Exhaling, Jasmine opened her eyes and on the wall right across from her was . . . a smoke detector.
She stood there for a moment, staring at the device and slowly her eyes widened.
Amen!
One last glance at her watch told her that she only had four minutes.
Jasmine kicked off her pumps, then dragged one of the chairs to the file cabinet that was under the smoke detector. She hiked up her skirt and as she climbed from the chair to the cabinet, she prayed that this was just like the device she had at home. Slowly, she stood on top of the cabinet, balanced herself, then reached for the smoke detector.
She had to stand on her toes (even her throbbing one) and stretch, but she reached the cap and twisted. Like the one at home, the cap snapped off and there was the test button.
Jasmine closed her eyes, said another quick prayer, then pressed the red button. The blast startled her at first, but she held the button down. Something would happen now for sure. Something just had to happen.
She held the button, not letting go, for what felt like the longest minutes. But there was still nothing. No people, no sound, no rescue, nothing. Her arm ached from stretching so far above her head and now every one of her toes pulsated with pain. She was dying to just give up, but she’d lived her whole life knowing that one day she was going to be on Oprah. She had to keep going.
One minute passed, two, then three.
And then . . .
The door opened.
“In here,” she heard a man shout. “The alarm keyboard said that it’s coming from in here.”
Still, Jasmine held on to the test button until the uniformed man stepped inside, looked up, and said, “What the heck?”
It must’ve been his shock that held him in place when Jasmine finally released the button and climbed down from the cabinet. “Thank you,” she said. “I was locked in here.”
When she jumped from the cabinet to the chair, it wobbled and the security guard rushed to her side. “What were you doing in here?”
“It’s a long story.” Jasmine slipped on her left shoe, then stuffed her throbbing toe into the right one. It took her a moment to stand up straight, adjust her jacket, and continue. “But I don’t have time to explain. I’m the guest on Oprah’s show this morning,” Jasmine said, hoping that the security guard would rush her onto the stage. “I have to get into the studio.”
The guard shook his head. “That’s not going to happen. We’ve cleared the building because of the alarm. Everyone is outside; Oprah, the audience, her guests . . .”
What guests? Rachel?
“What are they doing outside?”
“The fire—”
“But there is no fire.”
“Doesn’t matter. According to our regulations, we have to clear the building at the first sound of any alarm.”
“I set off the alarm.”
He shook his head. “We didn’t know that before. Gotta follow the rules for insurance purposes.” The guard tucked his hand beneath her elbow. “I’m sorry, Miss, but I’ve got to escort you outside.”
Jasmine hobbled beside him, wondering exactly how she was going to fix this. But then, she calmed her brain down. Everything was going to be all right. She’d been rescued and the smoke alarm had even stopped the show. At least now, she wouldn’t have to bum-rush the stage and be in the middle of some hot Negro mess in front of a live studio audience.
All she had to do was go outside, find Oprah, let her know that she was here and ready to go. And then that moot Rachel would be stuck on the sidelines, behind the curtain, which is exactly where she belonged.
“Okay, Miss, just go through here,” the security guard said as he pushed the door open.
Before she stepped out, Jasmine raised her eyes to the sky and said a quick prayer thanking God for letting everything work out after all.
The sun was almost blinding as Jasmine’s eyes adjusted to her freedom. She squinted and did a quick scan of the mass of women who stood packed together in what looked like a huge parking lot. For some reason, Jasmine felt as if she’d been here before—and then it hit her. This was the parking lot where Oprah had given away all those cars, all those years ago.
Limping, Jasmine roamed through the crowd of what felt like thousands, but really was probably just a couple hundred.
And there, in the front, in the middle of the masses was the Queen.
Trying to straighten up and walk right, Jasmine smoothed down her jacket and staggered over to Oprah.
“Oh, my God, Jasmine! Where have you been?”
Her eyes had been so single-focused that Jasmine didn’t even notice Yvette standing to one side of Oprah. Then, right next to Yvette . . . Cecelia King.
