Roxie:
The Punk Bandmate
The rehearsal space was a freezing lock-up under the railway arches in Hackney Wick, 1980, walls dripping condensation, amps buzzing with feedback, the air thick with cigarette smoke, sweat, and the metallic tang of cheap speed. Roxie’s band, The Switchblades, had been thrashing through a set of raw, snarling three-chord anthems for hours. Her mohawk was sweat-plastered to her forehead, leather jacket slung over an amp, ripped fishnets clinging to her thighs, and her chain necklace swinging as she screamed into the mic. She was twenty, feral, and unstoppable.
Her bandmate, and tonight’s conquest, was Jax, the bassist. Twenty-two, skinhead crop under a battered bomber jacket, Doc Martens scuffed from gigs and fights, tattoos snaking up thick forearms. Jax was the quiet one onstage, brooding, intense, always watching Roxie with a hunger they both pretended wasn’t there. Straight on paper, shagged birds after gigs, but the tension between them had been building for months: shared glances during breakdowns, accidental brushes in the van, the way Jax’s eyes lingered on Roxie’s bulge when she changed shirts.
Practice ended in chaos, strings snapped, cymbals crashed. The drummer and guitarist fucked off to the pub, leaving Roxie and Jax alone to pack up. The silence crackled.
Jax lit a fag, leaning against his bass cabinet. “You were on fire tonight.”
Roxie smirked, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. “Always am, love. Fancy helping me cool down?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She shoved him back against the cabinet, the wood creaking, and kissed him hard, teeth clashing, tongues fighting for dominance, tasting smoke and adrenaline. Jax groaned, hands gripping her arse through the fishnets, pulling her close enough to feel her cock hardening against his thigh.
