Adamant Spirits, page 72
He had tensed, the muscles in his big arms straining as he waited for her to adjust. She very deliberately leaned up and bit his neck. He roared, and his control vanished. All she could do was smile and hold on as he proved to her just how happy he was to be a father. Her perfect mate.
Between the Quiet
Heat Level: ☕︎
Candace Robinson
Candace Robinson spends her days consumed by words and hoping to one day find her own DeLorean time machine. Her life consists of avoiding migraines, admiring Bonsai trees, watching classic movies, and living with her husband and daughter in Texas—where it can be forty degrees one day and eighty the next.
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This is a standalone paranormal romance story inspired by A Christmas Carol. She is also the author of Lyrics and Curses.
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Copyright © 2021 Candace Robinson
One
Hand. Invisible brick. Hand. Invisible brick. Slide hand, and twirl. Tuesday Collins pressed her hands against an invisible brick wall that she imagined was a bright, blazing yellow. Tilting her head at a young woman with red hair pulled into two braids, Tuesday lowered herself to a crouched position and felt around an illusioned box. The redhead arched a brow at Tuesday, paused, and scrambled on by. Tuesday sighed and slumped her shoulders in mock disappointment.
As a man with salt and pepper hair walked her way, Tuesday’s fingers fumbled inside her black and white striped sleeves and plucked out a glittery, pink orchid. She hopped off the step in front of the man and held the flower out to him.
The corners of the man’s eyes wrinkled into a smile. “No, thanks.”
Tuesday gestured to her dark bowler hat resting on the ground, filled with mostly pennies.
“Oh.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out two crisp one-dollar bills, dropping them into her hat.
That’s what I’m talking about. She gave the man a widening smile and a hasty bow in thanks. Behind her came the soft clinks of a few more coins being released into her hat.
Every Saturday, and most Sundays, Tuesday spent hours performing mime tricks right outside the edge of the subway at Grand Central Station. In the background, the subway swished on by, gathering passengers as bagpipes, a saxophone, and a violin were played. Other entertainers inside were breakdancing, painting portraits, doing anything they could to break out and get noticed.
All Tuesday wanted was to be the next great mime artist, like Marcel Marceau. However, she felt as though she’d been born decades, or even centuries, too late. It was a mostly dead trade. But she didn’t care, because this was the weekend, her weekend. And one day, she would get that Broadway play, or that film, or even join Cirque du Soleil.
The morning sun was already beating down on her heavily-painted face. Not breaking character, she pretended to pick up heavy boxes as she searched around the walking civilians, the leafless trees of autumn, the glass buildings. Her pantomime partner was nowhere to be found. Where the hell was Francis? Francis was always late for everything. She was late every Saturday. Hell, half the time Francis forgot the day was Saturday and didn’t show up. It was as though she didn’t take this as seriously as Tuesday, even though it had been Francis’s idea to start coming out here on the weekends in the first place.
Tuesday bet it had to do with Francis’s new boyfriend, or possibly an old one… She placed her hand in position, as if she were holding a glass, and chugged the invisible drink. As her head lowered back down, she wiped a gloved hand across her mouth and her heart stopped. Literally stopped. There was a microsecond in which she broke character, but no one noticed except for her.
Before her stood a boy, a boy she knew incredibly well, one from school. Maybe not “know” in a close friend sense, but he was Francis’s cousin. Her very, very cute cousin. Becker Barber. Beck. Why was he here? His bleached hair hung right at his pitch-black brows. He wore a long-sleeved Guns N’ Roses shirt paired with tight black jeans and checkerboard Vans.
She wanted to topple over and die right there. Seriously, just vanish. But she kept miming, hoping he wouldn’t notice that the mime was indeed her.
Tuesday’s heart karate kicked her sternum, bringing her back to the present. Beck wouldn’t recognize her. Not in her costume. Not with her face painted, beret, scarf, striped top, her skirt, the suspenders, black and white pantyhose, the boots, and her bob hair pulled back in braids. He barely gave her a nod when passing her at school, even though he’d moved across the street at the beginning of the year. She’d known him since kindergarten but had only seen him at Francis’s annual birthday parties—until this year.
