Roxy at The Club: Part 1

The lights in ‘The Velvet Trap’ club always made the same dull buzzing sound. Roxy knew that sound incredibly well.

Tonight, the bass music was so loud and steady it just pounded in her chest. It made her feel like her exhaustion was taking over her body.

She quickly and skillfully got behind the bar. Her hands worked so fast, making drinks with ice, spirits, and garnishes.

Each cocktail was a mini-masterpiece, a temporary escape for her patrons, and a dollar closer to… well, she wasn’t sure what. A life less miserable, maybe.

“Another Tequila Sunrise, doll, and make it snappy!” a drunken voice yelled over the music.

Roxy's customer service smile was empty behind her eyes. “Coming right up, sunshine. Try not to drown in it this time.” The man laughed hard.

Bartending was 90% mixing drinks, 10% amateur therapy, and 100% putting up with idiots. The math never quite added up, but neither did her life.

Hours later, the last call was a sweet relief. She cleaned down the sticky bar, the smell of old beer and cheap perfume stuck to her clothes, and finally, finally, punched out.

The air outside, even with some city pollution, felt wonderfully fresh after the stuffy club.

Her apartment, a cramped box above a noisy bakery, offered no such relief.

The moment she stepped through the door, the familiar scent of microwave dinners and building frustration hit her.

Her dad was yelling at the TV from his armchair. He had a half-eaten pizza box on his lap.

Her mom was talking on the phone, loudly complaining in a high voice about bills and ungrateful children.

Her older brother was on a video call with his friends, and the sound was turned up really loud. He didn't seem to notice or care.

“You’re late! Again!” her dad complained, not looking away from the wrestling match.

“Shift just ended, Dad,” Roxy said, letting her bag drop heavily to the floor. She kicked off her heels, her feet aching. “Unlike some people, I actually work.”

“Watch it, smart mouth!”

She didn’t bother replying. She just went to her tiny room, slammed the door, and changed into a worn T-shirt and shorts.

Sleep was a luxury she couldn't afford, peace an illusion. She scrolled through her phone, saw a picture of a friend on vacation, and felt a familiar rush of envy and hopelessness.

This wasn't living; it was just existing and surviving.

The next evening, the club felt even more oppressive. Roxy decided she needed a proper break, not just a five-minute water gulp behind the bar.

She pulled out a cigarette pack, the last one in the carton. Perfect.

She slipped out the back door, the party's loud bass faded into a gentle hum.

The parking lot was a concrete area illuminated by the orange glow of streetlights, mostly empty save for a few delivery vans.

She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, the smoke a familiar burn in her lungs, but it briefly helped the nervous feeling in her stomach.

"You look like you've had a very rough day."

Roxy nearly jumped with surprise.

Leaning against a sleek, jet black car that looked like it cost more than her entire family’s net worth, was a man.

He stood tall, dressed perfectly in a dark suit that clearly cost a fortune – probably more than Roxy paid for rent. His eyes seemed to absorb the dim light, making them sparkle with a quality Roxy couldn't quite figure out. Dangerous, maybe. Definitely interesting.

“And you look like you’re waiting for an alien invasion,” Roxy shot back, taking another drag. “Or just really fancy a parking lot stakeout.”

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made the hairs on her arms stand up. “Constantine Volkov,” he said, pushing off the car and taking a step closer.

He walked with a calm, powerful presence, like a quiet hunter. He extended a hand. It was large, warm, and surprisingly soft. “And no, no alien invasion tonight. Just appreciating the… ambiance.”

Roxy looked right at him, her eyes showing both a challenging spirit and a desire to know more. "Roxy," she told him. "And this ambiance mostly smells like car exhaust and regret." When she shook his hand, a sudden surprising feeling went through her.

“Regret?” he repeated, a knowing, playful look on his face. “Tell me, Roxy, what does a woman like you have to regret?”

“Oh, you know. Not winning the lottery. Not being on a beach somewhere with a ridiculously large cocktail. Not owning a car that looks like it could outrun a speeding bullet.” She gestured to his car with her cigarette. “Speaking of which, nice wheels. You rob a bank for that?”

Constantine’s smile widened, a flash of white teeth in the dim light. “Something like that. So, you’re the infamous Roxy. I’ve heard about you.”

“Infamous? What, for not watering down the drinks?”

“For having a mouth on you, for one. And for making the best Old Fashioned in the city.”

Roxy raised an eyebrow. “High praise from someone who looks like they’ve never done a day of honest work in their life.”

He laughed, a genuine, natural sound. “Oh, I work, Roxy. Just not… nine-to-five. And I like a woman with spirit. You’re fun.” He took another step, closer now, close enough for her to notice a light scent of expensive cologne and something else, something primal and masculine. “What time do you get off?”

“Eventually,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant, but her heart was beating fast. “Why? You planning on kidnapping me?”

“Depends. Would you put up a fight?” He looked at her lips, then her eyes. There was a strong, electric feeling between them. “I was thinking more along the lines of a drink. Somewhere quieter. Or perhaps, no drink at all. Just… company.”

Roxy finished her cigarette, flicking the butt away. “My shift ends at two. And my company comes with a warning label: high maintenance, prone to sarcasm, and probably a little bit insane.”

“Sounds like my kind of trouble.” He pulled out a sleek phone, already unlocked. “Give me your number, Roxy. Don’t make me chase you down.”

His voice had a lot of power, a hint of command that should have made her run, but instead, it thrilled her.

This wasn't just a man; this was an event. And for once, she was tired of her predictable, miserable existence.

She typed her number into his phone, her hand briefly touched his. The contact entry simply said: "Roxy, Bartender with a Mouth."

“Constantine Volkov,” she said, her voice a little breathy. “You own this place, don’t you?”

He just smiled, a secret look in his eyes. “Let’s just say I have interests. I’ll text you.” He nodded at her, got into his car, and the engine started with a soft, deep sound.

Then, he was gone, leaving Roxy alone in the parking lot, the night suddenly feeling much more alive.

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