His smile was wider than usual when he asked, “Would you mind taking that off?” He pointed to the royal-blue heart-shaped G-string.
She hesitated, but only for a moment. This still wasn’t sex, and it was all about the money.
When she honored his request, he inhaled a deep breath and asked, “Would you mind getting on the bed?”
“I’m not—”
But before she could finish, he said, “I want you to dance. Do you think you can do that standing on the bed?”
It was getting weirder and weirder. But really, it was no stranger than being in this room in the first place. So she worked it, unsteadily at first, until she found her footing on the firm mattress. She danced, without clothes, without music. A lap dance, on a bed.
Her legs began to tire; moving was much more exhausting standing over him like this. But while she was wearing down, he seemed more exhilarated. So she turned it up, getting closer to him, taking in the scent of his flower up close. Sharing her scent with him.
She danced.
He panted.
She wondered if talking would help move this along faster. She asked him, “Do you like it when I do this?” She was in his face.
His breathing quickened, and he nodded.
She turned around, shook everything she had, and his breathing became so heavy she thought he was going to have a heart attack.
He said, “You…can…stop now. Sit down, if you want to.”
She bounced off the bed, so ready to take her money and go.
As she reached for her clothes, he asked, “Would you mind…can you…lie down…next to me?”
She frowned.
“Nothing more. I want to lie next to you.” And then he added, “I’ll pay you more.”
More than five hundred dollars just to lie down? She agreed.
He clicked off the light. She adjusted her position to his. He, fully clothed. She, totally naked. As her head rested on the softness of his cotton shirt, she wondered, Who was this man who held her as if he knew her?
Light streamed in from surrounding high-rise buildings, adding a soft golden glow to the room. And soon, Jasmine could do nothing more than relax in the stillness.
It was the peace that made her stop thinking, made her ask before she had time to stop herself, “Who are you?”
His arm tightened around her a bit, not in a threatening manner, but in a way that made her think for a moment that he cared.
“My name…is Mr. Smith.”
When he squeezed her even more, she was surprised when she snuggled closer to him. This man was a stranger, yet he didn’t feel like one right now. She wondered how long he would want to lie this way; surely, his wife was expecting him.
For the first time, Jasmine wondered about the woman who had put the ring on his finger: What did she look like? How old was she? She was certain his wife didn’t know what Mr. Smith was doing. But like Viva had said, there had to be something that was missing at home—something that had driven this man into her arms. Something that she was giving him that his wife couldn’t.
That made her smile. For the second time since she’d joined Viva at Foxtails, she felt empowered. In this moment, she was far better than his wife—at least that’s what Mr. Smith thought or he wouldn’t have been here.
“Thank you for coming with me,” he whispered in the dark.
She wasn’t sure why she shared, “I was afraid to, at first.”
“I know.” He held her tighter. “But you don’t have anything to be afraid of with me.”
She believed him; that was why she closed her eyes to rest for a minute. She was sure Mr. Smith would be getting up to leave soon. She couldn’t see a clock, but it had to be close to midnight.
Her eyes didn’t open again until sunlight splashed through the window. She sat up with a start, her eyes darting around until she remembered. She scoped the room for any sign of Mr. Smith. But all that was left of him were the plants and an envelope on the nightstand. “Jasmine Cox” was scrawled on the front.
She was startled to see her name. They’d been told not to share their identities with the men. But her man—Mr. Smith—knew who she was.
She’d suspected it last night, when he’d told her about the flowers. Buck must’ve given him my name.
Jasmine slipped the ivory note card from the envelope and twelve fifty-dollar bills fell out.
When you are ready, a car will be waiting for you downstairs to take you home. In the meantime, order anything you like from room service. I will see you tonight, Jasmine.
I will see you tonight. Those were the words she focused on. Did he want to do this again? Would he pay her six hundred dollars next time also?
She leaned back against the soft pillows and calculated in her head. With Mr. Smith and Foxtails, she really would earn enough to finish school—and have money left over!
Jasmine bounced from the bed, tossed the bills above her head, and laughed as the money rained on her. She ignored the chill of the air conditioner as she danced around the room, thinking about all that she’d be able to do now. Like move into a better apartment. Maybe a two-bedroom, which would send all of those women who didn’t like her into a real tizzy. And she would be able to dress better. And get her hair done every week: get manicures and pedicures whenever she wanted.
But this wouldn’t be just about her. She’d give her dad a little bit of money, too. And she’d be able to buy Kenny anything he wanted—she’d start with the new Walkman he’d been talking about.