Tuesday tapped her knees and shot up, realizing she probably looked like a damn monkey instead of a toy jack popping out of its box. She side-stepped and attempted to focus her gaze on any other passing faces. There were none. Of course there weren’t. Stupid in-between subway times.
Seriously, where is Francis?
Tuesday pulled a fake gold coin from her hidden skirt pocket and tossed it up and down in her gloved hand. Beck didn’t move on. Instead, his dark brown eyes watched the coin. As it struck her palm, she held her hand up—now empty. Then she moved to her bowler hat and scooped up the gold coin before placing it back into her pocket. She turned around and breathed in a calming breath.
When she faced Beck again, he gave her a small smile and dipped his hand into his pocket. He pulled out two quarters, tossed them inside her hat, and strolled away.
She could finally relax again.
Then he glanced over his shoulder and said, “Nice moves, Tuesday.” He smiled again and walked toward the subway. “Tell Francis I dropped the two quarters in the hat.”
Tuesday cringed and stared up at the sky and nodded. She bet Francis had invited him here and told him they were desperate for people to stop by. So why didn’t she show up? Tuesday was not going to break her silence while in character, even for a cute boy. But she did watch his toned body as he moved down the stone path toward the tunnel.
The day stayed chilly as Tuesday continued to work through her routine, moving with the music from a trumpet not too far in the distance. Winter was still a little over a month away, but she’d need to add a jacket during her routine soon. At the end of the day, Tuesday had made thirty-four dollars, two condoms, a pack of bubblegum, and two dice. This was a win; sometimes she’d come away with only a few coins and condoms. The collection there was growing.
Tuesday gathered her things, hopped into her Ford Focus, and prepared for the tedious drive back home.
Tuesday turned down her street, flickers of red, yellow, and orange leaves from trees catching her attention. Most of the yards were scattered with leaves that needed to be raked—she’d do her yard tomorrow with her brothers.
As she pulled into the driveway of the brick two-story home, she thought about Francis not showing up and decided she’d try to call her as soon as she got inside. After she stepped out of the car, Tuesday kicked away a few leaves from the porch and entered the house. She found her mother and three younger brothers playing a game of Clue at the dining room table. Tuesday’s dad was on a business trip to California for the next week with his law firm. This would mean lots of board games, movies, and her mom over-cleaning everything because she got bored when he was gone on these trips.
“You wanna play Clue?” her mom asked.
“Um, how about I’ll play something tomorrow?” Tuesday said. “I’m going to wind down for a bit.”
“All right, you can pick tomorrow.”
“Battleship.” She preferred the old-school one without the annoying sounds.
“Great!”
“Any phone calls for me?”
“Nope.”
Francis must be really busy then…
Tuesday’s younger brother, Jackson, rolled the dice and let out a “muahaha” as though he’d just won a million bucks. She smiled at that as she went up the stairs to her room, glad that she’d been born a girl so she didn’t have to share a room with any of the boys. Jackson and Lincoln both had to share, and neither one knew how to keep their room clean.
She walked down the hall, past the family portraits, to her room in the back. Setting down her bag and accessories, she picked up the phone and dialed Francis. Her voicemail picked up after the fourth ring, a recording of her usual chipper self. “Hey, it’s Francis, leave me a message and I’ll call you back … if I feel like it.”
“Francis, you little vixen, call me back after you get this. I’m annoyed and have something to discuss. But don’t worry, all will be forgiven.” Tuesday hung up the phone and rotated her shoulders.
Removing her costume, she threw on comfy black sweatpants and an oversized Nine Inch Nails T-shirt, then went to wash the makeup from her face in the bathroom she shared with her three brothers.
