Jasmine

by Bene, Jennifer

  Because having Jasmine underneath me is perfection. Her body was made for mine, made to come together like this, and although I want it to last I feel the electric tension in my spine as pleasure suddenly surges, and I groan as I spill my seed inside her in a rush.

  “Jasmine…” I whisper, our heavy breaths mixing together as I kiss her in the pale light, tasting her lips. I would like to just stay in bed with her, to pull her against me and let her rest a little longer… but it’s Friday and that means I need to move the cows to the next pasture. I’ve put it off already once, and I promised myself and God that it would be done today. That means I’ll have to keep Jasmine in the basement so the Devil doesn’t tempt her to sin again.

  I know this day of separation will seem long, but with my seed inside her she’ll have something to remember our time together.

  I reach up to brush her cheek and notice tears in her eyes before she closes them. Jasmine must remember what day it is. She doesn’t like the basement, and the day will come when it won’t be necessary. In time she may even ride out with me and help. The thought makes me smile as I kiss her again. She’s always loved animals, and one of her favorite things was to ride the horses when she came to visit. Soon we’ll be able to do that again, and my chest fills with joy as I imagine the wind whipping her hair as she smiles and laughs.

  I look forward to the day I see her beautiful smile again.

  “I love you, Jasmine,” I whisper against her lips, and then I pull away, climbing off the bed. If I let myself lie in bed I’ll give into temptation, fall back asleep beside her, and the day will be wasted.

  I’m about to go shower when I look down at her and notice a haze of dull red between her thighs just before she closes them. Looking down, I see the same reddish haze around my manhood, another swipe of it on my thigh, and my heart starts to race. “Jasmine… did I— did I hurt you?”

  “Yes,” she whispers, and I feel sick.

  “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t—” The words stick in my throat, choking me as I look down at the blood. Because it is blood, I know the sight of it, and I feel nauseous.

  She opens her eyes again, barely lifting her head to look at me and I watch as her eyes drop to my hips before she parts her knees to look between them. For a moment I see something like surprise pass over her face, and then she swings her legs over the edge of the bed to stand. When she starts to walk past me, I catch her arm as gently as possible, but she yanks it free, and I don’t blame her. I’ve hurt her, and I don’t know how.

  “Jasmine, please, I don’t… what did I do?” I ask, unable to suppress the panic creeping in.

  “You hurt me,” she snaps, stepping back from me. “Did you really think that fucking wooden rod wouldn’t hurt me? It did! And then you kept fucking me! You keep fucking me!”

  “You’re bleeding,” I mumble, unable to even correct her language. I look down at my body, still in disbelief. God will be angry for this. I will have to punish myself in the barn, but only after Jasmine is safe. After I move the cattle. Tonight. Tonight I will punish myself.

  Jasmine huffs out a small laugh and walks past me, saying, “Yeah, I am.”

  I turn and follow her, concern burning through me because I am supposed to keep her safe. As her husband I must always keep her safe, but somehow I hurt her… even though I don’t think I did anything different when we lay together. “Please tell me what I did wrong, I’ll never do it again.”

  She gives another quiet laugh, ripping back the curtain on the bathtub and starting the water. She doesn’t answer me, and I don’t know what to do. Normally I would demand she answer, but I keep seeing the haze of her blood on my skin and I can’t do anything.

  Turning, I return to the bed and see a spot where she was. It’s a shadow of red, a few smears across the fabric. If I had hurt her badly there would be more blood. Even though it’s not much, it’s more than enough to have my heart pounding and my vision tunneling as I go back to the bathroom, where she is already in the shower. “Jasmine, I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?” she asks through the curtain. “Oh my G— I can’t do this.”

  “Are you still bleeding?” I ask, and she makes that sound that is like a laugh but isn’t.

  “Of course I am.”

  “Perhaps you should lay down? Let God take his time to heal you, and I will—”

  “Just stop!” Jasmine makes a sound of frustration as I hear water pouring off of her. “Yes, you hurt me. You always hurt me, but this is… it’s— it’s my period.”

