Roxy at The Club: Part 5

Roxy woke the next morning to an empty bed. The silk sheets, still a little wrinkled, felt cold beside her. A note on the pillow, written on elegant stationery, simply said: “Had an early meeting. Call me. C.”

She smiled faintly. Of course, he had. She wasn't expecting flower petals and a romantic breakfast. This was Constantine.

She slid her legs out of bed, a delicious ache in her muscles, a clinging scent of sex and him on her skin.

She found her clothes, pulled them on, and stepped back out into the bright morning light.

The ride home was quiet, a clear contrast to the thrilling night.

Her apartment building stood, a plain concrete block. She knew what awaited her behind that door: the same arguments, the same complaints, the same suffocating expectations.

She walked into the familiar loud noise. Only this time, it wasn't just noise; it was an inferno.

Her mom was screaming, a vein pulsing in her neck, about the mounting gas bill, while her dad, his face red with rage, was yelling back, "What the fuck do you think I'm made of?! Money?!" and a torrent of other curses.

The music upstairs was super loud. Her brother and his friends had the bass turned up so high. It kept thumping and shaking the floor.

All at once, her dad let out a deep, angry sound. He hit his fist hard on the kitchen counter. A glass slid off and instantly broke into sharp pieces.

He didn't hesitate. "THAT'S IT! YOU GODDAMN KIDS!" he shouted loudly, his voice struggling, then quickly ran up the stairs two steps at a time.

Soon after, loud crashes and angry yelling started. Then, you could clearly hear people being shoved, followed by the front door slamming shut hard. Her brother and his friends had just been roughly kicked out.

Her dad came back downstairs quickly and angrily. He was breathing heavily, and his eyes were still full of rage. Without any pause, he immediately turned his anger back towards her mother.

Their fight started again, and it was full of angry yelling, and swear words. Their harsh words were like sharp knives, cutting through the room.

Nothing had changed. Not one single goddamn thing.

The great feeling from last night, that sense of being truly alive, slowly disappeared. The familiar, overwhelming weight returned.

Roxy watched them, listened to the pointless noise, and something in her snapped. She thought of Constantine, of the effortless power he projected, the complete audacity of his life. And then she thought of her own, trapped and small.

“I’m done,” she breathed, but no one heard her.

She walked past them, picked up her car keys – the ones for her dad’s treasured vintage Mustang, an ancient beast he rarely drove but polished religiously. He’d kill her. She didn’t care.

She walked out of the apartment, down the stairs, and to the curb where the faded red Mustang sat. She jiggled the keys, got it open, and slid into the driver’s seat.

The leather was cracked, the smell of old car faintly sweet. She shoved the key into the ignition, turned it. The engine protested, then roared to life, a beautiful, spirited sound.

She put it in reverse, backed out of the parking space, and then drove. She didn’t look back.

She drove past her street, past her neighborhood, past the oppressive, familiar streets that had held her captive for so long.

She drove until the city lights gave way to the open road, the highway stretching endlessly before her.

The sun was rising, painting the sky in vibrant oranges and purples.

She floored it, the Mustang bolting forward, the wind rushing through her hair. Roxy leaned back, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping the worn leather.

She looked out at the open road, the vast, limitless horizon. She knew nothing about where she was going, what she would do, or if Constantine would ever truly seek her out again.

But for the first time in her life, she felt entirely, completely free. A wide, liberating smile stretched across her face. The engine hummed, a triumphant song of escape.

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