Page 11 of Toxic B!tch
I pause, irritation prickling under my skin. “You don’t know me,” I hiss, washing my hands, the bleach cleaning away the evidence of my art.
“I know everything I need to,” he responds with a slight chuckle, and the familiarity of it almost grates on me.
“Creepy, but cool, I guess,” I mutter.
“I’ll send my team,” he says. “You know the drill.”
“Done.” I send the first half of the payment, hearing the familiar chime of the transaction.
“Also, Little Snake,” he says. “I heard a rumor that a friend of mine is looking for a new hired man. Interested if it’s true?”
Getting paid for my skills and art full-time? No more random marks, no more messes to clean up myself. But there’d be rules. And I hate rules.
“Maybe. I’d need to know the ins and outs. I need to think about it.”
“Valid. We’ll talk soon.”
I hang up and think about his words as I look at my messages.
Malik: Haven’t heard from you much today. Everything alright?
Sighing, I shove my tools into my bag, making sure everything is accounted for, before straddling my bike.
Me: Yeah, just busy. Then I went on a date and it ended badly.
His reply comes almost instantly.
Malik: Are you okay? Did someone hurt you?
My belly tightens at his words, not with fear but with something softer. No one has ever asked me that before—if I was okay, if I was hurt.
Me: I’m good. He was just a douche, but he learned his lesson, I think ;)
Malik: Thatta girl.
A flicker of warmth stirs in my chest, an unfamiliar feeling. Malik… the only person who ever bothers to check in on me. He doesn’t know what I do, but that doesn’t seem to matter. He just cares. I can’t hide the grin that finds my lips.
Me: What are you doing?
For a moment, I forget about the bloody scene I’m leaving behind, the corpse cooling on the floor. For now, I’m just a girl on her bike, texting a guy who actually gives a damn.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MALIK
It’s been almost a month of texting back and forth with Indigo. Every time her name flashes across my screen, a little thrill sparks in my chest, like I’m waiting for something more than just the words. I never thought I’d get this close to someone I’ve never met, but here I am, glued to every notification, every joke, every teasing remark.
We survived Christmas by sending each other eGift cards—her competitive side was exposed to me then. I sent her a hundred dollar coffee card since it's herlifeblood, and she shot back with a two hundred Apple Cash. To, and I quote, "buy something cool at the gun store." When I asked her why she sent so much, she just laughed and said she had to be the winner. It seems like my girl is competitive, and I chuckle at the thought.
If I didn’t sound like a complete fool, I’d say she’s become my best friend. Hell, I think I have feelings for her that go far beyond friendship.
She gets me. More than anyone else has in a long time.
She sees me. Or at least, the parts of me I’ve dared to share through these endless texts.
Still, a nagging part of my brain wonders if I’m just some idiot falling for a cruel game—like maybe she’s some fifty-year-old creep in his mom’s basement, stringing me along for kicks. But it’s been weeks now. Would someone really put in this much effort just for a laugh? I try to push the thought aside, but it never fully leaves.
I want to ask her to meet in person. It’s there on the tip of my tongue, or rather, the end of my fingers. But every time I think I’ll do it, that familiar tightness wraps around my chest, squeezing until I can’t breathe. What if the real me doesn’t match whatever version of me she’s conjured up in her head? What if I lose what we have before it even has a chance to become something?
