Page 15 of Toxic B!tch
“I’m ready for it,” I reply, my pulse quickening.
“Okay,” she says, breaking the silence. “I guess we’ll see, huh?”
“Yeah,” I agree, my voice a little rough. “I guess we will.”
For the next hour, we talk about everything and nothing. Her laugh becomes a constant in the conversation, her wit sharp but never cruel. I tell her about my day, about the job I just locked in,and she cheers me on like she’s been in my corner forever. I feel lighter with each passing minute, the nerves I had before fading until they’re completely gone.
By the time we hang up, I’m smiling like an idiot, staring at my phone long after the screen has gone dark.
CHAPTER TEN
INDIGO
Late-night phone calls with Malik have become a familiar comfort I look forward to each day. Which is freaking me out a little bit because death used to be my comfort and what I looked forward to. I haven’t made art since Ramon and that was over a month ago.
What started with a single nervous call has now turned into a nightly habit, where sometimes we even fall asleep with the phone still connected, our breathing filling the silence. It’s strange how his voice, once unknown to me, now feels like something I can’t go a day without. Like a missing piece I never knew I needed, has quietly settled into place. The connection between us has grown deeper, shifting something in me that I didn’t expect.
I’ve never had feelings like this before. It’s almost how attached I am to my bike but in person form, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I didn’t have parents… well, that raised me, anyway. They died in a car accident when I was six, and I guessadoption wasn’t in the cards for me. I aged out of the system at eighteen and got a job at the bar. I’ve been there ever since.
Tonight, I have to close, so I told Malik that it will be a late call after I’m off, which is fine since he likes me to let him know when I’m off and when I’m home.
I stand in front of the mirror, studying my reflection. My hair looks banging tonight, twisted into a barrel roll updo that sits high on my head. Each strand is pinned meticulously, not a single one out of place. I’ve been wearing my hair like this for years. Something about it makes me feel powerful, like I’m stepping into a different era where women ruled with poise and confidence. It suits me.
Picking up the liquid eyeliner from the vanity, I lean in closer to the mirror. Steady hand, sharp flick. The dark line glides across my eyelid, giving my eyes that wing I love. Next, I reach for the plum lipstick—deep, sultry, almost menacing. It’s the kind of color that makes people think twice before messing with me, but it also brings out something softer, something almost sensual. I blot my lips together and grin. Perfect.
The black top I chose tonight slides over my head effortlessly, its neckline dipping just enough to hint at something without giving too much away. The sleeves are loose and billowy, a contrast to the snug fit of my lavender pants that cling to my hips and thighs like they were made for me. Paired with the wide black belt, I cinch my waist and bring the whole look together. I look fierce. I feel fierce.
I put on my black studded flats, feeling the metal spikes against my fingertips, a reminder of my dangerousness. I stand up straight, looking myself over one last time, and feel a thrill rush through me. This outfit, this look, it’s me in my element. Strong. Untouchable.
With my bag slung over my shoulder, I head for the door, ready to start my night. The air outside is cool, a little crisp,but it doesn’t bother me. My bike sits parked out front, looking lonely, but tonight it’s not coming with me. With my hair styled like this, it will be impossible to stuff under a helmet—there’s no way I’m risking it. I let out a soft sigh, pulling out my phone and checking to see how far away my Uber is.
The Uber pulls up, headlights cutting through the stillness. I tuck my phone back into my pocket and make my way toward the car. The driver glances at me through the rearview mirror as I slide into the back seat, and I catch a flicker of surprise on his face. Maybe it’s the hair, the bold plum lips, or the fact that my outfit looks like it belongs in some retro film. Either way, I let a small smirk play on my lips and settle back into the seat.
We pull up outside the bar a few minutes later, and I smile at the neon sign flickering in the window. I thank the driver and step out, blowing out a deep breath as I prepare for the chaos inside. The muffled thump of music is already spilling out. I push through the door, beeline to the backroom to tuck my bag away, and clock in.
Chapter Break
It’s halfwaythrough my shift, and I’m barely holding on. The bar is packed, bodies pressing in from all sides, and the smell of sweat, cheap cologne, and spilled beer is clinging to the air. I’m already on edge, but hearingDéjà Vuby Olivia Rodrigo blast from the jukebox again—what feels like the twentieth damn time tonight—is making it worse. Someone in this joint is clearly going through a breakup, and they’ve decided to drown their misery by torturing the rest of us with the same song on repeat.
I’m grinding my teeth so hard I can practically hear the enamel scream. My long black nails tap against the bar as I pour another round of Ghost Shots. The crowd hollers in delight as the drinks magically pour out clear despite the rainbow of booze they saw me throw into the shaker. It’s a trick, a distraction, something to keep them amused for five seconds so I don’t lose my shit.
“Enjoy the magic show,” I mutter under my breath as I set the shots in front of them, barely able to muster a smile. They’re too drunk to notice my sour mood, which is probably for the best.
“Hey! Another round!” someone slurs from the other end of the bar. I don’t even glance their way, just nod, already reaching for the next set of bottles. I’m on autopilot now, just trying to make it through the night without snapping.
“Here you go. Two Busch Lights, a Corona, one Captain and Dr Pepper, a Malibu, and Diet, and lastly, a Seven Seven,” I announce, setting the tray down in front of the guy who’s been ordering all night. My patience is paper thin, but I plaster on that fake bartender smile, the one that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. He hands out the drinks to his buddies, oblivious.
“Whose tab we putting these on?” I ask, my fingers already itching to get back to the POS system and punch in the next endless wave of orders.
“Mine,” he says, grinning like he’s doing me a favor.
“Perfect.”
The jukebox skips back toDéjà Vuagain, and I almost lose it. My hand twitches, and I seriously consider smashing the thing to pieces. Who the hell needs to hear the same breakup anthem over and over like that? What kind of masochist does that to themself?
I glance up at the guy next in line, some regular who doesn’t even bother to look at me as he orders. “You’re slow tonight, Indigo. Get me a Miller bottle and be quick about it.”
My jaw clenches, and for a second, I imagine throwing the drink in his face instead of pouring it into a glass. My fingers tighten around the bottleneck, and I have to stop myself from snapping it clean in half. I toss the cap into the trash, slamming the beer onto the counter a little harder than necessary. The guy finally glances up, his brows furrowing, but he doesn’t say anything. Smart move.
