Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
In the worst-case scenario, he’d make her look dumb in front of her mimosa crew. Best-case scenario? The same thing. An entire monologue thesis, except he would’ve finished her with a side of Crystal Hot Sauce and a mic drop. In retrospect, the best-and worst-case scenarios might need to be flipped. Since I would’ve loved to see him slay her ass.
But speaking of women who acted a plumb fool because of money, I wondered if he would feel me when I gave the brief description of my decision to create Francisco Philippe vases for Omari. Yeah, he’d understand, right? As the car smoothed over the Crescent City Connection, the bridge’s lights blurred into streaks. I shifted in my seat, rehearsing what I’d say. So, I’d begin, because every intellectual convo began with that two-letter word. Omari commissioned me to make a few fake vases.
Then he’d ask me to elaborate on the fakeness of the situation.
Nope. Not gonna do it.
Note to self: the only mention of fake includes us … our relationship. Fake and forced.
“Where are we going?” I asked ten minutes later. The streetlight hit that head with such perfection that my chest thumped. I found myself captivated by this man. My entire body was ready to commit anarchy. Lawd, why did he mention how I once massaged Dome Daddy? So disrespectful to my lady areas, which wanted to remain incognito.
Washington stopped in the parking lot of a suspicious, boxy warehouse. No windows. A few cars. The only streetlight cast a dim glow half a block away, leaving his sexy bald head sitting in a lonely shadow. I crossed my arms. “Where are we?”
“Rage room.”
“Why?”
Washington got out of his rented Range Rover.
I remained frozen when he came around to open the passenger door.
“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 was Rook, 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 be that mad 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’t get 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. So loud! 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.