  “You’re… menstruating?” The realization settles slowly over me, and I touch a hand to my chest where my heart is still beating wildly. “I didn’t hurt you?”

  “No, you did hurt me. You have to know that, you have to realize that you hurt me,” she says and I walk forward to pull the edge of the shower curtain back. She has a washcloth in her hands, but she freezes as her eyes meet mine.

  “I did not make you bleed.”

  Her jaw is tense as she stares at me, refusing to answer, but all I feel is relief. I didn’t hurt her. The punishment was painful, but it was supposed to be, and she’s healed from it. This morning I did nothing wrong, it’s just her body doing what women’s bodies do. It’s natural.

  But sadness follows quickly on the heels of relief as I realize what this means.

  She isn’t pregnant. God has not blessed us with a child this month.

  Letting go of the curtain, I turn away and return to the bedroom to sit on the edge of the bed. Her blood is on my skin, and the bedding. I will have to shower it off me and she will need to clean the sheets, as well as my shirt, so that the blood doesn’t stain. Technically, laundry day is tomorrow, but if she works on it today it will keep her busy while I move the cattle.

  And as I work, I will contemplate why God did not find me fit to become a father.

  * * *

  Her

  As he leads me down the steps into the dim, dusty basement, I cringe at the smell of damp that permeates every breath of air in this fucking room.

  I hate it when he locks me in here, and he knows it. However, his ‘love’ doesn’t extend to letting me roam the house when he’s far away. I only got the chance to run the other day because I knew he was inside the barn, occupied. I saw the opportunity, knew that if I could just get on the other side of the rise leading up to the house he wouldn’t be able to see me anymore. He’d think I was still inside, waiting for him, and he had… but it hadn’t mattered. I’d failed.

  Defeat washes through me as we stop near the old washer and dryer. I drag the bag of dirty clothes and sheets over to it, clutching the box of tampons at my side. Daniel sets his bloody shirt on the washer and then turns, facing me.

  “There is a scrub brush and a basin on that shelf, you’ll need to work on the blood to—”

  “I know how to get blood out of clothes,” I interrupt, my irritation showing through, but he just nods.

  “Good. I will not be back until late this evening, but don’t worry, Jasmine.” He steps closer, and I have to fight the physical urge to shove him away as he brushes my cheek with his huge hand. “Time will pass quickly with good works.”

  I don’t speak, standing stiffly as he presses a kiss to my lips and another to my forehead before he moves back. I may hate this fucking basement, but any moment away from him is good.

  Just as he starts up the stairs, I realize there’s a problem. “Wait!”

  He turns and almost smiles. “Jasmine, I promise it will not feel so long, and—”

  “No.” I shake my head, sighing with ill-concealed irritation. “I’m on my period and there’s no toilet down here. You can’t expect me to use the bucket right now.”

  With a sigh of his own, he rubs the back of his neck and looks up at the basement door, thinking slowly. Eventually he shakes his head. “You must earn the right to be in the house while I’m gone, Jasmine.”

  “You can’t be serious.” The words come out on reflex, but one loo
k at his placid expression let’s me know he is. Gritting my teeth, I open the box of tampons and count them quickly. “There’s only five in here, you’ll have to get me more. Today.”

  He is silent for a moment, his brows pulled together as he studies the floor at our feet. Eventually he shakes his head. “No, I cannot go into town today. Moving the cattle will take all day. I will go tomorrow to get you your things.”

  “But… please don’t leave me down here,” I beg.

  His flat brown eyes meet mine.

  “You will have to earn the right to be upstairs, Jasmine.” He points to the napkin-wrapped sandwich beside his bloody shirt. “You have lunch, and that is all you need. Good works will bring us both closer to God today, and I know He will bless us with a child soon.”

