Page 3 of Toxic B!tch
Oh, you wanna see ‘what’?My head snaps back, the crack of my skull against his nose reverberating through the hallway. His yelp is satisfying, but not enough.
I raise my right foot and stomp my heel hard down on his loafer.
“Shit!” he cries, his arm dropping and I spin to face him.
His face is twisted in pain, eyes narrowed. “Fucking whore,” he spits, his ego bruised more than his body.
I just laugh, sharp and wild. “For my bike, maybe. For you? Never.” And then, with all the power in my leg, I kick him right where it counts. My red platform heel lands perfectly on his crotch.
His knees buckle, and he crumples to the floor like a sad sack of flesh.
“Emil!” I shout. Our bouncer appears, already smirking. This isn’t the first time. Hell, it’s not even the fifth.
“Again, Indigo? What’d this one do?” he asks, half-amused.
“Fondled me. Throw him out, would ya?” I arch a brow.
“Sure thing, Ms. Indigo.” Emil chuckles, hauling the guy up by his armpits and dragging him to the back door.
Goddamn men.
I roll my neck, letting the tension slip off my shoulders, and get back to work. Stocking beer, soda, anything to keep my hands busy and my mind off the endless parade of idiots that make my nights unbearable.
By the time last call rolls around, I’m practically counting down the seconds. “Last call!” I shout.
The crowd lines up to settle their tabs, and thank the heavens, no more drinks. The guy from earlier comes back, handing me his card like a gentleman. At leastsomeonehere knows how to act.
“Can I pay my tab, please?” he asks, polite as ever.
“Sure thing, babe. What’s the last name?”
“Jerole,” he says.
I punch it into the POS, and his tab pops up—one hundred and thirty dollars. I print the receipt, hand it over, and wait for him to sign.
He does and hands it back to me. “Here you go. Have a good night.”
“Thanks, friend. Hope you had a good night, and that girl treated you right.” I wink.
He grins. “Got her number. Think I might ask her on a date.”
“Good luck with that,” I reply, already waving the next customer over.
Lucky bitch.
He’s too good for her.
CHAPTER THREE
MALIK
How long are you supposed to wait before texting a woman you met at a bar? Two days? Three? It’s been exactly forty-eight hours since I met Elle, and her number’s been burning a hole in my pocket ever since. I want to see if she’d be interested in going out sometime, but my thumb keeps hesitating over my phone screen. Is it too soon? Am I coming on too strong?
This—this right here—is exactly why I’m still single. Why my only real relationship was back in college, and even that fizzled out before it ever truly started. I have no idea how women think, no clue what they want, or when it’s the right time to make a move.
Okay, that’s a lie. I know what theydon’twant. They don’t want a guy like me. Not the kind of guy who’s a little too soft around the middle, a little too average, a little too… unnoticed. I’m not some chiseled, six-pack, Instagram-model type. My body isn’t exactly something I despise, but I’m not oblivious either. I know it’s not the kind of physique people are swiping right on. The world is superficial, and I can feel the judgment, the weightof it pressing down on me whenever I catch someone’s eye, only for them to look away a second later.
They see a ‘fat’ guy and can’t look past it. They don’t care if there’s a decent guy under all the extra weight and the beard. They just… don’t care.