The night was still young, so she turned on an old Charlie Chaplin film and hopped on the computer. She signed into AOL Instant Messenger while checking her email. Nothing from Francis, and her screen name was offline. The only person on was Tuesday’s cousin from Georgia, and she didn’t feel like talking to her. So she focused on other things: searching online sites for pantomime music and gestures to improve her miming skills.
Somehow, she’d landed on pictures of Marcel Marceau and Michael Jackson and an article about their friendship. Michael had apparently mastered his moonwalk by using Marcel’s techniques. Tuesday stood and flexed and unflexed her feet along the carpet, attempting to walk against the wind. She didn’t go anywhere. “Still needs work.” She sighed. Or maybe she needed different shoes.
Jamie Lee Curtis’s Halloween scream came from Tuesday’s computer, causing her to jump a fraction. Sometimes she forgot that she’d chosen the Messenger alerts to be horror movie screams—much better than a doorbell or the other options though. She glanced at the computer screen and found a message had popped up.
“Finally, Francis!” She knew Francis would apologize. And then all would be forgiven.
But when she plopped down in her hard desk chair, it wasn’t Francis. It was a screen name she didn’t recognize.
BBRock4Life: Hey
Tuesday narrowed her eyes at the screen, wondering if this was another pervert who’d read her profile thinking she’d be interested in his banana. Most of the time it was someone double her age, and she’d have to block them.
TheMimingFairy85: Who art thou?
BBRock4Life: Tis a secret.
TheMimingFairy85: Mmm, I don’t like dirty little secrets. Sorry!
BBRock4Life: Good. Neither do I. But I do know you like wearing little black mime skirts.
What the hell?
TheMimingFairy85: Seriously, Francis, quit using new screen names.
Francis had done it four other times, trying to freak Tuesday out. It never worked.
BBRock4Life: I’m not Francis.
Shit, it’s like Scream up in here tonight. It wasn’t as if she were alone here—her mom and brothers were somewhere, probably already asleep. There were butcher knives in the kitchen, but those were far away. Tuesday searched around the comfort of her room for anything she could use in case the doorbell rang. There was a heavy black and white magician wand in the corner—it would do the trick if she needed it.
TheMimingFairy85: Who the hell is this?
Nothing.
TheMimingFairy85: Waiting…
She was done messing around and was about to hit the block button when her computer screamed.
BBRock4Life: It’s Beck.
Tuesday’s eyes popped forward and she leaned back too hard, causing her rickety chair to flip backward. She crashed onto the carpet with a heavy thump.
“I’m okay,” she said to no one, or maybe to herself as her face flushed. Tuesday’s head remained hidden beneath the desk as though if she rose, Beck would see her there. But maybe he could, since his window was across the street from hers. Her heart pounded at the thought.
Jamie Lee Curtis screamed again.
BBRock4Life: Francis gave me your screen name and told me you wanted me to message you tonight.
Freaking Francis! She didn’t want to say that Francis was lying because Tuesday did want to keep talking to him. So, she figured would spin a lie of her own.
TheMimingFairy85: Yeah, I wanted to see if you were available to mime… Since Francis can’t make it all the time.
She should’ve thought about having an alternate sooner.
BBRock4Life: I know nothing about miming.
Tuesday smiled at the screen. She could’ve easily guessed that.
TheMimingFairy85: That’s too bad.
BBRock4Life: You could come over and show me though.
Was he serious? She almost fell out of her chair again as she broke out into a smile.
TheMimingFairy85: Now?
She glanced at the clock. It was 10:30 PM. It wasn’t that late, and it was a Saturday.
BBRock4Life: Sure
TheMimingFairy85: Where?
BBRock4Life: My window’s open.
Tuesday peered around her computer, out the window, and could see just past Beck’s deformed-looking oak tree that his window was indeed open. She’d never been in his room, hadn’t ever really been in any boy’s room. She was sixteen, turning seventeen in a couple of months—she desperately needed to be able to say she’d stepped inside a boy’s room. Most girls her age had already been to numerous bases and hit the homerun.