  Before I can even come up with a response to that insanity, he’s trudging up the stairs with heavy footfalls, and I have to clench my teeth so I won’t scream. The damn bucket in the corner, with the roll of cheap toilet paper on the shelf beside it, is the worst part of the basement. Usually I’m not down here long enough for it to matter, but today it will. I won’t be able to hold it for an entire day, and I’ll have to change my tampon no matter what.

  Motherfucker!

  The rage I feel burns bright for a second before I turn to look at the washer and dryer and my fury fizzles, drowned by the futility of it all. I can’t do anything with my hate. There’s no solution here. The short windows at the top of the wall are too small for me to squeeze through, and the door has a latch and a padlock on the outside, not a simple door lock that I might be able to teach myself to pick.

  It’s hopeless. I’m hopeless.

  And the only way I’ll get another chance to run, to escape, is if I play his dutiful wife for long enough to get him to fucking trust me again. To earn the right to be upstairs.

  All I can do is cross my fingers that the blood will keep him away from me for a few days. If I don’t have to deal with him touching me, I can fake it. I can be Jasmine for him… and then I’ll get out.

  I have to.

  Ten

  Mason

  Over an hour in traffic and I’m ten minutes late to this girl’s apartment where the definitely-dead Sloane Finley used to live.

  Three o’clock on a Friday afternoon in LA is a shitty fucking time to schedule an interview. What was I even thinking? I should’ve never agreed to work around her schedule. I should’ve just told her to skip classes since she’s the one who started this shitshow in the first place. It takes me another ten minutes to find her crappy little apartment in this crackerbox complex, and I’m pissed before Trish Tucker even opens the door with a slim smile.

  “Hello, you must be Agent Jones.”

  “That’s correct, Ms. Tucker.” Somehow I manage to sound slightly less irritable than I actually feel as she waves me inside.

  “We can sit at the table to talk, if that’s okay. Do you want some coffee?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Setting my briefcase down, I stretch my back out for a moment before I take a chair. Ms. Tucker returns with a cup of coffee, setting it on the table as I take my seat. The first sip takes the edge off, and I manage another “Thank you” as she sits across from me.

  I flip open my file, catching the pain that washes over her face the second Sloane Finley’s pictures come into view. That alone makes it clear Trish Tucker isn’t the normal LA trash I deal with. Based on the LAPD’s notes, I know she’s a journalism student, which tells me she’s idealistic, probably passionate, because everyone knows that journalism is a dying field, and only someone with those qualities would voluntarily go into it. And the look she gave a moment ago tells me, at least on the surface, she’s a decent young woman who has the critical character flaw of caring about people — including her ex-roommate.

  I start with the boring shit. Reviewing the same questions from her previous interview with the LAPD about her connection to Sloane. How they met, job, roommates, blahblahblah. She gives the same basic answers she did before. No mistakes, no slip-ups, nothing that’s even remotely interesting. Trish Tucker is surprisingly straight forward, not hysterical or dramatic, and as I finish the cup of coffee, I have to admit I don’t dislike the girl as much as I expected.

  Time to ask a few of my own questions.

  “So Ms. Finley’s plan was to make this road trip as a way to generate publicity for herself?”

  “That’s what she hoped.” Trish pushes a strand of long black hair behind her ear, the tone of her voice wavering a little.

  “And you said you were following her progress on social media.”

  “Yeah. Facebook, Twitter, Insta. She was posting pictures from every place she stopped. You know, in front of weird things, funny signs, or scenic spots. Just like Lexie Strassen had done.”

  “Right. The road trip she took right before the release of Homecoming.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did you think of her plan, if I may ask?”

  “I thought it was…” Trish looks down at the tabletop, chewing a fingernail before looking back up. “I told her I thought it was dumb. That Lexie Strassen had a bunch of publicists that had set it up, primed the media, and that she probably hadn’t made an actual road trip at all, but had just had herself photoshopped into a bunch of pictures to make it look like she had.” She stares at me as if I might think her assessment criminal, which is comical because I have no doubt she is one hundred percent correct.

  “Ms. Finley obviously thought differently.”

