Momma elbowed me after a moment. “Mô garçon, if you’re gonna stand there looking pitiful, at least do it with purpose. Broaden them shoulders.”
Too busy watching Madison, I barely heard her. My wife stopped at an art stall, and a man, glancing around, approached her wearing tight jeans and dingy-ass confidence. He hugged her as if he’d been waiting.
Work meeting, my ass!She was on a date. “Uh … Momma. These are getting too heavy,” I lied, lifting the tote bags while eyeing Maddy. “Lemme put them in the car. Be back in a minute.”
Madison and her date, some pale-looking brotha, not Omari Riche, strolled toward the New Orleans Museum of Art, located farther inside City Park. This woman was trying to take my life!
How was she dating multiple dudes and my closest relationship was a large oak tree? I was rubbing all up on the bark and everything as I worked my way around it to stalk her. Then I retraced my steps to the building’s side, all007meetsMission Impossible. I crept around the ionic pillars and glanced inside the museum. Damn, where were they? I cussed under my breath, did a full three sixty, and found Madison and her date standing on the farthest side of the fountain by the driveway, looking over the lake.Romantic ass.
I strolled toward them, leaving Momma’s tote bags on the short fountain edge facing NOMA. Then I strutted around the cold stone, chest puffed out like George Jefferson, knowing good and well I’d listen in first.
With my vantage point of half her face and the back of his head, I assessed the situation and sighed.Oh, thank God. Everything was going left. The guy tilted his phone her way.As Madison glimpsed the screen, she stepped back, and her expression went from polite toboy, you got me messed up.
From my angle, I caught sight of the screen.
No. Nope. The audacity was on full display, in high definition. But it was little. Noodle little.
Dude was one pixel away from having me come out of my farmers-market Nike-Tek suit and into a mugshot.
mad
. . .
My mouth dropped open so fast, I almost swallowed my tongue. I stared at this fool, gauging the contagiousness of his stupidity. “I don’t know if your brain packed up and decided to hide in your ass,” I growled, “but I am not the one, Chad! Put. That. Away.”
Cheap body spray, as slimy as his smile, overpowered me as he tried to lean in. “I thought, since you do custom glass, maybe you could immortalize me.”
“Immortalize? Baby, the only thing about that picture that deserves immortalization is your nerve.” I pointed at the tiny, mocha member on his phone. “Becausethatain’t sculpture material. That’s a clearance item.”
He blinked, confused. “You’re saying … it’s small?”
“Okay, delusional and perverted!” I snapped. “You’re lucky I left my blowtorch in the car, or I’d have …”
My retort trailed off in the mid-March air when a hand clutched Chad’s shoulder from behind. The little freak jerked, twisted, and tried to yank free, but Washington strolled around until he was at his side. That unforgiving hold was stronger than any best-selling eyelash and wig glue combined.
“Chad?” Wash’s voice rolled like thunder on Bourbon Street. Deep. Calm. Lethal.
“Who the hell are you?” Chad sneered.
“I’mJudgeWashington Babineaux, herhusband.”
I wasn’t sure what caused the man’s knees to buckle. The first or the second title.
While the man rambled explanations and apologies, Washington adjusted his grip enough to bring the dude to his knees. He asked Chad’s last name, which he used so casually as if checking the weather. “Chad Finkle, are you familiar with Louisiana Penal Code Section 14:106?”
Chad froze. “Uh, no, sir?”
“Judge Babineaux. I’m gonna assume you haven’t gone to court before the State of Louisiana. Allow me to educate you.” Washington leaned in, his Creole growl audible over the crowd. “Exposing a woman to your male …bitswithout consent? Falls under indecent behavior. If she wants to press charges, she can.”
Chad’s mouth flapped like a fish. “I-I didn’t mean to. I respect your-your … is she really your wife?” He muttered, “Oh God, oh God,” before Washington even gave a firm nod. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Babineaux.”
Washington shoved him in the chest, and Chad stumbled back. “Mr. Finkle, check yourself, your ego, your damn phone, and get the hell outta here.”
Chad nodded so fast that his neck gave a painful jerk. “Yes, sir.” He ran off.
My ex-husband pinned me with a glare, head tilted sideways, bald head my forever dream. “Madison, why are you over here tryna give me a heart attack?”
“I could’ve handled him.”
