Strangers in the Storm

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.

And then there was Brenda, with her little black book of good and bad dicks, making money off the male need to get laid and currently with her tongue down some hot dude’s throat. Roxanne couldn’t decide whether she was a feminist, deeply sexist, or just a common slut.

“Sweetheart,” The bartender called her; an older gentlemen with grey hair and a kind smile, “The guys are sending another drink.”

He tilted his head towards the table in the corner, where three men sat and grinned in her general direction. Roxanne took the glass and saluted, not even caring how much money they’d spend on her tonight. If anyone tried to indulge in a conversation, they’d quickly find her too heartbroken to talk to.

Also, as a waitress, she liked being served from time to time. She was too used to being on the other side of the counter, which made this a pleasant change.

Roxanne turned around and bumped into someone. A salve of curses escaped her lips as the full glass of whiskey spilled all over her fluttery, chiffon burgundy-coloured dress. The glass broke into millions of pieces, some ending in her white, high-heeled sandals.

“Fuck me!” She shouted.

The man she bumped into laughed, “If you insist.”

Roxanne rolled her eyes, grabbed the counter and started to unclasp the first shoe.

“Let me help you.” The man offered a hand, his voice deep and rumbling. Roxanne’s gaze fell on his spread-out hand; strong, but taken care of.

“You’ve done enough.” She grunted while balancing on one leg, drunk.

But as she put her entire weight on her right leg, a piece of glass pierced her skin.

“Dammit!” She winced with pain. “God, can this life get any worse?”

“Come on.” The man laughed, still offering a hand. “Let’s get you somewhere you can sit.”

Frustrated and slightly desperate, Roxanne frowned and finally looked at the man, and even though he was gorgeous, she couldn’t stop the bubbling anger.

A five o’clock shade covered his strong jaw, shoulder-length chestnut-coloured hair tickled his strong, muscled neck, his dark, brown eyes gazed over her, and a smug, knowing smile lifted the corners of his thin lips. He wore jeans and a black t-shirt, but he looked better than any man in an expensive suit.

“Come on.” He tilted his head away from her. “I’ll help you.”

Roxanne put her leg down, wincing as another glass piece cut her skin.

“I don’t need your fucking-”

Her balance abandoned her and she stumbled ahead.

The man’s hand wrapped around her waist, almost demandingly, and her weight shifted onto him. Her breath hitched against her will upon the strong contact. Roxanne took in the smell of his musky cologne and cursed his crude manners as he helped her into the booth.

Coincidentally, it was the same booth Brenda was in, her tongue down the guy’s throat. Oh, great, they were friends.

Roxanne threw herself in the booth and lifted her legs us, frowning at the touch of her sweaty skin against the leather seating. The hem of her burgundy-coloured dress lifted against her thighs and she pulled it down, trying to cover her legs.

“Fuck.” She cursed again once she saw droplets of blood dirtying her white sandals. “I can’t believe this is happening to me.”

“Hello.” The Black guy pushed Brenda off his lap and waved, his expression confused. “I’m Andre.”

“I’m Roxanne.” Roxanne took the sandals off and shook them over the floor. Glass pieces fell out.

“And I’m Damien.” The man that inflicted this awful curse on her returned with a glass of water and a bunch of toilet paper. “Let me help you, come on.”

“Hi!” Brenda separated herself from Andre. “I’m Brenda!”

Gosh, this was embarrassing on a whole new level. Damien took the white sandals from her hands, while she examined her injured feet. Glass pierced her skin in a couple of places, but nothing too deep.

“What happened to you?” Brenda asked, flipping her blonde locks over her shoulder, still sitting in Andre’s lap.

“Bad luck.” Roxanne let out an exasperated laugh. “I’m fucking cursed.”

“I think you’re more drunk than cursed.” Damien chuckled and examined her sandals.

Roxanne dipped the toilet paper in the glass of water and tapped the cuts, inwardly cursing whiskey, open sandals and this fool sitting next to her who didn’t know how to walk.

“I’m afraid they don’t have any bandages, but the cuts aren’t deep.” Damien glanced at her feet and then returned to plucking the glass pieces from her sandals.

“It’s fine, I’m fucking fine.”

Alcohol clouded her mind and shut off her impulses. The pain she’d been blocking overwhelmed her like a tidal wave. Not only did her boyfriend leave her because he didn’t love her anymore, she now had cut feet and her favourite sandals were ruined.

Andre and Brenda were apparently done listening, and they stood up and left the booth, leaving Roxanne alone with the stranger.

As she pressed the toilet paper on the cuts on her feet, she took a moment to truly look at the stranger. Her sandals looked tiny in his big hands and he plucked the pieces of glass with his nails, his movements patient, relaxed.

As if sensing her eyes on him, he lifted his gaze off the shoes and smiled. Up close, the chocolate brown of his irises looked smooth and even, like silk. Roxanne had never seen a colour so gentle and deep.

“You have more patience than me.” She found herself whispering.

A small shrug, “They’re pretty shoes. Wouldn’t want you to never wear them again.”

“I think they’re ruined.” Roxanne sighed, already mourning her favourite white sandals.

Damien smiled and put the shoes down, “No, they have a soul now.”

For a moment, she got caught in this deep, mysterious gaze, a hint of amusement sparking in the lifted corners.

“I’m sorry for bumping into you.” She said. “And for cursing at you.”

“I’ll find it in my heart to forgive you.” He chuckled. “Let me buy you a drink.”

Roxanne’s eyes wandered around the bar, searching for her friend, but she was nowhere to be found. It seemed that she was already forced to spend time with these guys, especially because once Brenda set her mind on someone, there was no going back.

So, Roxanne swallowed the sudden excitement and offered a thin smile, “Sure.”

Damien stood up and walked to the bar. Roxanne took out her phone and immediately texted Brenda, asking where she was.

Her favourite friend’s blonde head peeked over the backrest of the booth, “I’m here!”

“Seriously? You just switched booths?” Roxanne laughed and scooted to the backrest.

“Yeah?” Brenda put her elbows on the backrest, her eyes wide, “I wanted to give you space? What’s going on? Who is he?”

Roxanne shrugged, “I have no idea. He went to get drinks. What do I do?”

“Andre, what does she do?” Brenda glanced down at Damien’s friend.

“Have some fun, girl.” The man’s deep voice reverberated around them. “Life’s too short to do anything else.”

“Of course, he’d say that.” Roxanne rolled her eyes. “Seriously, though? I think this is a bit too fast for me.”

“Girl,” Brenda’s eyes narrowed to slits, “You’ve been in a relationship forever, perhaps it’s time to change that.”

“Not true.” Roxanne squinted. “I’ve been single before.”

“This is the longest I’ve ever seen you without a man.” Brenda arched her perfectly-done eyebrow. “You’re a serial monogamist.”

“Monogamy is awesome.” Roxanne said. “It’s not my fault you think men are only good for fucking and buying stuff.”

Brenda leaned forward and whispered, “They are only good for fucking and buying stuff. So, fuck him and let him buy you stuff.”

Roxanne’s glance escaped to the man on the counter, waiting for their drinks. She didn’t think men were only good for those two things, but her friend might have been right about one thing.

She’s been in a messed-up relationship for three years, tolerating stuff she shouldn’t have tolerated, forgiving stuff no one in their right mind would forgive, never getting the love and commitment one would except from a serious relationship.

Now, she wanted to be selfish.