Midnight Love: A Forbidden Affair

Roxy

I press down on the black and white keys of my electric keyboard, feeling the thrum of its bass run up my arm and settle in my chest, even as it fades. Red lights flood the bar, and behind me, bold yellow neon letters spell out The Red Room.

The mix of hot red and searing yellow paints my skin in an almost garish blend, reflecting back at me in the mirror opposite the stage—an electric, eccentric creature staring right back.

I’m like something out of a fever dream, a creature of pure vibrance, sharp lines and gleaming curves. My jewellery clinks softly, a bold chest chain tracing over my collarbones and framing the swell of my chest under a tight electric purple corset. The corset draws every gaze, but it’s the black sheer skirt that adds that touch of mystery. It falls down to my feet, hinting at my toned legs beneath, visible only through the thin fabric. I feel like a walking flame, and that’s exactly how I like it.

Above, red neon words dangle from the ceiling, casting crass, unapologetic shadows across the bar. The furniture here is classic, almost antique, its beauty warped by modern brashness: bright red cushions atop black wood, like something out of a lustful fantasy.

But the notes cut out. I sigh, the frustration pulsing in my temple, and glance right to find my culprit.

Sure enough, Molly’s hogging my outlet, twisting her curling iron as she fusses over her hair. The things that girl would do for curls.

I hop off the stage and head her way. She pouts up at me. “Girl, you already look gorgeous and we don’t open for another hour,” she whines, twirling the end of her hair around her finger. “I have to burn my head off just to get some body in it.”

I glide a hand through her silky black strands and take the curling iron from her, turning the heat down in one smooth motion. “You don’t need to set things on fire to look hot, girl.”

Her glossy black hair falls against her round face and pale porcelain skin, softening her delicate jawline. With her almond-shaped eyes and the graceful, understated beauty she inherited, she’d be a total badass if she’d just lean into it.

There’s a quiet fire in her, one she keeps hidden, but I see it simmering right beneath the surface. There’s a fire in most; you just have to be brave enough to search the darkness and find it.

“Easy for you to say,” she scoffs. “You’ve got that natural beauty thing going. My ancestors had, like, two hairs between them.”

She’s not wrong. Molly might be more of a mad scientist than an artist, but behind the bar, she’s a magician. Her drinks are strong and daring, some flaming, some smoking, each a work of art just like the neon-lit world around us.

The Red Room is no strip joint, but the crowd here is loud and unruly. Bar stools are rickety and uncomfortable, and the booths are dark. Bodies move in shadowy glimpses, lit in the pulsing red glow like scenes of artistic and vague foreign films.

The Red Room has two levels. Up above, a VIP balcony wraps around the floor, keeping the upper class in their velvet booths, sipping whiskey or champagne.

They lean over the railing as I sing, watching me like I’m a curiosity, something rare. I don’t look back, though. To them, I’m just the entertainment, but to me, I’m a force of nature.

This place might be rough, but the acoustics are magic. My voice bounces off every wall, reaching the upper level like a wave, filling the cramped space with a rhythm only I can create. A mirror stretches across one wall, giving the illusion of something bigger, something grander, though I know better.

When I first started here, I used to sing to the mirror, too shy to make eye contact with the regulars.

I’ve come a long way from Bear Mountain and its stifling, tree-choked hills. The quiet beauty of home never could compete with the fire that burned to get me here. I took a bus into the city, a one-way ticket in my hand, and never looked back.

Everyone in Bear Mountain told me I’d make it if I just got to New York, and here I am, ready to prove them right. Soon, I’ll be the name everyone knows. They’ll hear me sing, and I’ll be unstoppable.

But tonight, I’m just here, playing cover after cover. Hiding behind Adel and The Weekend’s words. My own melodies flood my mind, reminding me where I thought I’d be. But even after stepping out of my comfort zone. Being bold and chasing my dream, I haven’t been able to write my own song. Sing my own words and leave my own print on the world.

An hour flies by, and Molly ducks behind the bar, trading her corset, which matches mine, for a loose tee with some cute little saying on it. She shoots me a shy smile as I make my way over.

“I don’t know how you do it, girl,” she says when I reach the bar, her cheeks still flushed.

“Do what?” I slide onto the tall, hard barstool. “Mix me a cosmo.”

She grins and starts mixing the vodka and cranberry juice, her hands moving with a practiced rhythm. Behind the bar, Molly’s totally in her element, every step smooth as she pours and stirs. “Wear that thing all night,” she says, nodding at my corset.

I laugh, catching the way her face reddens, betraying just how tight hers must’ve been. “You don’t have to go that tight, you know,” I tease.

She hands me the drink, the pink liquid shimmering under the bar lights. “Here you go,” she says, sliding it over, and I down the whole thing in one long gulp, feeling the vodka warm me from my lips down to my thumping heart.

“Thanks, that was a much-needed pick-me-up,” I say, winking. “Gotta go sing now. Any requests?”

Molly tilts her head, wiping down the bar as she gets back to work. “Any Ariana Grande song—your voice just nails those.”

“Noted.” I chuckle, giving her a quick grin before I strut back to the stage, already feeling the eyes of the crowd start to turn my way.

I’m practically glowing when I step onto the stage and pick up my electric guitar. It's heavy yet a familiar weight settling in my hands. The strings hum under my fingers as I strum a slow C major, the sound resonating through the space like a spark catching fire.

I focus on the guitar for a second, building up the rhythm before stepping up to the mic and letting my voice pour into the room.

The crowd hushes, drunk eyes sharpening as my voice fills the bar. I start with a mellow verse, drawing them in with a low, sultry tone, before lifting my pitch into the chorus, adding my own flair and twists to Ariana’s melody.

