Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
MALIK
It’s been almost a month of texting back and forth with Indigo. Every time her name flashes across my screen, a little thrill sparks in my chest, like I’m waiting for something more than just the words. I never thought I’d get this close to someone I’ve never met, but here I am, glued to every notification, every joke, every teasing remark.
We survived Christmas by sending each other eGift cards—her competitive side was exposed to me then. I sent her a hundred dollar coffee card since it's her lifeblood , and she shot back with a two hundred Apple Cash. To, and I quote, "buy something cool at the gun store." When I asked her why she sent so much, she just laughed and said she had to be the winner. It seems like my girl is competitive, and I chuckle at the thought.
If I didn’t sound like a complete fool, I’d say she’s become my best friend. Hell, I think I have feelings for her that go far beyond friendship.
She gets me. More than anyone else has in a long time.
She sees me. Or at least, the parts of me I’ve dared to share through these endless texts.
Still, a nagging part of my brain wonders if I’m just some idiot falling for a cruel game—like maybe she’s some fifty-year-old creep in his mom’s basement, stringing me along for kicks. But it’s been weeks now. Would someone really put in this much effort just for a laugh? I try to push the thought aside, but it never fully leaves.
I want to ask her to meet in person. It’s there on the tip of my tongue, or rather, the end of my fingers. But every time I think I’ll do it, that familiar tightness wraps around my chest, squeezing until I can’t breathe. What if the real me doesn’t match whatever version of me she’s conjured up in her head? What if I lose what we have before it even has a chance to become something?
Before I can dwell on it, my phone buzzes again.
Indigo: It’s only 9AM and I have bad news. I can’t think of a good zombie joke. If you promise not to be uptight, I have a dark humor one for you.
I smirk, already feeling lighter.
Me: I can’t wait to hear this.
Indigo: What’s Jesus’ favorite band?
Me: I’m scared.
Indigo: Nine Inch Nails.
I laugh, despite myself. Damn. That’s dark.
Me: Damn. It’s funny bit dark. I feel bad for laughing.
Indigo: I’ll share my room with you in hell. LMFAO
Me: Deal. Can I bring my ferret?
Indigo: Only if my raccoon can join us.
Me: Fuck it. It’s hell…why not?
I shove my phone into my pocket, still grinning, and try to refocus on the day ahead. It’s hard to shake the thoughts of Indigo, though. I can practically hear her laughter in my head as I head to my first appointment.
The property I’m looking at today is another new build, this time for a bank looking for a quote. Apparently, the last contractor didn’t secure the place properly, and someone broke in, stripped the copper wiring, trashed the place, and then decided to light it on fire for good measure. The fire department saved half the house, but the other half? A total loss.
When I park in the makeshift driveway, the charred smell hits me before I even get out of the truck. I grab my laptop and head to the front door, but before I can knock, a middle-aged man swings it open.
“Malik, I presume?” he asks, holding out his hand. His smile is firm, but there’s a tightness in his expression, like he’s bracing for bad news.
I shake his hand, my grip equally firm. “Correct, and you must be Arnold.”
“Sharp as a whip, you are.” He chuckles. “Come in and take a look at what we’re working with.”
I follow him inside, the remnants of smoke and scorched wood clinging to the air. The south end of the house is where the fire really hit. The walls there are blackened, the structure barely holding together. I run my hand along one of the walls, feeling the rough, burned surface beneath my fingertips. The damage is bad, but it’s contained. The rest of the house is salvageable, though I’d still replace a few boards just to be safe.
“Do we know what happened?” I ask, taking in the destruction's extent. “Obviously a fire, but what started it?”
“Arson. That’s why we need the quote—to figure out the loss. Insurance won’t cover it since it was deliberate, and we can’t prove who started it. The police think some vagrant was using the place for shelter and it got out of hand.”
I nod, pacing the room and taking measurements. “Just a rough estimate, but you’re probably looking at somewhere between one fifty and one seventy-five, depending on how fancy you go with fixtures and design.”
“You’re sure?” Arnold asks.
I glance at him, giving him a reassuring nod. “I’ve been doing this for fourteen years. I know my numbers.”
Arnold exhales, relief flooding his features. “Get me that on paper, and we’re good to go. I’ll sign the design agreement now and cut you a check for the fee. How long until I get the final number?”
“A week, maybe ten days.”
“Amazing.” He heads out to his car, parked on the side of the road, and I take the moment to shoot a quick text to Indigo.
Me: Just signed an almost 200k job.
Her response is almost instant.
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.