categorically wasn’t invited to, but a home nonetheless. Ethan jutted his chin out at me, a glint of wildness in his eyes. It was a carnal spark that told me he knew Madison was a catch, and he wasn’t backing down.
All yours, Pedi Boy.
“I admit I’m not very knowledgeable when it comes to clothing. I’m hoping Maddie here helps me out.” He flashed her a smile and a wink. I ran my eyes along his body, assessing him.
“Sucks for you. The pot and the kettle going shopping. No retinas will be safe.”
I was now insulting both of them. Very bad form, considering she was about to help me. But they seemed wrong together, and she was so oblivious to it I couldn’t stop myself.
Mad rolled her eyes. “See what I mean about you not ever having to worry about him? He’s insufferable. I’ll see you tomorrow, Ethan.” She leaned forward, touching his chest as she kissed his cheek. Her lips lingered on his skin a moment too long, and my hands curled into fists, itching to grab her waist and physically remove her from him. “Good luck with the marathon.”
“Half marathon,” he corrected, hugging her tight.
Don’t look at his tights. If he has an erection, you might have to kill him, and your lawyer is in the Maldives on vacation.
When Mad and I stepped out of her building, my pulse returned to its regular rhythm.
“Do you smell that?” She sniffed the air theatrically.
“Smell what?”
“The urine from the pissing contest you just launched at my doorstep.”
I laughed. The 2.0 version of her was considerably more fun to hang out with, despite the constant headache she gave me. I said the thing I thought would rile her up the most, because seeing her cheeks turn pink was one of my favorite pastimes.
“I didn’t know golden showers are your jam. I am happy to accommodate this.”
“Chase!” she shrieked.
“What? It’d save water. I’m just being an environmentalist.” Somehow I thought Greta Thunberg still wouldn’t approve.
“That’s it—now I know it. The devil wears Black.”
She meant both my favorite color and my last name.
“Better the devil you know than the angel you don’t.”
“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.