“Should I?”
My lip pushed into a pout.Dang.I was never this petty. I needed to remember that I no longer wanted affection while I also lived in ash and hate. “Drop me off at my sister’s place in Parkview. Please.”
In no time, he drove along a lane of row houses.
“Madison? You sure this is the right house?” Washington’s brows scrunched together as he stopped and stared at a turquoise house with orange shutters. The house was a bitmuchfor my parents, like my occupation. Like Washington before he amounted to something as an attorney, then a judge. Backwhen my well-to-do family gave him the Lynn-Whitfield look. Basically, the look that gorgeous actress gave anytime she graced the silver screen. She always played the hell out of those bougie characters. We were those characters.
We,as in my family. They gave me the Whitfield look when I dropped the political science/law track at Stanford to pursue art at San Jose State. They’d blamed Wash.He wants a trophy wife, Dad had said.
Top lip curled, I reached for the door. Washington jogged around the car and opened it in a flash.
I blinked at him. “What are you doing?”
He shrugged. “Gotta get into the dating habit.”
I stared at his outstretched hand. “Why didn’t the cops arrest me sooner, Wash? Valentine’s was last week. Also, it should’ve been the Covington PD, not the NOPD.”
Mm-hmm. The answer to the last question was obvious. Although Montana’s mansion sat in Covington, Washington had cop buddies in New Orleans and never intended to press charges.
“Woman, you got to enjoy Fat Tuesday afterward, didn’t you?”
“Which puts us closer toMarch first,” I mumbled, refusing his offered hand.Note to self: Sleep through the first.That day we stopped playing God after our son had been on life support for two years, and he slipped away. It would mark three years since my baby said,I love you, Mommy. One more and time erased my four-year-old….
Washington helped me out of the SUV, anyway. “Maddy, I hadn’t considered the date. I’m sorry.”
The front door opened, and a chocolate Lynn Whitfield, a.k.a., my sister, coincidentally named Lynetta, stood with her arms folded. Her searing gaze wiped me clean of Washington’s touch.
Washington nodded toward her.
Lynetta’s narrowed eyes didn’t even soften.
“I’ll pick you up for dinner tonight,” he said.
Ugh. Time for invasive maneuvers. I dipped, acting as if my left leg had failed me. “Cramp.”
“Madison, what is he even saying? Dinner?” Her voice rose, tight, snobbish, and teeming with pedigree. “Maddy would rather see you in court again and contest your divorce!”
“Lynn,” I growled under my breath, limping up the stairs and inside with my fake cramp.
She slammed the door on my ankle. “Damn, Lynetta!”
“Don’t cuss at me. I returned from the Carolinas to an unlocked home! The Ring cameras showed theauthoritiescarrying my baby sister out of my home in handcuffs. Make me understand.”
My mouth opened. Closed. And opened again only to reposition itself. “See, what happened was … I got framed …” I stammered, recounting my story of innocence.
“You ruined the man’s vehicle?”
Scratching the nape of my neck, I muttered, “Technically some sexy sistah who resembles me did it. Anyway, you know how some artists are passionate about which medium they use.”
“True. I’ve seen tampons slapped on a canvas and someone labeled itart.”
My nose scrunched. “I know, right!”
Lynetta blinked. “Thatartist bought said canvas, Maddy! You’re vandalizing vehicles you don’t own. Stealing socks you don’t own. Are you having a midlife crisis?”
What in the bad karma had I walked into? I’d thrown the same question at Washington. “Hello, I’m younger than you!” I spun to face her in the all-cream living room. “Moreover, I don’t steal socks. I borrow them.”
“And never return them.”