Jasmine frowned. Was Cecelia the guest that the security guard had mentioned? But before she had a chance to answer her own question, her eyes zeroed in on the woman who stood closest to Oprah . . . Rachel About-to-Be-Roadkill Adams.
Rachel whipped around and Jasmine could see the blood draining from that vampire’s face. Her lips looked like they were cemented together as Yvette continued.
“Rachel said that you had left.” Yvette began explaining the lie Rachel had told. “That you had an emergency at home and had called her to fill in for you.”
All this time, Jasmine had really liked Yvette. But right now, she wanted to slap the fool upside her head for even repeating that stupid story. How was she going to call Rachel to cover for her when Rachel was supposed to be in Houston? No wonder no one had come to look for her. Yvette couldn’t have two working brain cells if she’d listened to Rachel’s lie for even two seconds.
But Jasmine had no time to deal with that mud-duck, or the idiot that she and her husband had hired as a publicist. Jasmine would take care of both of them after the show. Right now, she had one mission.
She held out her hand even before she was in front of Oprah. “Miss Winfrey, I’m Jasmine Cox Larson Bush, your guest for your show this morning.”
Oprah frowned as she looked from Rachel to Jasmine. “I also heard that you had left for an emergency.”
“No, I’ve actually been locked inside your archive room.”
“What were you doing in there?” Oprah’s eyes were as big as Yvette’s, but when Jasmine glanced at Rachel, her eyes were cast down as if she was looking for something on the ground.
“I was pushed in there by this heifer,” she said, pointing to Rachel.
For the first time, Rachel stood up straight. “Who you calling a heifer?”
“What?” Oprah’s eyes blinked rapidly.
“I was pushed in there, locked in there by her.” She thumbed her finger in Rachel’s direction. “She actually thought she could take my place on your show.”
“I don’t know what she’s talking about,” Rachel said, sucking her teeth.
Jasmine’s eyes were full of fury. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, you low-life trick, and you need to—”
“Girl, I will cut your old-troll face right here.”
“Really? You think you can do that?” Jasmine said, forgetting where she was.
“Watch me, you sleazy ho!”
“Bring it, you country slut!” Jasmine said, one second away from tearing her diamonds out of her ears so that she could drop-kick this slug, right here, right now.
The crowd pressed closer into a cluster around them, their eyes on a performance that no one coming to Oprah expected, but one that might be just as good as anything inside the studio.
“Uh . . . uh, ladies.” Oprah held her hands up and glanced from one to the other. “I am not Jerry Springer. What is going on?”
Oprah’s voice saved Jasmine from a felony murder charge and she had to blink a couple of times to pull herself back from the edge. Dang! she thought as she took in the staring eyes around her. She really was in the middle of some Negro mess.
As she looked around, it was Cecelia’s eyes that stopped her. Cecelia’s eyes told the whole story—that Jasmine and R
achel were back to their old ways, both unfit to represent the ABC.
Behind Cecelia stood Pastor Griffith, wearing his own look of disgust.
She cleared her throat, ignored them all, and turned to Oprah.
“I’m really sorry about that, Miss Winfrey. It was just that I was so upset by what happened. But it doesn’t matter. I’m here now and ready to do the show.”
Oprah folded her arms. “Well, there’s not gonna be a show today.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s no time for us to do it.”
“Why not?” Jasmine said, feeling her opportunity slipping away. “We can go in there right now.”
“Not until the fire department has inspected the entire building.”
“But there is no fire!”
As if Jasmine hadn’t spoken, Oprah said, “By the time they do all of that, I’ll be out of here. I have to be on a plane to Los Angeles for an event I have to do tonight.”
“That’s why I’m saying let’s go in there now, because I set off the alarm. You can just call the fire department and tell them that.”
Oprah looked at Jasmine, then at Rachel, as if she was trying to decide which one of the two had any sense. After a moment, she turned to Yvette.
“For the first time in twenty-five years, I will miss doing a live show. Do you realize that?”
