In Tandem

by Christina C Jones

  In Tandem

  An Equilibrium Novel

  Christina C. Jones

  Contents

  SYNOPSIS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  About the Author

  Also by Christina C. Jones

  SYNOPSIS

  Best Friends Forever.

  Just friends… forever.

  That’s the only possibility she’s ever considered, the reality they’ve accepted, and a relationship that’s allowed them to thrive. Through distance and tragedy, grief and insecurities, their friendship has been the one constant they could rely on.

  Each other.

  They’ve grown, they’ve changed, they’ve… transformed.

  So maybe their relationship should too.

  Chapter One

  If I could sing, I’d put it on wax in breathy soprano whispers, or something like that. It was what artists did, right? Channeling unwanted emotions into a healthier outlet than a liquor bottle or a stranger’s bed, transforming the dark ugliness of emotional torment into something beautiful.

  Something… profitable?

  That wasn’t the straw I’d pulled on my way into existence though – throaty singing accompanied by acoustic guitar wasn’t going to get me any Instagram likes. Nor would I be leaving my soul on the floor as I moved, letting the music guide my limbs as I danced away my problems. I didn’t have the coordination for that.

  Still, music would have its’ place in the conversion of angst to beauty – the channeling of something bleak that twisted deep in me, to a different thing with no hints of the emotion used to create it.

  It would play the background.

  Loud, damn near deafening, something that replicated and reinforced the anger and emptiness that coursed through my blood. There was little, if any, grace to those first broad strokes of my large brush on a canvas bigger than me. Just aggression and rage as I ignored that splatter of paint on my face and hair, my eyes the only thing I bothered to protect behind goggles, because I went into this painting session knowing what it would be.

  Therapy.

  I couldn’t sing it, drink it, sex it, dance it away, but I could damn sure paint it away – or at least do an excellent job of burying it under layers of pigmented oils, each one more detailed than the next as I left everything I was feeling on the canvas.

  Hours.

  Six, to be precise.

  That was how long it took to free myself of the bitterness I’d brought into the studio with me – to bury the pesky negative emotions that had plagued me all day, from the time three little seemingly innocuous words had turned my stomach inside out.

  Flaws and all.

  An innocent enough sentiment in some situations, but mostly a meaningless platitude employed by narcissists, to absolve themselves of accountability from their mistakes, or reinforce their personal sainthood.

  Okay.

  Maybe I hadn’t gotten it all out.

  Because even now, those three simple words, flaws and all, brought back echoes of my earlier rage. Even as I climbed into the shower to scrub oil paint from my skin and hair, yawning from the late hour, they made me so fucking angry.

  And… they hurt my feelings.

  Which made me angry too.

  I knew better.

  To certain people – to most people – I’d never be more than something exotic to look at. Unique prey to cage and observe and record for posterity. A bizarre creature you had to document, to prove it had been within your grasp, for the world to know you were fast enough, smart enough, your dick was big enough, you were enough to catch it.

  To catch her.

  To catch… me.

  The trophy.

  Flaws and all.

  Still, still, still, those words rankled at me, especially the little heart emoji that had punctuated the words – had made them that much “sweeter”. Below that caption, below the other heart, the one beside the steadily rising number, there were the comments. Hundreds of them. Women enthralled by the “sweetness” of it. Downright smitten, over his acceptance of flaws and all.

  His acceptance of… me.

  I didn’t know he’d taken the picture.

  We could start there, with the myriad problems, but that wasn’t the worst part. It was a good picture of me – a beautiful picture, beautifully shot, of me bare-shouldered and asleep, my uncovered hair partially obscuring my face. It had to have been late afternoon – I could tell by the bands of light across my sleeping form, undoubtedly pouring through the blinds in his bedroom, illuminating my mottled skin.

  The flaw.

  The defect he was so utterly pleased with himself for overlooking, while he simultaneously exploited it for popularity.

  My flaws and all were the most liked thing on his page.

  Consistently.

  Again, I hadn’t known the picture existed – wouldn’t have known, if he hadn’t been up to his usual childish games. Whenever I fell back a little, whenever he wasn’t the center of my world, he doled out punishments. Ignored texts, wouldn’t return calls, all while he kept up steady documentation of his day for his fans.

  I’d just wanted to make sure his ass was okay.

  I didn’t follow him on social media. I didn’t need more reminders of his narcissism, not when I already had a front-row seat. Admittedly, it was a seat I’d chosen, out of loneliness and horniness, and my own sick sense of vanity. We looked good together. And he looked good by himself. And our relationship gave me just enough without requiring too much, and even with the things that annoyed me, I was content.

  I was content with the low-level drama of his temper tantrums, and satisfied with using social media to make sure he was actually still alive until he got over it and moved past the silent treatment bullshit.

  Once I saw the picture, I was no longer content.

  I couldn’t be the secret sauce on his aesthetic anymore.

