Page 61 of Toxic B!tch
I lean back against the booth, watching his expression closely. “I hire someone to clean up my messes,” I explain. “He offered me a proposal—to do what I do, but for someone else. And with payment.”
His eyes widen. “An assassin?”
“Yeah.” I toy with the edge of my napkin, dragging it between my fingers. “But I don’t know if I want to do that. I like having creative control.” I smirk, but he doesn’t return it. “Still, I agreed to meet with his associate to discuss.”
Malik shakes his head like he’s trying to process my words. “Who’s the cleaner?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. We only ever talk briefly on the phone and that’s it. I got his number from a guy I met a few years ago.”
His brows furrow deeper. “You met someone who just said, ‘Hey, I know a guy who cleans up dead bodies. Here’s his number.’?”
“Not exactly.” I tilt my head, eyeing him, trying to gauge his reaction. “It’s… kind of a longer story. The guy I met—he followed me home from the bar three nights in a row.”
“Wait,hefollowed you?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. I confronted him on the third night with a knife to his throat and told him to give me one reason I shouldn’t turn him into a piece of my art for stalking me. He just chuckled and said something about ‘we must be the same.’”
I let the words hang between us, watching for understanding to sink in.
Malik exhales slowly. “He’s like you?”
I nod.
“So, why was he following you? You said you were careful.”
I give a small shrug. “I was gonna be his next victim.”
Malik stiffens, his fingers tightening against the table.
“But when he found out what I am, what I do… he obviously knew that wasn’t gonna work,” I continue. “So I invited him for coffee, and we’re friends now. We still talk here and there… maybe once a year. But he hooked me up with the cleaner.”
Malik stares at me like he’s waiting for the punchline, like he’s expecting me to say something that makes all of this make sense. But thisisthe explanation. This is just my life.
He runs a hand through his hair. “Indigo, what the fuck?”
I just smile, waiting for him to catch up.
I slip the phone into my pocket, then glance back at Malik. His eyes are still fixed on me, dark and unreadable.
“You’re going,” he says, and it’s not a question.
I tilt my head, considering. “I haven’t decided yet.”
He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Indigo, you just said you like having ‘creative control.’” The words are edged with something sharp—disgust, maybe, or fear. “You’re considering it.”
I meet his gaze head-on. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because it’s fucking insane?”
I smirk. “So is everything else I do.”
He rubs a hand over his face, dragging his fingers through his hair. He’s unraveling, slipping into that space between wanting to save me and realizing I don’t need saving. Or worse—I don’twantsaving.
I watch him for a moment, then lean forward, my voice softer now, more deliberate. “Come with me.”
Malik freezes. “What?”
“Come with me to the meeting. See for yourself what this is. What I am.” I reach out, resting my hand on the table between us. Not touching him, not yet, but close. Close enough to feel the heat of his skin, to remind him of what it felt like before he knew the truth. “You want to understand me, don’t you? Then come. Watch.”