My voice rises and dips like flames licking higher, reaching out to touch the ceiling, then pulling back to a simmer, each note catching the room in its sway.

I close with a final, lingering chord, letting it echo and fade, but the energy it leaves behind pulses through the bar.

A wild rush fills my veins, and I’m panting, grinning as I look out at the applause. But it’s more than the applause—it’s the rush of my heartbeat, the thrill of every cell on fire.

Singing is bliss. Pure, electric exhilaration.

In the early morning hours, when the sun smoulders just beneath the city, ready to rise, I don’t bother going home. I know my friend Vicky will be kicking off her early morning podcast, Valentine Vicky, and I never miss an episode—especially not live and hot.

With Vicky and Molly, I’ve got all the family I need. Here in this city, I’m never really alone. Not even close.

Pushing open the doors to her studio, I take in the set decked out in true Vicky style: pink everything, complete with heart-shaped balloons, rose arrangements, and cards. The roses are fake, but she sprays them religiously with her own homemade perfume, filling the air with a lush, flowery scent.

Right in the centre of the room, framed by two cameras, sits her little table with mics and a cluster of cables trailing to the control panel. There’s a chaise couch and a red armchair, her “Love Throne,” as she calls it. Vicky’s latest guest—a love-struck teen—looks like she’s on the verge of tears, but Vicky just gives me a wink as I slip into the control booth. I roll my eyes, watching the scene through the glass.

“But I love him!” the teen cries out, her voice breaking. Typical. Everyone thinks it’s love.

“Hold it there, luv,” Vicky says in her distinct Cockney accent, her tone firm. “Do you really know what love is?” She lets the question hang heavy.

“It’s like… magic,” the girl says, sniffling. “It makes me feel excited and happy, even when everything else sucks.”

“That’s not love,” Vicky counters, gentle but unyielding. “What you’re describing are butterflies—newness. Those feelings aren’t about love; they’re your emotions looking for novelty. Letting yourself be single for a bit lets you grow into who you are, so when you do meet someone real, you’re ready.”

“But how will I know it’s love then?” the girl asks, her voice quivering with a mixture of fear and hope. “If I don’t know now, how will I ever know?”

Vicky leans forward, voice softening. “Real love brings you peace and calm, not just excitement. It’s not about sparking; it’s about grounding. When it’s love, you’ll feel like the best version of yourself just by being with them. He’ll make you feel whole, not just… addicted.”

The teen looks confused, a furrow creasing her brow as she thanks Vicky. She walks off and the LIVE sign dims. I laugh, sliding out of my seat in the control room to meet Vicky in the main room.

“Girl, you were amazing!” I rush up and hug her.

“Really? She looked as lost as ever.” Vicky shrugs, propping a hand on her hip, unapologetically gorgeous in her short shorts and bold style. She carries more weight than most, but she carries it well, never letting trends restrict her, rocking everything that accentuates her curves.

“She’ll figure it out. You did your job and gave her the truth. If she’s too focused on some boy to listen, that’s her problem.” I smirk and lower myself to sprawl on the chaise.

Vicky sighs, rolling her eyes with a knowing smile. “I suppose you’re right. But I’m a psychologist, Roxy—I want to get through to people.”

“You do, Vicky,” I insist. “Just look at the comments on your videos. You help millions of people each day. You should take some time to look at all of them.

She brushes it off with a casual flick of her blonde hair but then smirks back. “Maybe. Hey, you want to be on the next episode?”

“Oh, hell no. You’re not gonna catch me drooling over some guy and begging for advice.”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “Says the girl who watches all my episodes. You’re taking notes, don’t lie.”

“Whatever,” I warn her, trying not to grin.

“What it’s the truth,”

“I just liked the episode you did with that study on what men are looking for. The research you put into that was amazing; I had to support my girl.” I nudge her shoulder.

“And you’re trying to match those requirements, huh?” she nudges me back. “I know, just cause you haven’t found the right one doesn’t mean you’re not still looking,”

I roll my eyes, “Whatever, think what you want,”

Vicky chuckles. “Well, if you won’t be my guest, at least use the studio for your music.” She gestures to the sound equipment.

Just then, the door opens, and Vicky’s boyfriend, Abel, steps in, carrying a tray of breakfast bagels. Our words are all forgotten as the smell of yeast wafts through the air.

“Good morning, ladies.” I give him my usual nod before I grab a chocolate one, there’re only two, so you gotta swipe them fast. He used to just bring four, two each for him and Vicky, but he soon caught the drift and included me since I’m here every morning.

“Hello baby,” he bends down and kisses Vicky’s forehead.

He bends to kiss Vicky’s forehead, and I watch, unable to look away. The way he holds her, his hands on her shoulders, lips grazing her cheek—it’s simple, yet it ignites a strange, secret fire in me. Such tender shows of affection, so open, so unapologetically in love.

I bite my lip, my striking red lipstick contrasting with my pearly whites. I take one last look as he caresses her hair. He whispers something in her ear, something that makes her laugh, and they melt into each other’s arms, completely absorbed. I swallow, wondering what that would feel like.

I’ve had my share of fun, lost my V-card a long time ago, but in love… I’m still a stranger.

“I’m gonna go hit the sack, girl.” I sway my hips, my sheer skirt in this morning light showing more of my legs.

“Thanks for the dinner,” I nod to Able and leave the studio without them turning to me as they fall deeper into each other.

The streets of New York are never empty, and today’s no exception. The heat clings to me, my corset clinging even tighter.

New York is a city of everything—fame, failure, love, and loss. A place where you can break and rebuild a thousand times. The city where the ordinary gets lost in the cracks…

Good thing I’m not ordinary.