Roxy stepped out of her apartment which resided in a building that cost far more than she paid. She took the elevator. This being an upscale joint meant that an elevator boy fitted with clothes that looked like they would be funny on a monkey, told her good morning and asked her the floor. She replied all the way down.
She didn’t smile; she liked to save those.
The elevator doors swung open like a pair of metallic curtains, revealing a lobby that sang of luxury, wreaked of ostentatiousness and was dreamt of by those who only glimpsed it from the public sidewalks, on the slight chance that the doorman opens the door, letting out those selected few out and into the grimy, little world. Roxy walked out into the lobby with a strut that told of an indifference that only money could afford; a type of money she didn’t own herself, but she knew her worth, so even though she may not have a billion dollars, she walked as if she were Jeff’s mistress.
And one day, she just might be; if she wanted it.
Electricity filled the lobby as she walked by, eyes that wanted to stare unnoticed, gazed unapologetically. Old men with no power in their bones, but with the financial power to topple mountains, gave her grins that spoke of a time in which movies were viewed in black and white, of a romance that could have once been but never would be now. To those tycoons of resource, she grinned back, playing the little game that would never be anything more than a passing grin from two that know the distance between them. Ever so often the sack of bones would surprise her with a new Louie bag waiting for her at her door attached with a note that spoke of every woman’s wildest dreams: a private jet to anywhere in this crystalline world, a black card that like a black hole, would never reach a limit, and a sweet old man that only wants her company, a charm to attach to his boney arm, and a smile that would revitalize his heart with beats that his cardiologists haven’t recorded in decades.
She accepted the initial gift but never went for the fantasy.
This kept her wanted, a coveted jewel that is never acquired is one that is forever desired.
Then you have the staff, the bagboys, the front desk workers, the janitors, the very people who kept the luxury upkept; the ones who inflate the egos and the money spending, they kept their gazes down to the ground- they knew their place and daydreaming would do them no good.
She reached out to them and made it so they felt needed and cherished. A janitor with access to rooms, to passageways, to the nooks and crannies that not even money can reach; those men are invaluable. A quality that men who pride themselves on money know nothing about.
Passing the room, she made it to the front door. A grand door with golden handles that gave off the essence that they were made of actual gold and not simply coated in its sheen. Next to the door was a set of men in the red and gilded accents that were the uniform of the staff of “El Toro”.
‘Good morning, Miss Roxy,” said the bigger of the two men.
“Good morning, Chuck.” She responded and then turned to the smaller of the men.
“And good morning to you, Larry,” She said with a smile that stole lives.
Larry kept his head down and whispered a good morning in turn.
“Don’t mind, Chuck. He thinks your beauties are like Medusa..”
“Awee scared I’ll turn you to stone,” she said as she gently pushed up Larry’s chin, forcing him to meet her gaze.
He froze.
She laughed and walked out of the lobby and into her world.
******************************************************************************
Roxy had to enter the fake office, the front that housed the shell for the real operations, from the back entrance. This was because a beauty like Roxy can not help but attract. So her walking into a janitor’s closet and not reappearing would not go unnoticed. The others got away with it, they were allowed to slip off into the back of the office and disappear because no one really cared whether they appeared again or not.
People cared an awful lot about where Roxy went. Which was an advantage, but at times- like this one- it was a slight disadvantage.
After appearing out of the fake wall at the end of the Janitor’s closet, she appeared in the foyer of her workplace. Unfortunately, a brick wall of a human with a dull face, the type of man that would never stir her heart; the kind she detested most of all, the kind that goes by the name “Howard” awaited her with a lop-sided grin.
In a hurry, she handled the man with a Covid distance, always keeping out of his paw's reach. You could never be too sure with men like Howard, big, burly men, are only ever one comment, one misinterpreted, internalized, trigger away from snapping, and then snapping whatever is within arms reach. Roxy didn’t think much of literature, but one book she holds dear, because it’s the truth, at least her truth, is “Of Mice and Men.” This was not the sexiest of answers, but it was the truth; a truth she never shared.
Strutting down the hall she saw Martha waiting outside of Kat’s room. The woman was an oddity, a beauty, not on her own level of course, but someone she wouldn’t mind being if she had to. Why she worked here of all places, with a face and body like that, was a direct representation of how women of today’s world are not living up to their fullest potential, growing complacent with men who aren’t worth the time of day, let alone a lifetime.
