Roon & Raud and the Case of the Stolen Spotlight

Roon & Raud and the Case of the Stolen Spotlight – Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

The morning sun slanted through the bedroom window like a nosy neighbor, landing squarely on Raud’s face. She squinted and grumbled, rolling over to bury her face in the warm valley of Roon’s chest, seeking refuge from the day’s unwelcome announcement.

Roon woke with the weight of Raud’s head nestled against her. “I see the nocturnal creature has been disturbed from her slumber,” she said, her voice still rough with sleep.

Raud made a muffled sound against Roon’s skin. “Bleh! Bleh! I vant to suck your boob!” The words vibrated between them, followed by Raud’s teeth grazing the soft flesh with playful intent.

Roon slipped from the bed, her bare feet finding the cool hardwood floor. She yanked open the drapes with one efficient motion, flooding the room with sunlight that had been waiting patiently for its invitation.

Raud hissed and recoiled, snatching the duvet around herself like armor. She burrowed into the pillows, creating a lumpy fortress against the morning. “Blasted sun! Have you no mercy for creatures of the night?” The complaint emerged muffled, filtered through layers of cotton and down.

“Come now, my dear Creature of the Night.” Roon stood backlit by the window, her silhouette sharp against the brightness. “Surely a little sunshine won’t harm that tough, leathery hide of yours.”

One eye appeared from the duvet cocoon, narrowed to a suspicious slit. “Easy for you to say, Sunbeam. Some of us prefer darkness.” Raud stuck out her tongue, her face scrunched like she’d bitten into something unexpectedly sour.

With a dramatic flourish worthy of a community theater Dracula, Raud disappeared beneath the duvet again. “Begone, foul daystar! I shall slumber until blessed night returns!”

Roon stood before the mirror, her fingers finding the maroon streak in her hair that had faded to the color of old brick. “My love, I’m heading to Prince Titus’s salon for most of the day. Time to freshen up this streak for Pride Week.”

The sight of that faded color pulled her backward through time. She could almost hear the announcer’s voice booming through tinny speakers: “Put your hands together for Maroon from Cameroon!” The crowd’s roar, the smell of sweat and cheap beer. Back then, she’d worn that color like a battle flag—a powerful black woman who’d left her homeland for something better, that streak of color announcing her before she even entered a room.

“Can’t believe you want to be even more gorgeous than you already are,” came Raud’s voice, breaking through the memory like a stone through still water.

Roon smiled at her reflection, at the woman she’d become and the one she’d been. She turned toward the bathroom, leaving the past hanging in the air behind her.

The shower hissed to life, steam billowing up like morning fog. As water sluiced over her body, Roon’s fingers traced the maroon streak, that tangible thread connecting her to the woman who had once climbed into wrestling rings with fire in her eyes and determination in her fists.

Raud finally abandoned the warm nest of blankets, the cool air raising goosebumps on her skin like tiny protests. She tugged on a pair of jeans worn to the softness of old money, bearing scars and stains from adventures better left unmentioned. Over her substantial frame went a rainbow tie-dyed shirt that had been washed so many times the colors had mellowed from screaming to conversational.

She shuffled into the living room, drawn immediately to the aquarium against the wall. Inside, Erline the betta fish drifted through the water with the casual majesty of royalty surveying his domain, his blue scales catching light and transforming it into something worth watching.

As Raud approached, Erline darted toward the glass in a playful greeting, his iridescent body catching the light like a living jewel. Raud smiled at the fish, her face creasing along well-worn lines as she reached for the container of food flakes that had sat in the same spot since the Clinton administration. She sprinkled a few morsels into the water and watched Erline attack them with the single-minded determination of a creature whose entire universe measured twelve inches across.

In the adjacent room, Roon emerged from the bathroom with her hair wrapped in a faded t-shirt that had once been black but now existed in that nebulous color territory between charcoal and defeat. Her body filled out a bathrobe with just enough to show off. She marched toward the coffee table with the purposeful stride of someone about to commit a minor act of domestic terrorism.

Gripping one end of the table, she hoisted it a half-dozen inches off the ground before letting it crash back down with a thunderous impact that sent dust motes dancing in the morning light. The house seemed to hold its breath for a moment before she repeated the action, each slam punctuated by her voice cutting through the quiet.

“Tristan! Wake up!” Roon bellowed, her tone carrying the particular mixture of affection and menace that women perfect over decades of practice.

From somewhere in the basement depths came a muffled response: “Okay, I’m getting up!”

