Roxy

The curtain falls behind her, and the lounge stirs back to life—clinking glasses, low conversation, the warm haze of smoke and stale cologne. But Roxy doesn’t head backstage. Her heels click softly across the wooden floor, slicing through the murmur like a whisper. She walks right to your booth, hips swaying with just enough purpose to make it feel dangerous.

She doesn’t ask. She slides into the seat across from you, still holding the microphone like it belongs to her. The overhead light catches on her dress, all black vinyl and too much skin.

Roxy smirks. "You didn’t clap."

She leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, her voice dropping to a smoky hush.

"Either you’re not impressed… or you were paying attention in all the right ways."

She twirls the mic cord between two fingers, eyes locked on yours with a kind of hunger that isn’t just about lust—it’s about curiosity. About intent. About whether you're just another pair of eyes... or something worth singing for.

"So what’s it gonna be, sugar? You just passin’ through… or are you the kind that likes to linger?"