scruffy. It’s sexy, I think.

  He’s wearing faded jeans and a black button up shirt, the sleeves rolled to his biceps. I drink him in. He takes my breath away.

  “It’s me.” He picks up one of my hands and caresses my palm with the other.

  The butterflies are frantic, and my heart is racing, racing, racing.

  “I di
dn’t know you played.” The words stumble out of my mouth like drunken old men.

  “So, you’re my other half?” His fingers are caressing my inner wrist, and my heart stops. Slams to a standstill.

  “The duet?” I ask, clearing my throat.

  He chuckles. “Rosie Hansen. Freckles.” His eyes roam my face as though he’s searching for memories. Trying to see the girl I was when we were younger. When we made our pact.

  I was eleven. Short. Shadowy curls. Chunky. Full of wonder and ideas. Always quick to laugh. Always quick to share.

  I’m no longer that girl. My face and body have become lean. My hair is long, and I don’t laugh nearly so often as I used to.

  “It’s good to see you again. How’s your phone working out.” His eyes are searching my face, whether for truth or lies I’m not sure.

  “Good. Great. I really appreciate the gift.” I can no longer meet his gaze and look away. Too many questions are racing through my head. “I…” I’m not sure what to say.

  He steps closer, pulling my body to his. I sink my face into his chest, breathing in the scent of fresh laundry, and vanilla. He’s solid, real. And I don’t ever want to let him go.

  “Sorry I was a jerk about pretending not to know you. It’s just I saw you and—”

  “You were pretending?”

  The revelation is a surprise. I’m not sure whether to be ticked that he pulled such an immature prank or relieved. I choose ticked. “Why would you do that?” I turn away, part of me thinking I should just leave. Walk out. Tell the Professor never mind.

  “Hey,” he says, pulling me to him. “I did it because I was hurt you stopped talking to me seven years ago and…” He pauses. “When I saw you I went into shock.” He kisses the top of my head. “Because I forgot just how much I missed you.”

  I shiver. I can’t help it.

  “I missed you too, Cole.” There’s no point in trying to be angry. I’m not feeling it anymore. The look on his face and what he said, I can’t feel anything but sad that I allowed my aunt and uncle to convince me to stop speaking to him. And I think I should be the one to apologize.