The Devil Wears Black

“I can’t wait to get to know the angel better,” she retorted.

“I bet the angel doesn’t know how to do that thing with his tongue you like so much.”

“The angel makes me happy,” she snapped, reddening under her understated makeup. Mad was always good at that. Looking put together without resembling a Kiss band member.

“Bull. Fucking. Shit. He makes you comfortable.”

“What’s wrong with comfortable?”

“Comfortable would never set you on fire.”

“Maybe I don’t want to burn.”

“We all want to burn, Mad. It is dangerous, ergo, we want it.”

We proceeded to the subway. I decided grilling her about Grant and Layla would garner more hostility. As it was, if hate translated into electricity, Madison would detonate my ass. We took the train to the Upper West Side. Driving in Manhattan on Friday night was the equivalent of rubbing your dick across a grater: Technically possible, but why would you want to try?

When we exited the train, Mad stopped dead in her tracks, a look of horror marring her face. I turned back to her. “What is it now?”

“I forgot the banana bread.” She slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh shoot. How did you not remind me? I was so flustered when you and Ethan were doing a dance-off on my threshold I totally forgot to bring it.”

Like anyone gave a shit. Katie and Mom just wanted her to feel like they were looking forward to something other than her royal presence. Her ability to tolerate me mystified them. They weren’t actually looking forward to the banana bread. In fact, they weren’t looking forward to consuming anything that wasn’t wine or bad reality TV shows.

“It wasn’t a dance-off,” I pointed out.

“It was,” she insisted. “And you lost. Metaphorically speaking, you dance like everyone’s drunk uncle.”

“I do not dance like ev—” I closed my eyes, massaging my temples. I was not going to reduce myself to the intellect of a woman who could distinguish everyone in the Kardashian clan by name. Willingly. “They’ll manage without the banana bread.”

“But it’s dessert.”

“Hate to break it to you, but no one was counting on your banana bread. Julian and Amber probably had three catering companies and Gordon Ramsay himself working the kitchen since last night.”

“Well, I promised!”

Is it even legal to fantasize about doing things to her? I pondered at this point. She is mentally fifteen.

“They probably forgot.”

“I texted with Katie and Lori all week. They definitely haven’t.”

They were texting all week? Was that why Mom had gotten out of bed and Katie had actually showed up to work? A twinge of something ridiculous and unwarranted squeezed my chest. I ignored it, keeping my expression carefully blank.

“There’s a bakery around the corner.” I inhaled through my nostrils. “Do you want to buy a replacement, or is Martyr Maddie above tricking people?”

“A bit late to pretend I’m above that.” She waved her hand between us. Right. I’d made her tell a much bigger lie.

I realized Madison was the whole package. I should be acknowledged somehow for my stupidity. I’d thrown away a supreme fuck just because I was afraid she . . . what, exactly? Would trick me into marrying her somehow? That was never going to happen.

Tell that to the engagement ring she is wearing right now, which you gave her.

I suddenly remembered exactly why I’d stayed with Madison for longer than a week, even though I hadn’t had one serious conversation with her the entire time:

The sex was out of this world.

The baking was sinful.

She treated my family like, well . . . family.

In return, I’d cheated on her—that was what she thought, anyway—and never had met her father while he’d visited the city. Chances were, getting in her pants wasn’t in the future for me. It was best to get this over with as soon as possible.

I bought two loaves of banana bread from Levain Bakery while Mad dashed into a supermarket to get a baking tray. We met at an intersection just in front of Julian’s building. She took the banana bread from my hand, still wrapped in a brown paper bag, held the bag by the tip, and began to batter the bread against a building violently. I stared at her, as did the rest of the street.

“May I ask what in the goddamn world are you doing?” My voice came out more cordial than I thought was necessary. She was assaulting a baked good, after all. Very publicly, if I might add.

“No homemade banana bread looks as perfect as the ones from bakeries. I’m just making it look authentic,” came her swift reply, as she poured the distressed loaves into the tray she’d bought and covered them in plastic wrap. She was panting, her tits rising and falling in her tight dress.

I looked away, not thinking about how perfect her breasts felt in my palms.