Chapter 38 BIG MAD
big mad- sample
. . .
“That. Is. You!” Bad Cop must’ve thought he was grilling me like a two-dollar burger—bless his heart.
Seated across from me in the New Orleans PD interrogation room, he pointed at the photo they’d blown up.
I almost brushed my bangs away because panic had my forehead more shimmery than the shores near the Bermuda Triangle—and I’d be damned if it weren’t the place where common sense vanished.
But the blown-up picture on the metal desk between Bad Cop and me didn’t cook my anxiety. Nope. Video footage took those honors. Good Cop silently towered near a flat-screen television paused on … let’s call her the epitome of Excellence.
Not me.
That beautiful Black Queen used a metal bat on her husband’s Bent, ahem, somebody’s baby-blue two-door Bentley. The high-def video showed one flaw.
Righteous fury.
Bad Cop, a melted Ken Doll in a crumpled suit, leaned forward across from me. Hands resting on the table, he growled, “Admit it, Madison! That’s you.”
My bottom lip poked out with its own attitude problems. “I have an important meeting tomorrow morn—well, this morning. That’s another thing. I don’t appreciate y’all arresting me in the middle of the night.” I stared down at my fuzzy pajamas.
“You ain’t gonna make that meeting.” Bad Cop chuckled.
We glared at each other for a solid ten Mississippis. Somewhere close, a juicy fly did a U-turn just to increase the tension in this interrogation room. My glare flicked toward Good Cop, his tangled bird’s nest, and back into his icy gaze. What you gotta say?
“The footage is clear, ma’am. That’s you!” Good Cop squeaked. Well, damn, he’d been silent this entire time. Now I understood why. His voice was at least two feet shorter than his imposing six-and-a-half feet.
“You should’ve asked for the director’s cut, boo,” I winked. “That footage could be clearer.” Kidding. New Orleans PD must’ve confiscated this television from a kingpin.
Bad Cop slammed a hand onto the table. “You vandalized the honorable Judge Babineaux’s Bentley—
“Baby No,” I corrected.
“Babineaux. That’s what I said.”
“And Madison said, ‘Baby No.’ ” Another voice, seasoned with a deliciously rough Louisiana Creole accent, came from the interrogation exit. “Question. Did you use to call me Baby No when you were my wife?”
I tried not to look, but my stiff neck needed a stretch. And when I turned … mercy.
Standing in the doorway like a gift-wrapped pair of red-bottom heels with an apologetic matching bow—all of which I didn’t need—stood my ex-husband, Washington Babineaux.
He had the eyes and jaw of Shemar Moore. No, Boris Kodjoe’s eyes and build.
Okay, so, he was the pure beauty ChatGPT would spit out if a greedy woman asked for Shemar and Borris combined. All in a tailored suit.
How could I do this to myself? Be slightly, ever so slightly addicted, I mean, attracted to that man. He forced me to commit vehicular vandalism. I didn’t wake up on Valentine’s and say …
Wait. I did.
I had that plan. And it went off without a hitch … until some secret Ring camera or whatever caught me. But why take a week to find me?
“What?” I snapped, staring at the top of his shiny bald head. A safe spot. No. Never mind. He had that big scalp energy, all shine, no chill … and yet I remembered humming while I massaged his scalp with tea tree oil.
“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, “I’d like to know, did you always call me Mad?”
“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 of Nope like I had gum in my mouth. I twiddled with my blunt bob for added effect.
“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—”
“Whose 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 bracelet I never asked for clinked on the table. So embarrassing. “Ummm … Wash isn’t—”
Dang, I was calling my ex-husband by that personal name. “This isn’t SVU: Bald Order Edition, and Judge Baby No isn’t a cop. He can’t order you around.”
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 the decade I had cherished my first love. “It wasn’t me. If it was …” I licked my lips “… it would be because you’re a stalker. Says so on the passenger door. Does it have a matching driver’s side?”
He slammed his hands on the table. “That woman on the TV is your spitting image, Madison.”
“Fine, ain’t she?” I winked.
Almost could’ve sworn his mouth tugged to one side.
Thank you for checking out the sample for Big MAD.