  Out of the shower, the first thing I noticed was my lit cell phone, flashing his name and picture across the screen. My eyes narrowed at the time – too damned early in the morning for him to be calling me, period, even though I hadn’t been to sleep.

  He didn’t know that.

  He had still been in the midst of giving me the silent treatment, and I’d decided to simply help him along. I wouldn’t reach out. I wouldn’t attempt. I wouldn’t do any of the things I usually did out of… whatever it was I felt for him.

  I lifted my gaze from the cell phone to my steamed mirror, knowing I was a whatever it was I felt for him lie.

  I knew exactly what it was.

  Knew exactly why the flaws and all thing stung so bad.

  Wiping the fine layer of mist from the mirror, I studied my “flaw”. The ultra-smooth, dark brown skin that coated most of my body… and the jarring, jaggedly laid blotches of damn-near translucent peachy-white, where my melanin had been destroyed by the auto-immune disorder that made itself known in my adolescent years.

  Every-damn-where.

  Patches of my hands, legs, feet, stomach, back, breasts, my face, even streaks of my hair had been stripped of color, providing a stark contrast against my deep mahogany skin and even darker hair.

  I was really pretty though.

  High cheekbones and big brown eyes, and that “perfect” round nose. Long eyelashes and full lips, and barely a pore in sight.

  So fucking pretty.

  Everyone was sure to tell me so, as if they felt it was their p
ersonal duty to make sure I knew.

  Flaws and all.

  I tore my gaze away from the mirror, grabbing my towel, a bottle of lotion, and my cell phone from the counter before I headed back to my room. I made quick work of wicking the shower water from my body before taking care to spread the thick body cream over my skin, glancing at my phone beside me every now and then, waiting on a certain text or call.

  Hoping for a certain text or call.

  Calls and texts that never came when I was watching my phone, pining for them.

  I pressed out a sigh and returned to the task of moisturizing my skin before I slipped into a tee shirt and panties. Soon, the sun would be coming up, and my opportunity to get any sleep would fade into the distance as the neighborhood came awake.

  With heavy eyelids, I slid into the cool comfort of my sheets, ignoring my illuminated phone once again, knowing the person on the other end of the line wasn’t the person I wanted it to be. I closed my eyes, willing sleep to come quickly now that I’d exhausted myself, physically and emotionally.

  That wasn’t too much to ask, right?

  Respite from the emotions that still plagued me, after my best attempt at harmless self-medication?

  Fuck.

  When slumber didn’t immediately come, I flopped onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. Wondering what was happening halfway across the world, since what was happening here was… some bullshit, basically.

  The same bullshit, every day.

  Okay.

  Maybe that was harsh.

  Maybe, I was being melodramatic, which depending who you asked, was one of my hallmark traits.

  I had friends.

  I had a family.

  I got paid to live out my passion, as quirky as it was.

  I had all the things people pointed to as reasons to turn my frown upside down, and be grateful, and not take for granted, and… I got it. I swear, I did, but fucking… still.

  Ugh.

  The phone lit up again and I reached to turn it off, knowing I wouldn’t need the alarm to wake me in the meager few hours I had to sleep. My body’s clock would do it naturally, whether I wanted it to or not.

  The lost illumination from the phone bathed the room in darkness, muffling my senses. I turned on my side and closed my eyes again, shifting my brain to happier thoughts – calming images that wouldn’t keep my agitated brain running, eating up my potential rest.

  Thoughts of long rides on the open road, with low wind speeds and fresh tires, and fields of flowers – a scene like what I’d poured myself into painting. A lonely girl on a lonely road, her mind filled with nothing except what was in front of her.

  Cycling it away.

  Flaws and all.

  “Next caller, you’re live on the air with Don Vaughn, and don’t you dare get timid on me, aiight? We’re chopping it up about the latest single from breakout female rapper, the fine ass Vanessa “Vanity” Kirkland. What do you think caller, is our forever first lady somewhere bobbing her head to Michelle Obama, or do you think she’d disapprove?”

  “Well,” I answered, taking full advantage of the hands-free nature of wireless earbuds to multitask – wheeling my bike underneath the protective awning of the nearest building to escape the sudden downpour of rain. “I’ve been listening to the whole show, and I have to say, I’m having a hard time understanding why that matters – male rappers name drop people in their songs all the time, but when Vanity does it, everybody wants to cry about it.”

  In my ears, Vaughn laughed. “I recognize your voice, caller, but I’m going to let you rock for now, and entertain your weak perspective for a second, to refute it – everybody has something to say when any rapper namedrops on a track. So you can pump your brakes before you head down the path I’m already visualizing.”

  “Of course people have something to say about it,” I chuckled, peering at the steady drizzle that was now blanketing the streets. “What I said was that people – specifically men – are crying about it because it’s Vanity, like y’all always do. Y’all love looking at her, hate her subject matter. Y’all are treating it like it’s a diss track, when it’s not even.”

  Vaughn scoffed. “Well, excuse me for wondering how an accomplished, educated woman like Mrs. Obama might feel about her name being used alongside that type of lyrical content.”