Raud shuffled into the kitchen, her slippers whispering against the linoleum floor that had witnessed twenty years of spills, arguments, and midnight snack raids. The coffee machine stood on the counter like a shrine to caffeine, its brushed metal surface reflecting distorted versions of the morning kitchen. Raud’s fingers moved across the controls with the efficiency of ritual, pressing buttons and adjusting settings while her mind wandered elsewhere.

The machine gurgled to life, filling the kitchen with the rich smell of coffee strong enough to raise the dead or at least the mostly dead, which described most people before their first cup. Dark liquid streamed into the waiting cup, forming a crema on top that looked like the surface of some distant, caffeinated planet.

Raud poured the espresso over ice, creating an iced Americano that crackled and steamed as hot met cold in the eternal battle of temperature extremes. She repeated the process for Roon’s drink, this time adding hot water to make the kind of coffee that could strip paint if you left it sitting too long. The mug radiated heat like a miniature sun.

She grabbed the orange juice carton from the fridge door, the plastic worn smooth from countless morning retrievals. The juice poured out in a stream the color of artificial sunrise, filling a glass that had survived three presidential administrations and countless dishwasher cycles. Tristan’s morning starter, same as always.

Roon drifted into the kitchen like a battleship entering the harbor, her robe billowing around her. Her eyes found Raud across the room, and something in her face softened, like ice beginning to melt at the edges.

Raud held out the steaming mug without a word. Their fingers brushed during the handoff, a momentary connection that said everything. Roon took the coffee and leaned forward to kiss Raud, their bodies finding each other with the ease of puzzle pieces that have only ever fit together.

As they separated, Roon sipped her Americano, her eyes closing briefly as the bitter liquid hit her system. The kitchen fell quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator, which had been making that same concerning noise it always did.

The sound of shuffling footsteps announced Tristan’s arrival. He appeared in the doorway wearing a black hoodie that swallowed his frame whole and jeans that hung from his hips like they were considering a career change to ankle-wear. Despite his disheveled clothing, his dark hair was meticulously combed, framing a face that still carried traces of sleep around the edges.

His almond-shaped eyes found Raud immediately, and he offered a shy smile. He stepped forward with the hesitant movements of someone not fully committed to being awake and planted a quick kiss on Raud’s cheek, then repeated the gesture with Roon, the entire interaction lasting approximately three seconds—the exact amount of physical affection a teenage boy could tolerate before breakfast.

Raud’s face broke into a grin that lit up her weathered features like a lighthouse on a foggy night. “Well, look who decided to join the land of the living. My fellow vampire!” The words tumbled out of her mouth with the easy familiarity of an old joke between them.

Tristan reached for the glass of orange juice, his fingers curling around it like a lifeline. The liquid caught the morning light, transforming into liquid amber as he took a long sip. “Vampire?”

Raud watched him drink with the calculating gaze of someone who’d perfected the art of friendly harassment. “You know, kid, if you drink enough of that, you might just turn into a real stud—full of the ‘D’ and all.” Her gravelly voice carried the joke across the kitchen like a stone skipping over still water.

Tristan choked mid-swallow, orange juice threatening to spray from his nose. A blush crept up his neck while his shoulders shook with surprised laughter.

“Raud!”

“Roon!”

“You two!” Tristan’s laughter spilled out, genuine and unguarded. “This is vitamin C, anyway.”

Roon settled into her chair at the kitchen table, cradling her steaming Americano like it contained the secrets of the universe. The rich coffee aroma battled with the citrus tang hanging in the air, creating that distinct morning kitchen perfume that never made it into candle form.

Raud lowered herself beside Roon, taking a long drink from her iced Americano. The ice cubes clinked against the glass like tiny wind chimes as she set it down on the worn wooden tabletop.

For a moment, silence settled over them, comfortable as an old sweater. Each lost in the quiet ritual of morning beverages and half-formed thoughts.

Roon’s eyes brightened suddenly, like someone had flipped a switch inside her head. “Have you both seen the schedule for Laurel’s Pride Week festivities?”

Tristan perked up, his earlier embarrassment forgotten. “I heard there’s going to be a kickoff event today at the amphitheater.”

“Ah yes, the Pride Kickoff Day,” Raud nodded sagely. “A morning charity run, followed by drag queens reading scandalous stories in the park—no kids allowed, of course.” She chuckled, a sound like gravel shifting underfoot.

