Page 2 of Big Mad
“Madison, did you use to call me Baby No?” Washington’s deep, sexy rasp, like velvet on my ears, broke into my musings.
“Of course not.” I cleared my throat. “But for the record.”
“You aren’t on the stand, Maddy.”
“For the record,” I snapped, “did you always call meMad?”
“Ma’am?” Good Cop squeaked again. He pressed a button, and Ms. Melanin Magnificence bashed a metal bat against the windshield while standing on the hood. “That’s you!” The man-child stomped a loafer.
All the education I received from Stanford University and San Jose State flew out the window as I popped the p ofNopelike I had gum in my mouth.
“Everyone out,” Washington ordered.
My eyes zipped to the two officers. I cleared my throat and eyed Bad Cop in front of me. “Rook, you take orders from a juvey judge?”
“Who’s Rook?”
“You! It’s short for Rookie. Keep up with your corny ass.” Chuckling, I tried to run my hands through my silky tresses. The steel bracelets I never asked for clinked on the table. So embarrassing. “Ummm … Wash isn’t?—”
Dang. I stopped myself from calling my ex-husband by that personal name. “This isn’tBald & Order: SVU, and Judge Baby No isn’t a cop. He can’t boss you around, no matter how special you are.”
Without a glance in my direction, the detectives walked out. Washington approached the television and tapped the play button.
Again, Ms. M&M turned his Bentley coupe into her personal rage room.
“You did this, Maddy?” Disappointment laced his raspy voice. “Why?”
Guilt hit first. I never wanted to hurt him … the way he’d hurt me. The past few years overshadowed more than a decade of cherishing my first love. “It wasn’t me.” I licked my lips. “If it were, it would be because you’re a stalker. Says so on the passenger door. Did Ms. Melanin Magnificence tag the driver’s side too?”
He slammed his hands on the table. “You keyed my car, Maddy! That woman on the TV is your spitting image.”
“Fine, ain’t she?” I winked.
Almost could’ve sworn his mouth tugged to one side.
He cleared his throat, which settled him. And, baby, it stopped me from daydreaming, which I hadn’t done in years. For the record, I hadn’t really crossed paths with him in the 360-something days since our divorce.
“You bashed in my Bentley during my brother’s Mardi Gras-themed Valentine’s ball.”
“What?” I tried on my most scandalized Southern tone, even though I’d lived everywhere before marrying this New Orleans native. “Your brother had a Mardi Gras party? Mardi Gras already passed too. So, didsomeonedamage your car on Valentine’s or Fat Tuesday? And why is the NOPD harassing me after an entire week?”Damn you, Montana. I should’ve known my ex-brother-in-law had some sort of security system that could cut through the dead of night.
“Sure you wanna play clueless?”
I shrugged. “Worked onLegally Blonde.”
“Two can play that.” He pulled his cellphone from inside of his tailored blazer. Tapped a few buttons, then turned the phone toward me. “Ifyouaren’t aware, this is Momma’s Creole cottage, also on the premises. A large lot where my brother owns a mansion.”
“Sounds flashy.” No lie. Washington’s younger brother had Major League Baseball money and built both the mansion and his momma’s quaint cottage by the Bogue Falaya River.
“You never been?”
Dang. If I said no, he’d catch me in a lie. We celebrated Christmases at the home of the second of four Babineaux brothers. Scanning my fingernails, I murmured, “Not recently.”
“When was the last time you were on Montana Babineaux’s property?”
“Four Christmases ago.” I kissed my teeth.
Wash bit his eyes shut for a moment. That hit hard. For both of us.