  “She’s probably bobbing her head like the rest of us – to answer your initial question.”

  “Woooow,” Vaughn countered, laughing again. “For those of you who might just now be tuning in, let me read a few of the lyrics this caller thinks the Michelle Obama might be bobbing her head to, okay? “Put it in his face any time, any place like Janet”, and, “Play this for him, make him come out his britches. National anthem for my nasty bitches”, and, “blank so erotic, got him feeling patriotic, addicted like this ass is a narcotic”, and, let’s not neglect the line in the chorus, “This blank too bomb, huh? Blank got him twisted, he don’t know who he’s becoming like Michelle Obama.” That’s what you think she’s bobbing to?”

  “Perhaps,” I laughed, shaking my head. “And I like how you used educated and accomplished to try to draw a parallel between the two like Vanity doesn’t have a Master’s degree and doesn’t do hella community work in her home town. Your respectability politics are showing.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Vaughn countered, sucking his teeth. “If you want to pretend twerking and rapping about how good your sex is isn’t a wild juxtaposition against Michelle Obama, I’m gonna let you have that one today.”

  “Whatever, can I request a song?”

  I didn’t have to be anywhere near him to know Vaughn rolled his eyes before the deep sigh he pushed out. “Let me guess – Michelle Obama, by Vanity?”

  “Right artist, wrong song,” I quipped. “I wanna hear Wrong Bi—I mean, Wrong Chick, I guess. Since the original version isn’t “appropriate” for radio.”

  “Aiight, Wrong Chick coming right up… right after you tell the Grown Folks Music listeners who your favorite DJ is.”

  I grinned. “Come on, Vaughn! Do you really have to ask? It’s… the lovely Leah of course. Bye!”

  I giggled as I ended the call, then went back to listening to the show in my ears. As expected, Vaughn was laughing about my antics, but I waited to make sure he played my request before I shut it off. Once my phone and earbuds were safely stowed away, I moved to open the door of the building whose awning I’d used for refuge, wheeling my bike into the foyer with me instead of leaving it outside.

  “You gone give that man a heart attack, messing with him on the air like that,” Netta playfully scolded me as she looked up from the desk, pushing a handful of braids behind her back.

  “Somebody has to challenge him a little, right?” I countered, stowing my bike against the wall of the empty reception area. “That ego needs constant checking.”

  Netta smirked. “Oh girl, you know I know plenty about that.”

  Outside of her role as receptionist at GFM, Netta knew Vaughn.

  Intimately.

  By grace of God, she’d managed to untangle herself from his web, and I admired how unbothered she seemed by the continued proximity of working with him. He wasn’t exactly the type to be lowkey, or stay out of your face, even after a messy breakup, so I considered it a wonder one of the women in the Heights hadn’t stabbed him. Again.

  But Netta was cool and collected, only taking a break from flipping through her magazine to press the button that allowed me through the reception door. From there, I could go downstairs to the recording studio – of zero interest to me – or up to the broadcast studio, which was my destination.

  As soon as I stepped into view of the production booth, Leah’s eyes lit up, and she waved for me to join her in there. I was sweaty from my earlier ride, plus the added dampness of getting caught in the rain, so I followed her prompting, but didn’t sit down.

  “Mornin’ Sunshine,” she chirped, bubbly as usual.

  Well… more like as of rece
ntly than as usual, but either way, it was energy I was glad to get from her. For years, it had been different. She was always nice, always sweet to me, but for a while, something had shifted. Something that led to her smile not quite reaching her eyes, and attempts to hide the shadows of bruising on her arms and face.

  I’d hated that, and Vaughn did too, to the point that he’d gotten in her husband’s face, not caring that he was a police officer. Despite those noble intentions, it kinda seemed like his intervention made things worse for Leah for a while – so bad that she left the station, for months.

  Right after that motherfucker got killed in the line of duty, she came back.

  “How many miles you get in today?” she asked, pulling off one side of the headphones she wore to keep tabs on the broadcast. In the broadcast booth, Vaughn made sure I was looking his way before he flipped me off.

  I returned the gesture before answering Leah’s question, double-checking it in my tracking app before I spoke. “Just nineteen today.”

  She scoffed at me, then put her headphones back on. “Just nineteen,” she muttered, and I laughed as I approached the production desk, being careful not to touch any of the essential dials or nobs she used to perfect the sound before it was broadcast onto the airways. I did, however, pick up another connected pair of headphones, just in time to hear Vaughn announce the station’s next hosted event.

  “And, don’t you dare forget our FTK party next Friday, ladies free before eleven,” he droned, as I pulled the ear coverings back.

  “FTK?” I asked Leah, who met my query with a grin.

  “Fuck Them Kids.”

  I giggled. “Of course that’s what it stands for,” I mused, watching Vaughn take off his own headphones and head for the door of the production booth. He was already wearing a smirk when he pulled the door open, immediately seeking my gaze as he stepped in.