Page 12 of Roulette Rodeo

Page List

Font Size:

It was the smell of The Crimson Roulette, the perfume of broken dreams.

But underneath it all, stronger now than it had been even this morning, was Briar's scent.

Changed, hardened, but still fundamentally her. Still the woman who'd called me Cherry Bomb and taught me to count cards and promised we'd both get out someday.

Maybe we still could.

BLOOD AND ROSES

~RED~

The gym's changing room smelled like industrial disinfectant trying to mask years of sweat and desperation.

I peeled off my sweater, the fabric catching on the dried sweat from my fever, and reached for my sports bra.

"When did you get that?"

Briar's voice made me pause mid-motion.

I glanced over my shoulder, catching her reflection in the cracked mirror. She was staring at my back, at the artwork that covered most of it from shoulder blades to the small of my spine.

"About a year ago," I said, turning to give her a better view.

The tattoo was my one act of rebellion, my single claim to autonomy in this place.

A Queen of Hearts dominated the center, but not the traditional playing card version. This queen was fierce, her crown made of thorns and roses, her eyes closed in either death or ecstasy—I'd never decided which. Around her, the other cards in the deck formed a border, but they'd been reimagined as flowers. Spades became black dahlias, clubs transformed into crimson poppies, diamonds bloomed as white roses. And scattered throughout, like they'd been thrown by a carelessgambler, were dice. Each die showed a different combination, but if you added them all up, they equaled twenty-one.

Blackjack.

The game that had destroyed my life.

The dice were decorated with rose petals, some falling, some still attached, as if the flowers were decomposing even as they bloomed. Blood drops or dewdrops—again, I'd left it ambiguous—clung to some of the petals.

"It's beautiful," Briar said softly. "And fucking tragic."

The perfect compliment someone could give.

I have to stop myself from smiling like some manic, but a smirk can’t help but tug at the corners of my lips.

"I got it after the overdose." My fingers traced the edge of my shoulder blade where the tattoo began. "When I woke up in that sketchy clinic, barely alive, I realized I needed something. Some proof that I was still me, that those bloody drugs hadn't taken everything. So I took the emergency cash I'd been saving and went to this underground artist who didn't ask questions."

"I'm surprised Marnay allowed it."

I laughed, but there was no humor in it.

"He saw it the next day. I was changing for a shift, forgot to keep my back covered. He just stood there, staring at it for the longest time. Then he tilted his head, gave me this look. You know the one, like he's calculating your value down to the penny, and walked away. Never said a word."

Briar's eyebrows rose.

"No punishment?"

"None. But here's the fucked up part. Another omega, Giselle, tried to do the same thing a month later. Small butterfly on her shoulder." I pulled on my sports bra, the elastic snapping against my skin. "Marnay had her held down while he removed it with a cheese grater. Peeled her skin off in strips whileshe screamed. Then sold her to some Saudi princes for their 'collection.'"

"Jesus."

"She didn't last long. Word was they got bored with damaged goods." I grabbed my workout shorts, needing to move, to not think about Giselle's screams echoing through the dormitory halls. "The message was clear though. I was special enough to mark myself. No one else was."

"Your scent," Briar said, understanding immediately. "He needs you unique, mysterious. The tattoo adds to your mystique."