“Martha, what is it today that has you waiting outside the door?” whispered Roxy, afraid to break the moment that was underway.
“Oh, morning Roxy. Nothing…ohh it’s nothing.” she blushed, but said nothing more on the matter.
“He’s one of us, you know that, right?”
“I know that. But he doesn’t feel like one of you…which I don’t mean in a bad way of course.”
“We are not bad, we are evil, malicious, devious, and destructive. And I wouldn’t want it any other way. Have fun staring, maybe one day you’ll step inside.” Roxy said this as she gave Martha a slight push, which had her grabbing at the door frame as if the entryway to the office was a perilous cliff with jagged rocks and sharks and all.
Roxy laughed and made her way down the hall.
The office was fine, it was your ordinary run-of-the-mill American fixture. It had its falling ceiling tiles, its tube lighting beams down on you causing you to sweat if you stand still enough, and the general air that everyone wished to be anywhere else but there. Roxy had worked office jobs before, always in positions that she wasn’t qualified for but she worked her way there through other avenues that weren’t hard work, experience, or school.
Life is viewed as a ladder, as steps towards goals that when achieved, are simply moved back; when the peak is reached it's only for another distant, taller mountain to present itself. The goalposts in life are not stationary, they move with the winds of change and time. Roxy despised this thinking. She didn't view life as goals, as achievements, as winners and losers; she viewed life as a constant battle to stay ahead, as opportunities that present themselves and are squeezed for all their worth.
You fight for today, leaving tomorrow to wallow alone and unthought of.
The only problem with the office, other than the occasional lumbering baboon, was her neighbor Pablo.
Pablo was, at least to himself, a lady's man. He was the type of man that prided himself in the way he makes women feel. The type of lover that would spend most of the time giving, showing his partner that he was a giver, refusing to receive anything himself; saying that he was there to please her needs, to make her feel loved, desired, wanted- everything that men didn’t do.
Now, what’s the problem with that, with a generous lover, with a selfless man that only wishes to give and never receive?
Well, Roxy would tell you that those men are the most full of shit. Yes, their tongues, their knowledge of the ever elusive clitoris, a word that most men didn’t know how to spell let alone find, was refreshing. But, what they forget is that love is an action that involves two people. A woman does not simply want to be loved; she wishes to love as well. Thus, these men that only wish to give, are denying women participation in half the fun.
Yes, it may be great at first, but after a while, you don’t feel like you are being loved, rather your ego is being stroked. He wants you to believe that no one can love you, can make you feel the way he does, the way he moves and caresses you in those tender and gentle strokes. It’s never about you; it’s about him.
This is only one reason why Pablo urks her; the other being that he is to put it bluntly- cringe. He talks in lines that are thought up in advance. In a poetic verse that doesn’t suit the times. Just last week he had wandered into her office with a line that made her breakfast crawl back up her throat.
“Roxy, you amuse me,
In another life,
A muse you would be
If only I could paint
But, alas I am without a brush
And only, with pain.”
Luckily, it didn’t appear that he was here today, so he didn’t need to worry over her office becoming an impromptu poetry night. She hoped that women didn’t actually fall for his antics, as it was she had begun to lose hope in her ladies club, but seeing Pablo actually get away with his horseshit would be the last straw.
Her office was a desk, a laptop that she shopped on, and a chair that her perfect, curved ass was currently in. She didn’t think of designing it, because frankly, she didn’t care about it. In her ideal world, she wouldn’t have to show up. Hell, she tried like hell to persuade The Boss into not making her, but he was a weird guy that looked away from her gaze, that cut things short, that knew what she could do, so he kept things curt, leaving her with these two days out of the week that she had to show up and report something.
Resting her stilettoed feet on the desk, she reached into her Balenciaga purse and produced a pack of TastyFruit gum. The yellow packaging always brought a smile to her face, it was a reminder of the simple things, the cheap little things that often mattered more than the world itself. Bald-headed White men with extensive funds, with bank accounts that rivaled Middle-Age dragons and their loot, they would never know that the key to cracking her tight little safe lay at every corner store in a little box carton surrounded by other buck items underneath the counter, an item that you glance at and add to your purchase, it’s never the purchase itself, always an add-on, a throw-in.
It is everything Roxy is not.
And for that reason she loves it.
