Roxie:

The Rockstar

The O2 Arena had emptied hours ago, the roar of 20,000 fans reduced to echoing footsteps and the distant clatter of roadies breaking down the stage. It was 3 a.m., backstage corridors lit by harsh fluorescents, the air thick with the ghosts of sweat, pyrotechnics, and adrenaline. Roxie prowled through the maze of cables and flight cases like she owned the place, mohawk silver-streaked but razor-sharp, leather trousers laced tight, a ripped tour T-shirt (stolen from the merch stand) clinging to her tits, and her trademark chain necklace swinging heavy between them. Doc Martens thudded on the concrete, studs flashing under the lights. She was pushing sixty, but the gene-tweaks and decades of pure punk fury kept her looking like a lethal thirty-five.

Her target that night was Ethan Kane, frontman of the biggest British rock revival band on the planet, mid-thirties, all cheekbones, tattoos, and tortured-artist swagger. Sold-out world tour, magazine covers, a reputation for trashing hotel rooms and bedding groupies of every gender. He thought he’d seen it all. He hadn’t.

Ethan was sprawled on the leather sofa in his private dressing room, shirt unbuttoned, a bottle of Jack in one hand, joint in the other, still buzzing from the encore. He’d heard the whispers from the crew: “That punk legend’s here tonight - Roxie. The one who ruined Bowie’s bassist back in the day.” He’d laughed, told his manager to let her in. Curiosity and ego in equal measure.

The door swung open. Roxie stepped in, kicked it shut behind her, and leaned against it with a smirk.

“Alright, rockstar?” she drawled, voice pure gravel and London grit. “Heard you wanted to meet a real legend.”

Ethan’s eyes raked over her, cocky grin spreading. “Heard you’ve got something special in those trousers. Prove it.”