Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
INDIGO
We’re still at the diner when the text comes through. Our milkshakes are long gone, the empty glasses sweating against the table, but we’ve been sitting here, lingering in the artificial glow of neon lights, talking about nothing and everything. Trying to save something that might already be lost. Across from me, Malik shifts in the booth, his warmth radiating toward me, but not quite touching. His presence is hesitant, like I might shatter under his fingers. Or worse, like I might bite.
The text comes through just after midnight. A single message, plain and nondescript, yet charged with something electric beneath the surface.
Cleanup: Tomorrow. 10 PM. Warehouse on 5th.
I stare at the words, the weight of them settling deep in my chest. Then another message follows, just as brief, just as certain.
Cleanup: Don’t be late. He won’t wait.
The cleaner never wastes words. Every letter is deliberate, every sentence a door opening into another layer of control, another level of the game. And I play the game well—at least, I did before Malik started asking too many questions.
“Who is it?” His voice is thick with exhaustion, but there’s something else woven into it. Caution. Maybe even fear.
I look up at him. The fluorescents above us hum softly, their dim light doing nothing to cut through the tension between us. I could tell him it’s nothing, that I’m done with all of this, that I’m just a girl in a diner with her boyfriend, safe and clean. But lies between us don’t land the way they used to. He knows now. Knows what I am, what I do, what I crave.
“It’s the cleaner,” I say instead.
Malik frowns. “Cleaner? What do you mean?”
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, he followed 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 this is the 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’t want saving.
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.”
He stares at my hand, his breath coming slower now, more controlled. I wonder if he’s realizing that this is a turning point. That if he says yes, there’s no going back. That knowing something and seeing it are two very different things.
“I don’t know if I can,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
I pull my hand back. “Then I guess you don’t want to understand me after all.”
His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t argue. We both know it’s a trap. If he walks away now, he’s proving me right. If he comes, he’s stepping into my world, making himself a part of it in a way he won’t be able to undo.
He exhales slowly, then nods. “Fine. I’ll go.”
A slow, satisfied smile curls at my lips. “Good.”
Malik exhales, resting his hands on the table. “It’s late. We should go home.”
I tilt my head, watching him. “Go home alone or together?”
His gaze flickers, something unreadable passing over his face. My chest tightens, waiting. If he says, alone, I’ll be ruined. I want this—I want him so badly I can taste it.
Malik sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Together. But no fucking, Indigo. I’m serious. As bad as I want you, I’m not ready.”
I nod, swallowing down my disappointment. “Will you at least sleep in bed with me? Hold me?”
“Yeah, babe. I can do that.”
A smile spreads across my face before I can stop it.
“What?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“You called me babe again.”
He shakes his head, but there’s the smallest twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips. We pay our bill, neither of us speaking much as we head outside. We take separate cars to my place, the distance between us feeling heavier than the silence itself, like something fragile, something neither of us is willing to break just yet.
When we get inside, I lock the door behind us, then head straight for my bedroom. No hesitation. No games. Malik follows, his presence grounding me in a way I didn’t realize I needed. We strip down without words—him to his boxers, me to my panties before I pull on an oversized shirt. His shirt. The one he left here once and never asked for back.
He groans, running a hand over his face. “You’re killing me, Indigo.”
“Sorry,” I murmur softly, almost shyly. “I’ve been sleeping in it every night. I miss you.”
His expression tightens, something vulnerable slipping through the cracks. “Come on,” he mutters, climbing into bed and lifting the blanket for me to slide underneath.
I don’t hesitate. I press against him, letting his warmth seep into me as his arms wrap around my body, pulling me into his chest. I close my eyes, breathing him in.
This is all I want. For him to understand me and still want me.
I’ll be the devil he knows to everyone else, but here, in this room, I just want to be his baby girl.