Page 13 of Toxic B!tch
Indigo: I told you, you’re a bad bitch.
Me: I keep telling you, I can’t be a bad bitch. I’m a guy. I’d have to be a bad dick.
Indigo: Now who has jokes? I hope it ain’t a bad dick, or I know why you got the wrong number.
Me: But it led me here… to you.
Indigo: Cheese!
I hesitate for a moment before typing my next message.
Me: I’ve been thinking.
Indigo: About?
Me: Can we talk… on the phone? I want to hear your voice.
There’s a pause, the longest she’s ever taken to respond.
Indigo: Fine, voice only. I’m not ready to find out you’re some ninety-year-old Karen twiddling her bean to thoughts of me.
I laugh out loud just as Arnold steps back into the house, holding a thick wad of cash like it’s pocket change. It’s not every day someone drops nearly ten grand without blinking. He raises an eyebrow at me, a slight smirk on his lips.
“What do I owe ya?”
I clear my throat, keeping my tone professional. “Design agreements are five percent of the estimate. If you decide not to go with us, you’ll get half back. So that’s eight thousand seven hundred fifty.”
The number rolls off my tongue, and I watch as he peels off the bills with effortless precision, like he’s counting Monopoly money.
“There you are,” he says, his eyes meeting mine for a brief moment. “I look forward to speaking with you in ten days.”
I take the cash, feeling the weight of it in my hand. “Let me get you the agreement to sign. I almost forgot.”
Jogging out to my truck, I slide into the driver’s seat and quickly connect my laptop to the mobile printer, the small hum filling the cab as it spits out the paperwork.
With the agreement in hand, I head back to the house, where Arnold is waiting. He takes the pen I hand him without hesitation, signing his name with a quick flourish.
“Now we’re good to go,” I say, tucking the signed document into my folder.
“Thank you, Malik,” he replies.
CHAPTER NINE
MALIK
After a long day of appointments, I finally pull into my driveway. I lean back in my truck for a moment, exhaling slowly. I’ve been thinking about Indigo all day. Hell, I’ve been thinking about her for the past month, but today, I’m finally going to talk to her on the phone.
First things first, though—I need to eat. It’s been a while since I’ve had a decent meal that wasn’t fast food or something I grabbed on the go, so tonight, I’m taking my time. I head inside and set my stuff down, making my way to the kitchen, where the air still carries the faint scent of the coffee I brewed this morning.
I get busy pulling out everything I need for dinner. Street corn chicken and rice casserole. It’s simple, hearty, and comforting—exactly what I need to settle my nerves. The chicken sizzles in the pan, and the smell of spices and corn fills the kitchen, making my stomach growl as I chop cilantro and stir the rice. My mind keeps drifting back to Indigo. Every time I think about hearing her voice, nervous energy pools in my stomach,the kind I haven’t felt since high school. Like I’m about to ask a girl out to homecoming or something.
I shake off the thought, focusing on the food in front of me. I layer the chicken and corn over the rice, pouring the creamy sauce over the top before popping the dish into the oven. As it bakes, the kitchen fills with warmth, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the oven door. I look calm and collected, but inside, I’m a mess.
Once the casserole is done, I serve myself a plate; the smell makes my stomach growl. The chicken is tender, the corn sweet with a kick of spice, and the rice soaks up all the flavors perfectly. I eat slowly, enjoying the dish I created, but my mind is already racing ahead to what’s coming next.
After dinner, I clean the kitchen, wiping down the counters, loading the dishwasher, and putting away the leftovers. The routine helps settle my nerves, but my hands are trembling just a little as I dry the last plate and set it in the cupboard. I glance at my phone on the counter, my heart rate picking up.
It’s now or never.