Unwrapping the tin-foil wrapping she reveals the naked pink that hinds underneath everything. Staring, taking it all in, she takes two quick bites and turns the stick of gum into an enjoyable and tasty paste that she chews on like a cow does grass.
She only ever does this when she’s alone, never allowing anyone to see her indulgent jaw-smacking pastime of hers.
Footsteps, then a shadow creeps its way into the doorway. Roxy quickly stops her smacking and spits her gum into the trashcan on her right with the precision and speed of someone proficient with a dart gun. Quickly straightening her posture in that stiff manner that accentuates every curve that a woman has to offer, she posed.
She waits for whoever it is that is coming in to step into the doorway and catch her at her most attractive, at her state that is true, not resting. It’s hard to keep it up, she knows it, but the world doesn’t.
Kat appears from the hallway and places himself on the doorway, not filling or entering the room, but resting on its hinges like a little boy does before entering his older sister's room.
They both waited for each other to begin, motioning with their eyes, eyebrows, nudged shoulders, twerked heads, and extended palms, for the other to begin.
Kat finally after completing a whole silent dance routine, with some sweat rolling down and around his brow, verbally spoke first.
"Hey, Roxy. You got time?"
Pursing her lips and rolling her eyes, she said,
"Depends, on what's this all about, and will it be like last time, and most importantly, it's got nothing to do with that Baboon that guards the vending machine."
"No, nothing like last time, and no, Howard is not involved."
"Well, you've met my minimum requirements, I guess we can play this game."
"I remember you dated that up-and-coming director a while ago…what was his name..Donald…no Ronald..”
“His name was Rodney, and he was a son of a bitch who just so happened to be decent with a camera and knew how to tell bimbos how to lie.”
“Yeah, Rodney. He’s big time now, aight he?”
“If by big-time you mean he sells movies and directs films that aren’t much better than amateur, but he greased the right wheels, sucked up to the right people, and now he has a little career and a bit of fame on him. Then, yes; I guess you can say he’s “big-time”.”
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Roxy didn’t like to spitefully, but when it came to Rondey, she let it slip. Rodney had been something of a blessing and a curse. He had come into her life when she was not yet the hardened killer she was today.
She would still seduce but without an iron heart.
She could kill but not in cold blood.
And worst of all, she often let her work spill into her actual life. Thoughts of karma, of hell, of burning in the inferno for her sins would plague her nights, causing her to ring up bellboys for overpriced water that was never paid for, and a young college kid that would listen to her ramble, all while he stared at her with his leg over his other leg as if he could hide his deep intentions; his hope for the night. Those hopes were never actualized, causing bellboys from around the world to cry remembering the walks back from the room, through the ostentatiously carpeted hallways, into the elevator ride that would normally only take moments but now felt like an eternity, each second being one in which his finger thumbed the button console with the thoughts of returning, knocking on the door once again, and conquering his fears of rejection; but, as those bellboys whose hearts are heavy with the knowledge gained through experience know- that button is never pressed, that fear is never conquered, and life goes on with one more regret in its arsenal to be used as a weapon on a future introspective night in which life can’t seem to get any lower, only to remember that night when they hadn’t made the move that, if successful, would have made tonight's introspections wither away.
“Then, what did he do to get there? Was he constantly studying films, reliving the great movies, frame by frame, dissecting them under a microscope, and extracting the essence of a great movie? If so, which ones? Even better, if he happened to ever tell you the secrets, what are they? I would love to do the heavy lifting and all, but if you got the answers…a little peek would never hurt, would it? Unless you know it would unless he told you it would. If he said that shortcuts do more harm than good…
Roxy raised her hand like a stop sign on the verbal traffic accident that Kate had just caused on the freeway that was their conversation. She didn’t mind talking to the kid, she found him interesting in more ways than one; but she wanted to talk, not be talked to.
"I think you got this all fucked up, kid. The Rodney I knew drank and talked shit till he passed out, worked rarely, and just happened to stumble his way into situations with people that had pulled in an industry that cares more about whose who than what's good.
"You paint him out to be just another guy who happens to direct. Not a director who happens to be a guy."
" He's just another asshole like the rest of them, kid. It just so happens that this asshole now makes movies that aren't very good, but when you've got backing and people who supposedly know things, the bigwigs with the job titles and the parking spots behind you; they start believing the lies, and you can't really blame them. They hadn't seen the same guy I saw. The one who throws up in Ubers and shits himself before reaching the toilet. Twice, he did that twice. Like damn… once is understandable, but the second time is a serial offense."
