Page 1 of Toxic B!tch
CHAPTER ONE
INDIGO
You know the thrill when you’re elbow-deep in someone’s belly, their insides spilling between your fingers, and for once, everything feels right? It’s like the world finally clicks into place. There’s something about the act that makes me feel truly alive. It’s a shame that I can only play with my art pieces here and there.
There has never been a trace of the bodies, not since I found a cleaning crew I trust. Too many people disappearing would raise alarm, after all. I rather like living in the free world—not in a cell—and like to keep it that way. Let’s be real, orange is not my color.
Jerry’s cooling now. Time’s running short, but I’m not done with him yet. Livor mortis is a buzzkill, and once that sets in, the fun stops. I yank out his intestines, the warm, slick coils slithering between my fingers, and twist them into a bow—cute, almost delicate. I drape them around his semi-stiff neck like a pearl necklace, a final touch of elegance. He looks better this way. Way better than when he was sniveling and pleading for hislife. God, I can’t stand the begging. It’s pathetic. Bad boys don’t get to beg for their lives, Jerry. They get what’s coming. You should’ve thought about that before you decided to hurt those women.
I head to my Kawasaki Ninja ZX6R, my gaze locking on the bottle of bleach water sitting on the ground where I left it. My fingers are still sticky, stained with what was once inside Jerry. I grab the bottle and pour it over my hands, watching the blood and bleach mixture run down my wrists. The sting of the chemicals on my bare skin only makes me smile—almost like I deserve the burn for having so much fun.
Once my hands are clean, I dry them with some rags before tossing the fabric onto the pavement. With one flick of my lighter, they go up in flames. I watch them burn until they turn to nothing but ashes and dust.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Jerry’s nothing more than a smudge on the ground now. Poetic, really.
I’m grateful I live in a place where snow and ice aren’t a thing—means I can still ride my bike this time of year. No freezing roads or slush to slow me down. It’s early winter, but the air is cool and dry, perfect for a ride.
I toss my shit into the tail bag, strapping it tight before slipping on my helmet. The black and pink crotch rocket roars to life beneath me, its engine a deep, throaty growl that reverberates up through my core. And there it is—that rush, that perfect hit of adrenaline. Heat pools low in my belly, spreading through me like wildfire.
For years, this bike and the sweet, cold hand of death have been the only things that can get me off. Not a man, not a woman, not even a damn toy can come close. Pathetic, isn’t it? Men and women have tried, fingers fumbling, tongues eager, but it’s always a disappointment. No matter how hard they try—no dick, fake or real, ever hits the spot. I’m just not wired like everyone else.
But I don’t mind. No, really. I’ve come to terms with it. There’s always a new naughty boy out there just waiting for me to hunt him down. And my bike? She’s always there, a reliable partner in crime. We go everywhere together.
I look in my right mirror and change lanes swiftly. My mind drifts to my day job, the one that keeps me shackled to this pathetic reality where I have to pretend to be nice while wearing a Stepford wife smile. God, it’s exhausting. But hey, it pays the bills, right? Still, if only being an assassin full-time was feasible. I’d be the absolute queen of that game. Maybe one day.
When I get home, I bring my bike into the garage and close the door. I pull my phone out as I push the button to lock the overhead door and head inside.
“Speak,” he answers, all business, no small talk. I hate that I don’t know who he is. Just a voice, faceless and distant, but necessary. The best damn cleaner in the business.
“It’s me.”
“So soon, Little Snake. Where and what are we thinking?” God, I hate that nickname. I roll my eyes so hard I almost give myself a headache. But, fine, let him have his fun. I asked him once, just out of curiosity, why he insists on calling me that. I was hoping for something creative, something clever. Maybe he saw something deep inside me that even I didn’t know about.
Nope. He said it was because snakes are venomous and deadly. Real original. Apparently, because I drug my marks with cocktails that make them easier to “play with,” I’m toxic and deadly. And just like that, Little Snake was born.
“The docks. Warehouse. And make it a Mai Tai this time,” I reply, knowing it’ll irritate his team. They hate when I leave big messes, but what can I say? I like to take my time and savor my kills.
“You know the price. Half now, half when I send you the after shots.”
I pull the phone away from my ear and open the payment app that we use. “Done.”
“Talk soon, Little Snake.” He hangs up before I can say anything else. Whatever, as long as he gets the job done.
I glance at the clock and make a mental note of the time. The scene needs to be spotless within the hour—no trace of my little playdate left behind. That’s their promise. It’s why they cost a small fortune, and why I’m more than happy to pay. I mean, where else can you find a crew that’ll swoop in, scrub away the blood, the guts, the...art, without asking too many questions? I head to the bathroom, flipping the light on. The shower knob creaks as I turn it, water sputtering to life. Dropping my clothes in the garbage, I step under the spray. The scalding water hits me, and I let out a low moan as it burns my skin. It’s almost too hot, but I need it. I need to feelclean, to burn off the sticky residue of what I just did, as if the water could somehow scrub away what’s lurking underneath.
I wash up fast, like I’m on autopilot, scrubbing my body and hair, rinsing it all away. I can’t stay still too long or my mind wanders back to the warehouse, to the mess I left behind. No, not mess.Art.My art. The thought makes my chest tighten with a sick kind of pride.
Stepping out, I wrap a towel around myself and grab the bag from the garbage can without getting dressed. I make my way to the basement, trudging down the stairs to toss the bag into the old wood furnace.
I hurry back upstairs to my room and grab my hair wrap off the dresser, arranging my damp hair in it with a practiced twist. Throwing on a pair of pajama pants and a tank top, I crawl into bed. My mind should be still, but it’s racing with tomorrow’s plans, what I'm going to wear, smiles I’ll have to fake. Bar shiftsare a drag, but my outfits keep the tips coming, so I have to play the game. Just as my eyes start to close, a surge of irritation snaps me upright.
Shit. The tattoo. How could I forget? My latest ink, a tiny heart on my cheekbone, delicate but full of meaning. I drag myself back to the bathroom, slathering salve over it. It stings, but I like it. Pain reminds me I’m alive.
Finally satisfied, I crawl back into bed, sinking into the softness once more. Tomorrow’s another day. Another mask to wear. But tonight, in the quiet, I smile. I dream of smashing skulls like Christmas ornaments, each one shattering under my hands like fragile glass, and I laugh. It’s all just another form of art. One they’ll never understand.
CHAPTER TWO
INDIGO
