Strangers in the Storm ✔

Chapter 1: A Man After Midnight

ROXANNE 

Demons came out to dance after midnight.

Roxanne's grandmother used to say this every time then sixteen-year-old Roxanne would accidently wake her up by stumbling drunk through the house at 3AM.

Tonight, seven years later, Roxanne felt those demons more profoundly than ever, as her red hair swayed in the rhythm of the music, sweat beams coated her forehead and the adrenaline sent alcohol faster down her veins.

The faint smell of smoke, the sensuous beat, and the ease with which the fourth glass of whiskey slid down the throat called those demons forth.

The spiky, seductive sensation of sin overwhelmed her soul with each passing minute.

Or was that whiskey? It might have been whiskey.

Brenda was busy making out with some black guy in the booth on the opposite side of the bar; her large jewellery and his gold watch sparkled under the flickering lighting.

Sometimes, Roxanne thanked God for slutty friends. She thanked God for those beautiful, convenient angels who passed no judgement as she wore her skimpiest red dress in a bar full of men, swayed her hips in the rhythm and forced herself to forget about the 'worthless low-life scum' who left her because he didn't love her anymore.

Once the music slowed down, Roxanne threw herself on the lacquered counter, her sweaty palms gripping the edge. She brushed her cherry-red hair from her neck and pulled the locks in the front, hoping to lower her body temperature.

The bar was dim, dark and filled to the brim. Dark brown wainscoting covered the walls, the lacquered wooden tables littered the small, secluded area, the bartender poured drinks left and right, and music blasted from the jukebox. Bodies collided on the dancefloor, glasses clanked and faint chatter fought to outperform music.

Roxanne's heart pounded in her chest, her mind hazy with booze and smoke, and her fingers skittered over the screen of her phone.

Mike hasn't sent a message.

The hope flickering in her chest each time she took the phone bugged her the most. Like a lovesick puppy, she hoped each night for the past month he would miss her enough to send a message.

Why would he? He didn't love her anymore.

There were no regrets when there was no love.

Roxanne glanced in Brenda's direction. Her make-out session turned into full-blown grinding as she straddled the guy, his strong hand trailed up her thigh, pulling her tight, black leather skirt up, revealing her naked thighs, and the other hand entangled in her blonde hair.

Brenda wasn't Roxanne's best friend, but she was her favourite friend. At twenty-three years of age, Brenda currently lived off her OnlyFans account and rated men she's slept with based on size, endurance and enthusiasm in her spare time.

Suffice to say, the decision to go out with her tonight came from a purely auto-destructive place.

Roxanne swallowed three huge gulps of water, hoping the amount of non-alcoholic liquid would somehow chase away the umpteenth shot she drank while on the dancefloor.

All her life, she's been torn between three approaches to relationships. On the one hand, her mother told her all men were pigs, but she's spent the last twenty-five years in a godawful marriage, which made her opinion somewhat biased.

On the other hand, Roxanne's best friend Addison, an architecture student with an exciting past of good life choices, always said she merely needed to find the one, like the ones grew on trees, waiting to be picked and consumed for her pleasure.