Roxy laughed to herself and said.
"He's definitely a shitty director."
Kate smiled but hadn't been there, hadn't seen the walls smeared worst than his Rodney’s first independent movie had been online- pretentious they said, bloated, unimaginative, a waste of time that they only wish they could have back. She had been there for that, that begun the drinking, then with that came the heavy drinking, then came the shit-smeared walls of a nice bathroom some other gentlemen that fancied Roxy was paying for.
Their lives at the time were like the stereotypical, the woman works and puts the man through medical school only to be met with the reality of divorce papers. Roxy hadn’t been the Roxy she was now, if she had been, she knew deep down inside, that those papers would never have been filed. A part of her itches to press that button down on her screen, ordering tickets to L.A, to become a starlet, to prance around and engulf him within her- to watch him squirm as she takes everything, every role, every man, everything.
With a shake of her head, she came out of that fugue state that only Rodney can send her in, that dark cloud, that shadow between consciousness and subconscious, where those thoughts of action crest materialization; the space between the button and the console, in that space regrets are formed and boys stay boys; and girls go on to become woman slighted.
“So, what you’re telling me is that he has problems, shit he needs to work out…like the rest of us?” Kat didn’t laugh at his remark, because Kat was serious about the conversation; Roxy laughed because she wasn’t.
“I would wager that Rodney has more shit he needs to work out than a regular person. And don’t take this and misconstrue it, don’t fall for that bullshit broody director romanticization that our society has fallen to. Don’t think that only those who have lost all hope have what it takes to give us great works. You don’t have to jump over the cliff to know its depths, one can simply peer over its edge and know that the drop will kill you….”
She paused for a moment, rummaging around in her mind for how to finish the little didactic rant that she had unexpectedly rambled upon.
“Just because people jump off and along the way they create great works, doesn’t mean that you have to as well. Since the time of the Greeks, Chronos has been the brooding, silent bad boy that Aria, regrettably, fawned over.
Trust me.
Take it from someone whose job it is to kill every man like Rodney, sadly Rodney hasn’t been one of them, but we are both still kicking, so nothing is certain; those men are worth more than you or me. It’s just that they’ve convinced the right people and it’s those people's job to convince the ignorant masses that they are worth watching, reading, or listening to.
But, at the end of the day, they are all full of shit.”
With a huff that was a slip in the character that was Roxy, she ended her diatribe against Rodney and all those who made him the asshole that he was then and still is today.
The air stood for a while, taking its time to ingest the emotions and figure out what it was to do with them. Was it to be thick and hostile? Given the genuine animosity and venom that Roxy spewed, the room could have felt that way. But it mattered not what the air of the room thought, for the air is not a real thing, but how Kat interpreted the words and her “advice” guised in a rant. It was all a matter of perception that unbeknownst to Roxy as she started to feel a little bad about everything she had said, she didn’t want to scare the boy away, after all, she did find him a bit interesting; it just so happened to be everything that Kat wanted oh so desperately to hear.
"Did you really mean all that?" The boy known as Kat asked timidly, like a fauna caught in a net, glassy-eyed and looking up at the hunter in a futile but needed attempt; a last resort is sometimes a beginning rather than an end.
Roxy took a moment to recompose herself, she hadn't said too much, gone overboard, and shown that lunar side of her as she had feared.
"Yes, Kat, everything that I said, even the things I shouldn't have shared- I meant."
Another pause, this was the biggest of the three that had befallen the conversation from its conception to its now, likable end. This was the heaviest, and most crucial of them all. What happened next, would decide what happens next. It would decide the fate of the relationship between the two, which; one of them cared for and the other thought this was simply a conversation without such implications, but everything implies something, every cause has a reaction, and sometimes, if you squint and strain that glorified tumor we call a brain, you can even find reactions that bread causes, circling back and finishing one another like Ourobourus did to himself at the beginning of this whole ordeal that is the human experiment.
At this point, the narrator of this tale is hesitant with how much weight, how much existential umpff he's placed on this little exchange between two characters in a book that isn't being read by anyone.
A breaking of the fourth wall, how meta, how intelligent. Now the reader finds me snarky, and preposterous, so I will stop my interference and return to Kat's response….