  “Yeah.” She presses her lips together in a thin, tight line before continuing. “She said I just didn’t understand how to engage. That this sort of thing was necessary to generate buzz about herself, and that once she’d completed it she’d be able to leverage it with agents based on all the followers she’d be getting. So they’d have to fast-track her into decent opportunities to ride the wave she’d created.”

  I want to laugh, but I keep my face straight. “It would seem Ms. Finley knew quite a lot of buzzwords.”

  Ms. Tucker’s laugh is sharp and mirthless. “Yeah, and she didn’t understand a single thing about the reality behind any of them. That was Sloane’s problem. She’d learned the lingo, and she thought it was like grandma’s pie recipe at the county fair. You just follow the instructions, use the right ingredients, and — boom! — guaranteed ribbon.”

  “That’s not the way it works?”

  “No, Mr. Jones. That’s not the way it works.” Her tone is thick with disapproval, making it clear she knows I know better. I can’t help but smile.

  “You’re from LA?” I ask, not wanting to dig through the file again to verify my instincts.

  “Born and raised.”

  “Parents in the business?”

  “Dear God, no!” She rolls her eyes, not even trying to mask the disdain that laces her chuckle. “My dad’s an engineer at Northrop. My mom works for US Bank.”

  “You seem to know a lot about the business.”

  She gives me an assessing stare. “Are you from LA?”

  I match her gaze. “I’ve lived here for over 20 years.”

  “Touché.” She tilts her head to the side, lips pulling taut. “Then you know exactly why I know this stuff.”

  “Hard to escape it, isn’t it?”

  “Everyone has a script, Mr. Jones.” Crisp, direct, and straight to the point. She’s not what I expected from the outset, the overly concerned roommate, and it’s refreshing. Maybe I can be blunt with Ms. Tucker.

  “Ms. Finley was naïve,” I say, leaning back from the table.

  “That wouldn’t be putting too fine a point on it.” Trish blows out a breath. “Look, Sloane wasn’t stupid, Mr. Jones. I want to be clear about that.”

  I nod, letting her continue what she obviously wants to share.

  “But…” There’s another huff of air. “Yeah, as far as LA goes, she was your typical Midwest girl come to town to make it big. The thing was… she was just smart enough to be dangerous, but
too sweet to be the kinda smart you need to be to survive here.”

  I can’t help but chuckle.

  “Yeah, exactly.” Trish shakes her head a little. “She would make friends with anyone that was even remotely nice to her and never recognize until it was too late that they only had one intention — to get whatever they could out of her.”

  “Boyfriends?”

  Trish holds up two fingers. “Two, at least in the time I knew her. Both jerks. One more so than the other.”

  “Slept with them?”

  “Yeah. Like I said, she had trouble recognizing people’s motivations. I talked to her about it, but it was always the same thing.” Trish pinches the bridge of her nose between two fingers. “I was jaded, I had ‘trust issues,’ I wore my cynicism like a suit of armor.”

  “Nice imagery.”

  “Like I said, she wasn’t stupid. Everything to her could be figured out by following a formula. You just needed the right formula. And Sloane was always looking for the right one, always willing to try something different if she thought it’d get her the results she wanted.”

  “Like going on a social media-curated road trip.”

  “Yep.” Trish draws the word out on a tongue dripping with irony.

  “She never tried the path through The Valley?”

  Trish’s left eyebrow goes up a tic. “Porn?”

  I let the silence answer for me and she sighs.

  “No, Mr. Jones. That is one thing I can assure you she never even contemplated. She liked guys, wasn’t above the vanity of having a good-looking dude hanging off her arm, and — hey, what do I know? — maybe she even enjoyed whatever she gave up in the bedroom. Her boyfriends never came out in the morning looking like they’d had anything but a bang-up time. But they both left her after they got what they wanted. Getting laid here is like eating sushi. No sense in grabbing a piece in the same place twice when there’s a new bar that just popped up a block away, you know?”