Big Mad (NOLA)

Chapter 1

mad

. . .

Why did I go to that masquerade ball, anyway?

I should’ve let endless rivers of champagne, king cake, and maybe a couple of selfies with the Valentine’s Mardi Gras centerpieces tempt me.

Hell, I could’ve photobombed the newly engaged couple during what was obviously a proposal party on steroids.

But no … I spotted my ex-husband’s new car. And I got MAD.

“Are you listening? That. Is. You!” The detective I’d dubbed Bad Cop sat across from me, pointing at an enlarged photo.

He must’ve thought he was grilling me like a two-dollar burger. Bless his heart. At least my ex-brother-in-law’s girl said yes to the dress. But did I get some crawfish and shrimp? Nope. I hadn’t even entered the venue before that shiny import made me snap!

Panic had my forehead shimmering brighter than the shores near the Bermuda Triangle. I almost brushed my bangs away but rethought any sudden moves. Because I’d be damned if this New Orleans interrogation room weren’t the place where common sense vanished.

But it wasn’t the blown-up picture on the metal desk between Bad Cop and me that cooked my anxiety. 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, masked Black queen used a metal bat on her ex-husband’s Bent- ahem, somebody’s baby-blue, two-door Bentley.

Bad Cop, a melted Ken Doll in a crumpled suit, leaned forward across from me. An audio recorder sat between us. Hands resting on the table, he growled, “Admit it, Madison! That’s you.”

“First of all, with a shape like that, I’d absolutely take the compliment.

Unfortunately, she’s wearing a Mardi Gras mask.

Sounds like this might make a good episode for Unsolved Mysteries.

Second, honey, I don’t even mind if you use this recording.

” I nudged my head toward the audio recorder.

“But this ain’t a museum, and I ain’t an exhibit.

So, you gotta hit my Cash App, Venmo, Zelle.

I could go on, I got ‘em all.” My bottom lip poked out with its own attitude problems.

“We’re over the jokes, Madison!”

“Good! Me too! 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. Dummies should’ve found me a week ago. Now, I was missing out on sleep.

“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, up to 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. At least seventy-five inches and probably 4K too.

Bad Cop slammed a hand on 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 door behind me. “Question. Did you 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 that 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 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, “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.

“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’t Bald & 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, did someone damage 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 on Legally 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. “If you aren’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.

He scrolled on his phone. “Someone created this expensive half mask for my brother’s fiancée. Custom-made, outta glass.”

“Venetian mask. Love it.”

“You didn’t blow the glass?”

“Nah.” I lied about the job. I couldn’t tell Montana no when he asked for my help, and I adored his fiancée, Zuri. “I’m not a glassblower anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Lost my shop, Mad Bold & Blown. If you remember, it was the only thing my husband allowed me to take in the divorce.”

He wriggled his jaw. “That’s a lie. Bold lie, Maddy.”

I shrugged. “Oh yeah, that’s just the story I tell everyone.

” Truth be told? By the time we finally divorced a year ago, I’d lost my mind.

Had already lived two years in purgatory.

Told the judge no alimony. Had said, Don’t cut the house in half.

Legit, don’t do it. It would look awkward.

I might fall from the second floor while sleepwalking because of the depression.

Besides, there wasn’t a big enough power saw.

Told ‘em to keep the Mercedes. I only wanted my glass decor store. Thought I’d make something of myself without the Babineaux name.

“You-you don’t have Mad Bold & Blown anymore?” His voice lowered.

I lost my reason to create three years ago.

“Talk to me. Maddy …”

“Okay, you want the truth?” I twisted my hips, making the chair swivel left and right, leisurely and bored.

“Please,” Washington replied.

I pressed the stop button on the audio recorder. At least my jailhouse accessories didn’t stop me from that.

He tapped it back on.

Off.

On.

Off.

Washington folded his arms. “Whatever. Be honest.”

“First.” I pulled my cuffed hands toward me. “Confirm you won’t press charges. Verbally. Regardless of what I say.”

“What?”

“Say it out loud: I, Washington Baby No, won’t press charges against Madison Spencer.” I almost winced at my maiden name. Thought I’d be Team Wash forever. “I don’t trust you, so say it.”

He wriggled his jaw. “If you don’t trust me, what’s the difference?”

“Because. If there’s another recorder in here, your word will trump what I reveal.”

“Okay, Maddy. Be honest.”

“I.” Swivel left. “Did.” Swivel right. “It.” Chuckle. I was too grown for this crap, but he’d taken my best years … my curvy pre-mommy bod too. “Your turn, stalker.”

“Madison Selene Spencer, I didn’t stalk you, chère.

” That sexy Louisiana Creole accent drenched his usual swagger, a swagger I taught him in college.

I’d made him. The suits. The beard. That shiny bald head I once rubbed like my precious.

Yeah, that sucker concealed the world’s smartest brain, but …

Wait. Did this sun-drenched, beautiful brainiac use my entire government and say he hadn’t stalked me?

“What do you mean you didn’t stalk me … every night for months?”

“It wasn’t me.”

“You f-followed me i-in y-your car?” Shock cracked my voice, but I concealed it by slamming my hand on the table. “I saw you. I saw your car.” If not him, then which one of the Babineauxs? The guy had three younger brothers. One of them …? He stood there, shaking his bald head.

Man. This hurt.

I meant nothing to him?

My husband for almost fifteen years.

My first.

I gave him a … son.

And he hadn’t even stalked me? What kinda of crap was this?

I snapped. “You a bald-faced lie.”

He scoffed through those lips that once adored me. “You mad I wasn’t stalking you, Madison?”

No! Big Mad.

Giving someone your attention is arguably the greatest gift. Why? Because your time is your life. And I wasn’t worth a single second in Your Bald Honor Babineaux’s life. Not anymore. Life kept moving, and he’d moved on with it.

But somewhere beneath that gleaming scalp and endless rules sat a man who once made me feel alive. Special. And he hadn’t even stalked me?