It was as if the boy had just won the largest prize at the fair, the unfathomable one, the big yellow giraffe that is simply- unattainable. He smiled with a grin that spread out from ear to ear, stretching to tell you, to show the world what true joy is; quintessential happiness, pure bliss, if the stuff could be scraped off his face and stored into a bottle it would be guarded and sold by the millions.
Picture the slogans, want to feel like a kid again? Materialism has left the soul hollow, want to fill that hole? Billboards, neon signs, commercials with actors that were once something but now charged cheap rates so they were hired for not their relevance but for their nostalgic factor, the, "hey, I remember so and so, he was in so and so show that I once liked," piquing the buyer's interest. What would be worse if they hired those hyenas that hound malls and offer to shine one of your shoes with an organic solution that won't damage your shoes and is not overpriced if you factor in the myriad of other uses of the product (all things you will never do, mind you, but you factor it in regardless, smile, and buy the bundle.)
Sadly, that look on Kat's face, the one that reads that he just heard everything that he ever wanted to hear, is not a product that can be bought in an age where everything can be.
"You don't know just how happy you've made me, how down I was, how this was my last ditch effort to keep my dream afloat in an ocean of uncertainty. My sails were tattered, my bridge destroyed, and the shipmates had jumped ship long ago. But now I've sent the lighthouse and it's given me what I need to go on. The rocks don't seem as perilous. Thank you so very much, Roxy. I can see why you are so good at your job."
Roxy was stunned, for she hadn't tried to elicit that result. In fact, she had simply vented her frustrations, and he turned it around. Or, it was the universe's way of working its hand. Of controlling the fate they devised regardless of how events unfold. There is a rhythm to fate, a cosmic beat that plays through human beings like mediums, we are all Stratocasters, but the song is not of our volition, regardless if we go off the rails and ditch the sheet music, it’s the underlying music that is always fated to be played, not the one in front of our eyes.
“Well, what now?” responded Roxy that was still gearing herself, modeling in her mind how the future strands of conversation would play out. Prepared answers in her head to questions that will most likely not come, but she prepared for them nonetheless, and that is why she was so very good at her job.
“Well, now I go back and attempt to finish my contract. Then, use that time in between to follow my passion knowing now that I am no better or worse than someone who is already at the top of the game. That will enough effort I can be just as great as a director as I am what I am currently doing.”
Roxy found a string within that last sentence and an odd little quirk, and she pulled.
“And what is it that you do now, Kat?”
His nerves returned instantaneously, his eyes shot to his sneakers, and his words were caught in the back of his throat.
“You know, what we all do.”
“I know but I want to hear you say it.”
Moments passed but Roxy did not wish to pull any harder, fearing that a tug would cause this whole scene to collapse like a house made of a card foundation. So, she waited for the nervous boy to respond. And in turn, the nervous boy waited for her to let it slide, but she wouldn’t, so he eventually cracked and said as he raised his eyes from the ground and looked deep into Roxy’s eyes; this action catching her off-guard, she had never seen eyes as jet black as the boys, his voice was clear and rough with feelings of all kinds, of a resignation that was forced to come out, of a silent desperation that lives in the masses of all men.
“We kill people, Roxy…we end their lives when they are supposed to be ended. That’s what we do and it kills me inside that I’m so damn good at it…”
************************************************************************
Roxy spent the remainder of her required time at the office in her cubicle scrolling through her Instagram, absorbing what it was that people cared for. Trends that come in and out like the waves on a beach of models, actors, and worst of all influencers. These trends would start simple and benign, dances, and songs that would shake the charts because they ring right in the ears of eleven-year-olds, to hair and makeup techniques, then to body transformations; this is where things begin to sway away from benign and enter the deep waters of social dismay, of children who are battling their own self-image identities, of people that are beginning to grasp what it means to live life within their mind, are shown the smiles, the bodies, the lives of everything that is so far from their own. Leaving them with one final, fatal takeaway: that they are simply doing the whole living thing wrong. That something so unique as the human condition, one that is a different mold each time, never replicated like a snowflake, as Walden says, cannot be truly given advice for, is dwarfed by the online piranhas of social media.
Roxy smiles as she ingests the toxins through her little, bright screen that pulses as she scrolls, sending more information in a fraction of a second than a person would have access to in their entire life centuries ago.
The funny thing is that she knows it’s toxic, the death of the mental wellness of us all, yet she continues to scroll, continues to like and favorite, and continues to add to the problem.
Why fight what cannot be beaten?