“Miss Winfrey, I’m so sorry.” Yvette had to raise her voice above the sirens that blared, announcing the approach of the fire trucks.
Oprah turned back to Jasmine and Rachel. “I have you two . . . women to thank for messing up my record.” Before any of them could say another word, Oprah stomped toward the gate, clearly more interested in talking to the firemen than to the two nutcases behind her.
Jasmine watched Oprah move farther and farther away, before she hissed to Yvette, “You’ve got to do something. Set it up for tomorrow . . . or later in the week. I’ll stay in Chicago.”
It was Yvette’s turn to look at Jasmine as if she didn’t have any working brain cells. “You must not get what just happened here. Do you really think she’s going to let any of us anywhere near her stage?” Yvette’s eyes darted between the two. “You and Rachel have ruined everything for everybody; do you know what it took for me to make this connection? This. Is. Oprah!”
“But she—” Jasmine and Rachel spoke at the same time as they pointed at each other.
Yvette held up her hand, stopping them. “I don’t even want to hear it.” She stared down Rachel first, but then Jasmine was shocked when Yvette turned her glare of rage to her.
“Look, I was the one who was pushed into a room with no way out. Don’t look at me like that. It was this bi—”
“Neither one of you need to say a word right now,” Yvette said, stopping Jasmine from cursing and setting it off again. “Both of you need to get your butts out of here so that I can try to smooth it over with Oprah.” Jasmine was hopeful until Yvette added, “Not for you, for my other clients!” Shaking her head, she added, “I need to figure this all out with Pastor Griffith.”
Then she stomped away, too, just like Oprah had, leaving Jasmine and Rachel standing in the middle of a crowd of women hopeful that some more Negro mess was about to jump off, because if they couldn’t get into Oprah today, at least they’d have front-row seats to this drama.
Chapter
FIVE
Everything inside Rachel wanted to sock Jasmine in her left eye. The chance of a lifetime had just slipped through their hands—all because Jasmine had to come raise a scene. And to think, she’s the one always acting like she’s the epitome of class. Class-less was more like it. What kind of woman would start a fight in front of the richest woman in entertainment?
Rachel glared at the woman standing eye-to-eye in front of her. Jasmine was so close she could see the dried Botox in the crevices under her eyes.
“This is all your fault,” Jasmine hissed.
“Let me tell you something,” Rachel began. Just then, out the corner of her eye, she saw a young woman giggling as she held up her iPhone, pointing it directly at them, no doubt hoping to catch some kind of fight on camera. A fight that would be uploaded to Facebook and YouTube before they made it out of the parking lot.
Seeing that brought Rachel back to reality. As much as she wanted to stomp this troll, she was above that. She’d left her gutter ways behind and she couldn’t let Jasmine take her there again.
Suddenly, Rachel heard a voice she’d come to despise in the six months Lester had been at the helm of the ABC. She groaned as Rev. Earl Griffith approached them. His brow was furrowed, his green eyes blazed with rage as he stomped toward them. He was definitely good-looking for his age, but since Rachel literally could not stand that man, she had never been able to see anything other than the ugliness of his ways. He had bogarted his way into every aspect of the ABC, wanting to give his input on every decision that was made. Rachel had told Lester on more than one occasion to put the man in his place. Of course, her husband had yet to do that.
“What in Sam Hill is going on?” Rev. Griffith bellowed.
Rachel couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw a flutter of uneasiness pass over Jasmine as she stepped away from the two. But she didn’t have time to read too much into it because the next thing she knew, Rev. Griffith had grabbed her by the arm.
“Have you lost your mind?” he said, pulling Rachel off to the side.
“Me?” Rachel asked, snatching her arm away. “You need to be talking to that old toad over there,” she said, pointing at Jasmine. But then the magnitude of his actions set in. He had literally grabbed her and pulled her off to the side. How dare he snatch her up like some child?