Roon laughed and swatted Raud’s arm. “Leave it to you to focus on the naughty bits.”

Tristan leaned forward, elbows on the table, his juice forgotten. “Drag queens reading scandalous stories? That sounds…interesting.” His voice carried the unmistakable note of someone trying to sound casual about something that fascinated them completely.

“It’s a celebration like no other,” Roon said, her voice softening as she looked at Tristan. “A chance for us to embrace who we are without fear or judgment. You’ve never been?”

“No, this will be my first time.”

“You are going to love it, son. Absolutely love it.”

Tristan smiled, soaking in the acceptance that filled the kitchen like sunshine through the windows.

“And let’s not forget the grand finale of Pride Kickoff Day,” Raud added, her voice dropping to a theatrical rumble. “A fireworks display that’ll light up the night sky like God himself decided to throw glitter at the heavens.”

Roon’s fingers traced the maroon streak in her hair, a habit as old as the dye job itself. “Speaking of rainbows, did I tell you about the plans for Tuesday’s LGBTQ History Night?”

“LGBTQ History Night?” Tristan’s attention locked onto Roon like a heat-seeking missile.

“Stories and presentations about the struggles and triumphs of our community,” Roon explained, pride coloring her words. “Local historians and activists sharing experiences and insights. A reminder of how far we’ve come and the road still ahead.”

Raud’s calloused hand found Roon’s across the table, giving it a squeeze that spoke volumes in their private language. “Sounds like a night we can’t miss. Important to remember our roots, honor those who paved the way.”

Tristan nodded, his eyes bright with something that looked suspiciously like belonging. “I can’t wait to learn more.”

The conversation flowed around the table like water finding its path, animated and alive with anticipation for Pride Week. When Roon mentioned her hair appointment with Prince Titus, Raud’s face transformed with a grin that promised mischief as surely as dark clouds promised rain.

“Well, while you’re getting all dolled up, Tristan and I will be implementing our gay agenda,” Raud announced, eyes glinting with mischief beneath her silver-streaked hair.

Tristan snorted, a quick burst of laughter that caught him by surprise. Something about the way Raud said it—like they were planning to overthrow a small government instead of sitting around drinking coffee—made the knot in his chest loosen just a fraction.

“The gay agenda?” Roon’s eyebrow arched high enough to need its own zip code. “And what exactly does this ‘agenda’ entail?”

“Oh, you know,” Raud waved one hand through the air like she was conducting an invisible orchestra. “Turning the frogs gay, corrupting the youth, buying sensible shoes. The usual business.”

Roon’s laughter burst forth, rich and full-bodied as good whiskey. “You absolute menace,” she said, reaching out to swat Raud’s arm with familiar affection.

The laughter settled between them like dust motes in sunlight. Roon turned back to Raud, her face shifting into something more practical. “About my appointment—can you drive me to Prince Titus’s salon? My hair’s starting to look like I’ve been living in the woods with the raccoons.”

“Course I will,” Raud said, her gruff voice going soft around the edges. “I’ll chauffeur Her Majesty to the royal hair-washing.”

Roon leaned over and pressed her lips to Raud’s weathered cheek, leaving behind the faint ghost of her lipstick.

Raud’s attention swiveled to Tristan, who’d been watching their exchange with the quiet attention of someone studying for a test. “Hey kid, how about helping an old lady make some breakfast before these bones start complaining any louder?”

“Sure,” Tristan nodded, already pushing back from the table. “What are we making?”

Raud heaved herself up with a grunt, joints popping like distant firecrackers. “Hard-boiled eggs, toast, apple slices, and yogurt for the lady of the house,” she said, throwing a wink toward Roon that carried thirty years of private jokes in its quick flutter.

As they moved into the kitchen—Raud with her shuffling gait, Tristan with his careful steps—she leaned closer to him, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “You know why she needs yogurt, right?”

Tristan’s forehead creased, confusion written across it like a first draft.

“She needs more culture,” Raud delivered with perfect deadpan timing, her face a masterpiece of serious expression.

Tristan groaned, but the smile that followed was genuine. “That was terrible,” he said, shaking his head.

They fell into the rhythm of breakfast preparation, the toaster clicking and popping, water bubbling on the stove for eggs. Raud hummed something tuneless under her breath while Tristan sliced apples with careful precision, the knife’s edge catching morning light from the window. The kitchen smelled of toast and coffee and the faint lemon scent of the counter cleaner Roon insisted upon: ordinary smells that somehow made the unfamiliar feel like home.