Roller Rink Witchcraft (Extended Edition): Supernatural Witch Cozy Mystery (Harper “Foxxy” Beck Series Book 1) by Raven Snow
Authors: Raven Snow
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Chapter One
“Play that funky music, white boy!” I shouted, the front of my skates colliding with a half wall of purple cement.
My bouncer, Jeb, shot me a rare smile from the DJ’s corner just outside the large rink, giving the musical equipment a wide berth. “Wouldn’t know how, Miss Beck.”
Spinning in a tight circle, I gestured to the disco lights, the glowing peach-colored skating rink, and my neon green Afro wig. “I’m only gonna tell you once more. At the Funky Wheel, I’m Foxxy— fly mama with groovy moves who serves booze, good times, and leads the conga line.”
Leaning over the half wall, I stretched away from the tiny, triangular DJ’s corner and over one of the booths that made up the dining platform. “Out in the real world, you can call me Harper.”
“You got it, Miss Foxxy,” the mountain of muscle said, moving back towards the door after completing his scan of the room for trouble-making hooligans. Jeb’s face fell back into a mask of grave intention, giving the patrons the impression he’d feed them their teeth if they gave him a reason.
A particularly popular hit from the 70s came on the loud speakers, and a couple of people squealed and launched from their booths toward the floor. The few dozen that were already out there continued to skate around the circular rink, basking in the disco light and showing off their funky moves.
For the most part, my customers were middle-aged couples reliving the glory days and giving those old bell bottoms a night on the town. Teenagers, too, seemed to really love the Funky Wheel, coming here to skate and get cheap pizza, but rarely did they dress up.
When my late father had owned the place, from the early 90s until about seven years ago, anyone who wanted to walk through those scratched metal doors had better be wearing a costume from the era. There was still a sign by the ticket window just outside the entrance, but only because I couldn’t pry it from the brick.
Money was money after all, and since we were the only place open past midnight that kids under twenty-one could get into, the Funky Wheel did all right fiscally.
Zooming through the door behind the concession stand, I almost tripped over a chair that’d been left in the middle of the office. Instead, I ran into a desk so sturdy, it would’ve survived nuclear warfare. A couple of stacks of paper fell to the floor, but I ignored them, as they were probably bills.
“What’s the good news, Amber?” I asked the short teen standing at the ticket window.
“It’s been a pretty busy— wow, you’re like a skyscraper with those skates, ma’am.” She fixed her glasses, peering up at me.
“Trust me, I’m a skyscraper with or without them.” Checking my watch, I cursed. “Better get home, Amber. It’s almost two.”
Though there were circles under her eyes, she said, “I don’t mind staying.”
“I don’t mind you staying, either,” I said, snorting indelicately. “But your mother would come for my life. We’ll be closing after the next session, anyway. Doubt there’ll be much new foot traffic.”
Nodding, she put our closed sign up in the window. It said, in bright orange letters, “Keep on keepin’ on— just somewhere else”.
Backpedaling, I let her pass me and slip out of the tiny— originally white, but now yellow— office. I waved her out the front door, calling, “Have a groovy night!”
The rest of the night flew by with me taking turns getting the party restarted on the floor, playing part-time DJ, and helping out behind the concession stand. The last dominated a little too much of my time for my taste, and I let Stoner Stan know as couples flooded out for a slow song.
“Stan, it’s a hotdog machine. It rotates the damn wieners for you,” I said, pulling out a few shriveled franks from it. “All I ask is you don’t let them get mummified.”
The forty-year-old
“Play that funky music, white boy!” I shouted, the front of my skates colliding with a half wall of purple cement.
My bouncer, Jeb, shot me a rare smile from the DJ’s corner just outside the large rink, giving the musical equipment a wide berth. “Wouldn’t know how, Miss Beck.”
Spinning in a tight circle, I gestured to the disco lights, the glowing peach-colored skating rink, and my neon green Afro wig. “I’m only gonna tell you once more. At the Funky Wheel, I’m Foxxy— fly mama with groovy moves who serves booze, good times, and leads the conga line.”
Leaning over the half wall, I stretched away from the tiny, triangular DJ’s corner and over one of the booths that made up the dining platform. “Out in the real world, you can call me Harper.”
“You got it, Miss Foxxy,” the mountain of muscle said, moving back towards the door after completing his scan of the room for trouble-making hooligans. Jeb’s face fell back into a mask of grave intention, giving the patrons the impression he’d feed them their teeth if they gave him a reason.
A particularly popular hit from the 70s came on the loud speakers, and a couple of people squealed and launched from their booths toward the floor. The few dozen that were already out there continued to skate around the circular rink, basking in the disco light and showing off their funky moves.
For the most part, my customers were middle-aged couples reliving the glory days and giving those old bell bottoms a night on the town. Teenagers, too, seemed to really love the Funky Wheel, coming here to skate and get cheap pizza, but rarely did they dress up.
When my late father had owned the place, from the early 90s until about seven years ago, anyone who wanted to walk through those scratched metal doors had better be wearing a costume from the era. There was still a sign by the ticket window just outside the entrance, but only because I couldn’t pry it from the brick.
Money was money after all, and since we were the only place open past midnight that kids under twenty-one could get into, the Funky Wheel did all right fiscally.
Zooming through the door behind the concession stand, I almost tripped over a chair that’d been left in the middle of the office. Instead, I ran into a desk so sturdy, it would’ve survived nuclear warfare. A couple of stacks of paper fell to the floor, but I ignored them, as they were probably bills.
“What’s the good news, Amber?” I asked the short teen standing at the ticket window.
“It’s been a pretty busy— wow, you’re like a skyscraper with those skates, ma’am.” She fixed her glasses, peering up at me.
“Trust me, I’m a skyscraper with or without them.” Checking my watch, I cursed. “Better get home, Amber. It’s almost two.”
Though there were circles under her eyes, she said, “I don’t mind staying.”
“I don’t mind you staying, either,” I said, snorting indelicately. “But your mother would come for my life. We’ll be closing after the next session, anyway. Doubt there’ll be much new foot traffic.”
Nodding, she put our closed sign up in the window. It said, in bright orange letters, “Keep on keepin’ on— just somewhere else”.
Backpedaling, I let her pass me and slip out of the tiny— originally white, but now yellow— office. I waved her out the front door, calling, “Have a groovy night!”
The rest of the night flew by with me taking turns getting the party restarted on the floor, playing part-time DJ, and helping out behind the concession stand. The last dominated a little too much of my time for my taste, and I let Stoner Stan know as couples flooded out for a slow song.
“Stan, it’s a hotdog machine. It rotates the damn wieners for you,” I said, pulling out a few shriveled franks from it. “All I ask is you don’t let them get mummified.”
The forty-year-old
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