Why wage war when you don’t need to?
Why struggle when you shouldn’t?
Life was a ridiculous thing nowadays.
And it is only growing more and more ridiculous.
A few weeks ago, a hipster that swore he would win her heart, that would be the one to warm the queen of ice, sent her a picture of an Ape licking a lollypop in her own personal crypto wallet ( she hadn’t known what that was at the time and still to this day thinks it’s make-believe) that he had also provided for her.
At the time he said the, albeit good but crude drawing, was worth a few thousand dollars. She laughed but knew richer people who threw money away on dumber purchases, like a thirty-dollar piece of meat that when sprinkled salt over by a man that we will simply refer to as “bae”, now runs the bill up to the thousands, she learned to disassociate her working-class thoughts of wealth, with the ludicrous wealth that is spent by those who have the world at their disposal, the means to truly make a change, yet they spend it meat that is salted by some guy because they get to take a video and share it with not even their friends because they surely don’t care, but with people that wish they had the wealth to be as idiotic as to burn it.
To have is to not care, and to not have is to crave what doesn’t matter.
The Hipster told her through his handle-bar mustache that curled up towards his much too large and much too round glasses that he called his “bifocals” (unironically), that this piece of online artwork, that she now apparently, through this thing called the blockchain owned the intellectual rights to, would one day be worth hundreds of thousands, if not, if she was lucky-even millions.
To that, she laughed. Preposterous, silly, little man, she thought.
SIDE NOTE- THE WALLET IN WHICH THE APE THAT WAS PURCHASED FOR HER; SPECIFICALLY: Ape 9908 lollypop mutant ape, would later go on to be worth, approximately, 17 Bitcoin, which at the time of this writing, is worth 547,000 USD. Sadly, this password that was given to her on a flash drive was not only lost but so was the flash drive. Happily, it was found by a bellboy, who was well connected to some tech-savvy friends, was able to not only retrieve the wallet with the half-a-million-dollar ape but most importantly, was able to offload the ape onto another
retard before the NFT crash of 2022.
Sometimes good things do happen.
So, with that NFT experience under her internet belt, she looked at the posts that would make a great sketch, or introduction in a bizarro world, some Starship Troopers mockery, with the eyes of a business women, of someone that is trying to get ahead. She clicked on accounts of young boys that wore ridiculous outfits, that at one time would have been mistaken for gang insignias, but is now simply the common wear of an Esports Clan, that is totally profitable and not a bubble waiting to burst; sending said owners of these clans that exploit talented, ambidextrously inclined joystick wielders through adverts for energy drinks that corrupted the youths sugar levels as well as adding to growing caffeine addiction, that no one, especially SunDollars is ready to talk about, personally messages; or a solicitous D.M. Her company paid well but it was the side hustle that makes people truly wealthy.
Roxy liked this kind of pump-and-dump strategy more than she did ripping off the older tycoons that she could have easily done so to, but that came with danger. No said danger was involved in flirting with an ego-riddled twenty-year-old that was all too happy to let you in on the NFT ground floor in exchange for the possibility of sex with her.
These old, oil-money, steel-money men were born in times in which men were hit across the back of the head with a shovel, then wheel-barreled off into one of their construction sites to be dumped and then dumped concrete over, leaving a grave that will never see a flower or family member, one that will be walked over by the attendees of the future conference center that the foundation that they are now a part of will one-day be...talk about dying and becoming a part of something greater.
After a few messages that were quickly answered, these kids really spent all their time on their phones, Roxy decided it was time to do some real work. Switching over to her text messages, she shot her target a quick text that read as follows, “Wanna meet me for a coffee? (:”
A few moments passed and a couple of typing bubbles later, this text appeared on her screen,
“Sure, where? (:”
She didn’t take long to reply, some women liked the waiting approach, but Roxy knew what this man wanted, and it wasn’t a delayed message, it was affection, it was care. Indifference is a powerful tool but like all powerful tools- it must be used wisely.
“The usual place? (:”
“Sounds great. See you there, baby (:”
Roxy smiled, the baby was a sign that he was close to where he needed to be before she made her last move. Men, at least men like the kind her target was, didn’t drop that term loosely. They didn’t like to show much affection, they kept their guard up at all times- especially around women.
Roxy smiled as she popped her knuckles in a manner that was not lady-like, or elegant in the slightest.
He was close and it was almost time for the grand reveal, she thought.