Page 38 of Big Mad
“C’mon, Maddy.” He flashed that calm, dangerous grin that once made juries melt. “This is where you get to expel the remnants of hatred that you have for me.”
“Remnants?” I parroted, crossing my arms. “Uh-uh. Black people don’t do rage rooms. We’re … too civilized.”
He untwisted my arms and pulled me out of the car and against him. Before I could speak, he’d thrown me over his shoulder. I slapped his back and biceps, but it was no use.
“Wash, be honest. You’re angry that I didn’t come clean about vandalizing your vehicle? This is the NOPD’s secret, off-campus police station where you and Detective Frick and Frack are gonna interrogate me until I crack?”
“Campus or station, which is it, Maddy?” He carried me toward the nondescript building, his cologne playing a dangerous, intoxicating game with my mind. “And who is Frick … oh. You should choose one title or stop. Stop works. The detective wasRook, last time I checked.”
In order to protect myself from corrupt questioning, I unsheathed my talons, ready to scratch that beautiful face. Not the beard. One mustn’t take things out on the beard, with its scent of cocoa butter and testosterone. Nor the bald head. I’d never bethatmad at him.
The doors burst open, and two couples exited. One energetic couple giggled and bragged that they “owned” that room. The other were more chill, as though their rage room still contained their ragey-time or sexy-time.
Washington placed me down with a chuckle that rumbled his six-pack and me.
Minutes later, he’d paid the attendant, and we’d dressed in protective gear before entering room five. Inside, I glanced around. Graffiti walls. A perfectly good box television. Just needed a new antenna. At least, that’s what I thought. A fax machine from a different era. Actually, murdering the fax machine made sense. Who knew how to use those?
I turned, then focused on the plexiglass where people could watch. Okay, so the other couple didn’tget it in.
“It’s a forty-five-minute session. Get your hatred out.” Washington smirked, handing me an aluminum bat. “Time’s running out. With these prices, you gotta be on your last residuals of hate for me because I couldn’t afford the hour option after your spiteful ass removed the tags on that dress, without my consent.”
“Mm-hmm.” Firming the baseball in my hand while stepping toward the fax machine, I muttered, “You’re lucky they made you wear safety gear. Or I’d swing at your head.”
“Objection,” he deadpanned. “Judge immunity.”
“Overruled.”
The first crash satisfied me from head to toe. The telephone handset flew into the air, and I owned the fax machine. “That’s what you get. Soloud! So ridiculously hard to use.”
“You press FAX and dial the phone number, Maddy. Besides, this is about me, not the fax machine.”
“What about the paper? Which way do you insert the paper, Washington?” I growled, swinging the bat again.Crunch. The entire fax machine bounced on an old-school one-armed desk chair. That was about to get it too.
“Not bad.” He picked up a steel pipe and destroyed a simple black blender. Glass exploded against the wall, glittering into a thousand tiny pieces.
“Hey!” I snarled, kicking the desk. The metal legs scraped across the floor. “That’s a KitchenAid. When we met and started making smoothies, we had a KitchenAid. Disrespectful ass!”
Washington stomped on the blender’s handle, what remained of it. “Damn thing cost twenty dollars! Couldn’t put too much frozen fruit in it.”
True, but did I care? Yes. Way too much. Guilt had sucked me dry for once appreciating the lavish comforts life provided. My small home-based business hadn’t been enough to satisfy me, and I opened that expensive store in the Quarter. And …Ihad wanted our own private plane.
“Okay,” I nodded, bashing my bat into a porcelain sink. A crack webbed the white, glassy texture. “This is for yourjudgyass sermons about my triannual wine subscription when your golf club deliveries mysteriously multiplied.”
He stopped and stared at me. “Okay. I’ll own that.”
“You’d stand there,Mr. Supreme Court of Shine!” One more hit and I was a certified sink abuser. “Andyoulecture me like your word was going on a minute order. All I saw?” I snorted. “A man. A super-judgyman with a shiny scalp, who basked in the glory of handing down the verdict and … and the Vaseline.”Nice.That one just came to me.
“Madison.” Washington’s cautionary growl hit that Creole baritone that could melt me out of my panties.
I grimaced. “Okay, stricken from the record. The Vaseline joke was inappropriate. Accurate, but inappropriate.”
Head tilted, he smiled, while I glared at him and went postal on that sink again. Another chunk broke off. “And this is for showers that lasted three hours. What? Did you coat your empty follicles with a whole organic conditioner?”
He hit me with a lethal smile, then shook his head muttering that he never showered for three hours. “You good now?”
“Nope. I’m still on how, while pampering your follicles, you’d sing, and I mean sing, not rap.”
“Madison, don’t mention?—”