Why was she thinking about sex and sports? It was going into his bedroom for God’s sake. At night. To discuss mimes. That was it.
Collecting two Marcel Marceau DVDs, a history book on the father of pantomime, John Rich, and her tote bag of mime goodies, Tuesday tiptoed down the stairs. She froze when she saw the TV was still on. Staying quiet, she moved farther into the room, and her shoulders relaxed. Tuesday’s fourteen-year-old brother, Kyle, sat sprawled out on the couch.
His head turned to her as she approached him. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, shoving popcorn into his mouth.
“Across the street.” Tuesday adjusted her backpack.
“What do I get for not telling Mom?”
“Not getting a punch in the face.”
“Fine, you win.” He chuckled. “I’ll leave the door unlocked for you.”
She was relieved her brothers were easy to get along with. Francis’s brother and sister could be real jerks.
Tuesday ducked out of her house and into the cool night. Trying to not shake from nervousness, she followed the shadows across the dimly-lit street and stopped in front of Beck’s gray-bricked two-story. Maybe it would’ve been better to ask him to have the front door open, but this had seemed more Romeo & Juliet.
She tightened her backpack and climbed his deformed tree. It was rotting in a few areas. The bark scraped her hands as she tried to be nimble and scale her way up. She hadn’t been in a tree since she was maybe nine, so she was a tad rusty.
When she got to the branch leading to his window, she called out in a low voice, “Hey!”
Beck moved the curtain aside and came into view, wearing a tight black T-shirt and jeans. “I was kidding, Collins.” With a smile, he closed the window.
Her eyes widened in horror, and she was about to go into full-on panic mode. “Are you serious?” she whisper-shouted.
Then he pushed the window up. “Kidding again. Get in here.” He reached out, grabbed her hand, and tugged her through his window. His skin was warm against hers, and as he released her, his calloused fingers brushed against her palm, sending tingles down her spine.
“So how did you recognize me today at the subway?” she asked after she straightened.
“Duh.” He smiled and scratched the back of his neck. “How would I not know it’s you? I see your face every day at school, and you live right across the street. Besides, Francis said you two were going to be there and asked me to stop by on my way to see about my band doing a gig.”
Beck was in a rock band, and she’d seen them live with Francis a couple times over the past few months. They were better than good.
“Makes sense.” Maybe she’d let the subway situation slide with Francis. But she still should’ve warned Tuesday that she was going to tell Beck to message.
“So, why don’t you ever talk to me at school?” he asked and took a seat on his bed. Movie and band posters covered every inch of his walls. Two guitar cases took up space in the corner. A desk and computer rested beside his bed with a TV and stand on the opposite side.
She sat down next to him, maybe a little too close. “I wave. But you don’t talk to me.”
“I nod.” Beck bit his lip, looking almost shy for a moment. Before she could ask something else, he arched one of his dark brows and peered down at her bag. “So,” he drawled. “Miming techniques? Show me what you got.”
Tuesday pulled out a book on the history of pantomime with an illustration of John Rich on the cover. “You can borrow this.” Then she fished out one of the Marcel Marceau DVDs and handed it to him. Marcel’s arms were spread wide, and one hand held a top hat. Beck eyed the mime on the cover as he popped the DVD into his player before sitting on the bed. He scooted back and propped his back against the headboard. She didn’t know whether she was supposed to linger at the edge of the bed or move to where he was. But then he patted the spot beside him and she slid back, her shoulder only a few inches from brushing his. It was strange—it was awesome—it was hormonally frustrating when all she wanted to do was press her lips to his instead of watching Marcel.
This one time in her life, it felt as if the movie would never end. She didn’t want it to end, but then it did. Beck got up from the bed and took the DVD out from the player. As he came back toward her, he lifted and curved his feet so it looked as though he was walking toward her but being pulled backward. Her jaw dropped as he perfectly performed the walking against the wind movement as he handed her the DVD.