“She’s not the first lady of the American Baptist Coalition. You are,” he hissed. “And I can’t believe you’re out here acting a plum country fool. You need to leave that ghetto, backwoods mess back in Houston.” He pointed a long, scrawny finger in her face. “Don’t you dare come up in my city embarrassing me and drawing negative attention to the ABC.”
Rachel was dumbfounded. How was she getting all the blame? Come to think of it, what was he even doing here?
By this time, the crowd had eased over their way, no doubt trying to see if the fight would be moving from Rachel and Jasmine to Rachel and Pastor Griffith. Everyone had made their way over, except Jasmine. She still stood off to the side like she didn’t want to get involved.
“Are you listening to me, little girl,” Rev. Griffith said, snatching her arm again. “I don’t need this.”
Rachel had had enough. She was tired of being disrespected. It had been that way since she was a preacher’s daughter, and didn’t change once she became a preacher’s wife, despite her efforts to walk the straight and narrow. It hadn’t changed until recently, when she took over as first lady of the ABC. Now, people were finally showing her some respect and she wasn’t about to let this geriatric caveman treat her like some little pansy.
“Little girl?” It was her turn to point a finger in his face. “Let me explain something to your decrepit behind. I am not some little twit that you can order around. First of all, what happened here today is none of your concern.”
“None of my concern?” he asked incredulously, not fazed by her being in his face.
“Yeah, because in case you haven’t gotten the memo, my husband runs this organization. Not you. So, number one, you need to stay the hell out of our business. And number two,” she stepped even closer, not caring who was watching now, “if you ever put your crusty hands on me again, you will live to regret it.”
They stood glaring at each other. Rachel knew Lester would have a conniption fit when he heard what happened, but she didn’t care. Rev. Griffith had picked the wrong day to push her.
“Excuse me.”
Both Rachel and Rev. Griffith turned to face two burly security guards hovering over them. “Miss Winfrey has asked that we escort you off the premises,” one of them said. He motioned toward Jasmine. “All of yo
u.”
“You have got to be kidding me,” Jasmine mumbled. “We’re getting kicked out?”
The guard nodded firmly. “Miss Winfrey just thought that it would be best if we made sure that all of you got back to your respective vehicles.”
“I rode with my publicist,” Jasmine said, pointing to Yvette, who was standing a few feet away looking frazzled as she talked to a curly-haired woman who looked extremely upset. The woman threw up her hands, then walked away. Yvette took a deep breath, then stomped back over to Jasmine and Rachel.
“I hope the two of you are happy. I have never in my entire career been more embarrassed,” she said. “And now, not only did you mess up this interview, but you’ve put our second interview in jeopardy.”
Rachel’s left eyebrow raised. “What second interview?”
Yvette cut her eyes at Rachel, but said with exasperation, “On top of the show, we were also doing an interview with O Magazine.”
“What?” Rachel yelled, then quickly lowered her voice when one of the guards took a step toward her. “So she was going to be on the show and in the magazine? Without me?”
Yvette shot her a “not now” look. Rachel decided then and there that as soon as they got back, Yvette had to go, right along with Pastor Griffith.
“Now look,” Yvette said. “The interview is supposed to take place at Rev. Griffith’s place.” She finally turned to Rev. Griffith and acknowledged him. He grunted his displeasure and she shot him a look to tell him she understood his frustration.
“Why would it be there?” Rachel interrupted.
Yvette ran her fingers through her hair. It was obvious they were working her last nerve but Rachel didn’t care. It was Yvette’s job to tend to Rachel’s needs—at least for the time being.
“It’s at my place because Chicago is my home,” Rev. Griffith interjected. “And I have historical pictures that would make a good backdrop for the story on the ABC and Jacqueline’s Hope.” He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “I’m the one who called in favors to make the interview happen.” He glanced at his watch, then back up at Yvette. “I need to get going,” he huffed. “I would hate for the reporter to get to my place and no one is there.” He glared at Rachel again. “Besides, I need to get my head together on how we’re going to clean up this mess.”
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