Page 4 of Toxic B!tch
But that night at the bar? That night, I felt bold. I wasn’t the guy sitting in the corner nursing a drink, watching everyone else have fun. When Elle ordered her drinks, I jumped in and paid for them without a second thought. She didn’t seem annoyed, and I wasn’t expecting anything in return, but she smiled, and that’s when everything shifted. We spent the whole night together, dancing, drinking, and laughing. Her energy matched mine, and for a few hours, I felt like the version of myself I wish I could be all the time. I worked the nerve up to ask for her number by the end of the night, not expecting her to give it, but she shrugged, smiled again, and punched it into my phone like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Now, here I am, sitting on my leather couch, staring at my phone beside me. It feels ridiculous that I’m second-guessing myself over something as simple as a text—like reaching out to someone I spent almost an entire night with shouldn’t feel like such a monumental decision. What’s the worst that can happen? I already know what I’m going to ask—just dinner, nothing crazy.
I sit up straighter, grab my phone off the armrest, and open a new message.
“Here goes nothing,” I mutter, more for comfort than courage.
Me: Hey, it’s Malik. You gave me your number the other night at the bar. I was wondering if you’d wanna grab dinner sometime?
I pause, staring at what I typed. My thumb hovers over the ‘send’ button like it’s wired to something dangerous. Too forward? Too soon? My heartbeat pounds in my throat. My palms turn clammy, and I shift the phone from one hand to the other, wiping them against my thighs in a useless attempt to steady myself. No. This is dumb. Too much, too fast. She might not even remember me.
I delete the message and start over.
Me: Hey. You gave me your number the other night. I hope it’s okay that I text.
I hit send before I can overthink it again, and instantly, my heart feels like it’s about to explode. Why is this so damn hard? I’m thirty-two years old, and here I am sweating bullets over a simple text message.
It's fine. Right?It's just a message. But the truth is, it’s so much more. It feels like everything, and I’m terrified she’ll see me the way I fear most people do—a nice enough guy, but not the one you choose when you’ve got other options.
The glowing screen of my phone stares back at me, mocking me with its silence. The color of the text bubble tells me all I need to know—she definitely has an iPhone, but her read receipts are off. There’s no way to know if she’s seen my message or if it’s sitting there, unread. The frustration bubbles up, but I shake it off. I’m not going to sit here, glued to my phone like some lovesick teenager waiting for a response that may never come. I’m a grown man, and I’ve got things to do.
With a huff, I shove the phone into my pocket, rising from the couch. The leather creaks under the shift of my weight. I grab my keys from the counter, feeling the cool metal against my palm as I head out the front door. The afternoon sun casts a golden glow over the driveway, and the air smells like cut grassand the faint scent of rain on the horizon. My Expedition sits there, a familiar beast of a vehicle, and I climb behind the wheel, the seatbelt clicking into place.
I back out onto the road, the rumble of the engine settling into a steady rhythm as I drive toward the woods. It’s five miles out of town, tucked away behind the rolling farmland that stretches out like a patchwork quilt beyond the town's limits. The trees start to thicken as I near the property, and a calm settles over me. There’s something about these woods—something grounding. Owned by an older farmer, Marie, she’s been kind enough to let me hunt here for years. But today isn’t about hunting, not yet. The second season’s coming up, and I need to get things in order before then. I’ve got other reasons for being out here.
The trail cams need new batteries, and I’ve noticed something strange lately—people who shouldn’t be back here. My cameras have been picking up all kinds of weirdos, trespassers creeping around where they don’t belong. My gut twists at the thought—a mixture of irritation and protectiveness. This land has always been peaceful, a place for quiet, not for troublemakers. I promised Marie I’d help, especially now that she’s getting on in age.
I pull the truck near the edge of the woods, the gravel crunching beneath the tires, and shut off the engine. The silence out here is thick, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. I pop the tailgate and grab the gear—fresh batteries, new cameras, and a few bright orange “No Trespassing” signs.
The path is overgrown, weeds brushing against my boots as I make my way toward the first camera. I find it with ease, nestled high on a tree trunk. Swapping out the batteries is quick work, my fingers moving on autopilot as my mind drifts.
Elle. Her laugh, the way her eyes sparkled in the dim light of the bar as we danced. Maybe I did read her wrong. Maybe thedrinks and the music made it feel like something more than it was. But if that’s true, why did she give me her number? Why flirt with me?
Shaking my head, I focus back on the task at hand. I need to stop over-analyzing our entire interaction that night. At the fork in the path, where it splits off into deeper parts of the woods, I set up a new camera. I screw it in place, angling the lens just right. Next, the signs will go up, vibrant and impossible to ignore. The law’s clear on that—no signs, no prosecution. I don’t want to leave Marie without any recourse if these trespassers keep showing up.
On the walk back to the truck, the tension in my shoulders doesn’t ease. I pull my phone from my pocket, hoping to see a message from Elle. But the screen is as empty as it was before. My heart sinks a little, that gnawing doubt creeping in again. Maybe I read everything wrong.
Still, I can’t stop myself from typing, my thumbs moving over the screen faster than my brain can keep up. It’s the last message, and if she doesn’t respond, I’ll delete her contact and forget this ever happened.
Me: Not trying to bother you. But if I read things wrong the other night, just let me know.
I stare at the message for a second longer before hitting send. The screen fades, and I toss the phone onto the passenger seat with a sigh, starting the engine. The hum of the truck is a low, steady comfort, but it doesn’t lighten the weight pressing heavy on my chest as I drive back home.
Just another instance where I’m overlooked.
CHAPTER FOUR
INDIGO
Whoever is blowing up my phone with messages while I’m trying to stalk that pathetic creep from the bar is going to feel my wrath. The guy who thought he could touch what wasn’t his is named Ramon, and he’s oblivious to the fact that I’ve been following him all day.
It was easy enough to find out who he was from Emil since he always gets their IDs to close their tabs out and note they’re banned from the bar. Ramon’s little escapade cost him because I shut down his tab, pocketing a fat tip for myself. Two hundred dollars, and his days are numbered.
Now I just have to figure out how to get him alone and convince him to have a drink. Once the Rohypnol takes hold, I can guide my targets easily wherever I need them. Then it’s just a waiting game until it wears off and we can play. Usually, I do this at work, but he’s gone and gotten himself banned, so now I have to improvise.
I slip into the drugstore behind him, watching as he wanders into the personal health aisle, staring at the shelves of condoms.My heart races, a twisted thrill surging through me. Finally, he picks up a box of extra-large watermelon-flavored Trojans.
Doubt he needs the XL, but everyone can dream. Right?