She laughed. “I wonder how much Mr. Smith would pay to sleep with me?”
Her laughter stopped. She couldn’t believe she was thinking that. Mr. Smith just wanted her to dance—and that’s all she wanted to do. So why had that thought come to her? She didn’t want to do that, did she…
“Mama,” Jacqueline called as she tapped her mother’s hand. “Mama!”
Jasmine snapped from her reverie. “Yes, baby?” But her eyes wandered down to the rhinestone letters that were on the front of her daughter’s T-shirt. She had on a matching one that Hosea had brought home for his favorite ladies two weeks ago.
Like mother, like daughter.
Jasmine lifted Jacqueline into her lap and hugged her. “I love you, you know that, right?”
“Yes,” Jacqueline sang and giggled. “Sing song, Mama.”
With the memories of her sins fresh in her mind, Jasmine sang the song about God’s love with her daughter. And as she sang, she prayed that God would always keep Jacqueline in His hands so that her daughter never, ever became like her mother.
FORTY-THREE
GENTLY, HOSEA PASSED THEIR SLEEPING daughter to his wife. “I’m going to get the mail.”
Jacqueline was knocked out, and in her sleep she weighed heavy in Jasmine’s arms. But even though her limbs were already aching, Jasmine could have held her daughter forever. She sighed, lulled by the calming rhythm of Jacqueline’s sleep breathing.
It had been a great time with her daughter, the perfect way to spend the day before the storm. Tomorrow it would begin, starting with Jerome Viceroy.
Jasmine followed Hosea into their apartment.
“Want me to put her down?” he asked.
Jasmine shook her head as she hugged Jacqueline tighter. “I want to hold her a little longer.”
Hosea nodded as he sorted through the envelopes he held. “What’s this?” He held the packet up higher. “Jasmine Pepper Bush?”
She had to fight to keep standing, to keep holding Jacqueline.
With a deep frown, he asked, “Why would someone call you Pepper?”
“Oh, you know,” Jasmine began. She had to rock Jacqueline in her arms to stop herself from snatching the envelope from him. “That was what some of the kids called me back in the day. Back in college.”
“Really?” he asked, taking Jacqueline from her arms and handing her the envelope. “I never knew that.”
“Yeah.” She laughed, hoping that her chuckle hid some of her
shaking. “People used to tease me for using so much pepper on my food. My friend, Viva, started it.”
“Oh.” He was already moving toward Jacqueline’s bedroom, thoughts of “Pepper” already gone from his mind. “I’m going to lay my pumpkin down.”
She had a gift—Jasmine knew that. The way her lies came so easily. And the way she could integrate just enough fact, right in the middle of her fiction.
Hosea wasn’t out of her sight before she spun around and dashed into their office. When she closed the door, she had to wait for her heart to slow down, wait for the shaking to stop.
This was her hell. Suppose she hadn’t been home? Suppose he’d opened the letter?
Calm down, she told herself. That nightmare had not happened.
She ripped open the manila envelope and snatched the letter from inside.
You have until Friday or your sins will come to light. You and Hosea will be destroyed—unless he steps down now.
She read the letter again, looking for that clue that Detective Foxx assured her would come. But how could a mistake be made in so few words? Just like with the last letter, there was nothing to be found.
She closed her eyes, leaned against the door, and let the envelope slip from her hand. Her wish was that she could stay locked up in this room through eternity—never having to face Hosea, or the church board, or anyone.
But then her fight came back. She had her plan; she could still win.
Shaking, Jasmine knelt down, grabbed the envelope, then moved to the desk. Her eyes scanned the letter and the envelope again.
Then she looked at the letter.
Back at the envelope.
Again and again.
It’ll be something small, but they get careless. They make mistakes.
She saw it!
“Jasmine?”
She jumped a foot into the air, startled by Hosea’s voice. With a quickness, she stuffed the letter into the desk drawer. “Huh?” she called out.
Her heart was beating wildly, but it wasn’t fear that sent blood pumping fiercely through her veins. It was exhilaration—she’d inhaled the sweet scent of victory.
She peeked into the hallway, looked at Hosea as if their world was normal. “I’m checking my e-mail. Malik said he sent me something to review.”
“Dang,” Hosea shook his head, “I love your godbrother, but he needs to put you back on the payroll if he’s going to work you like this.”
“I know, but you don’t mind, do you? It won’t take long. And I think he’s going to hire someone to replace me soon.”
“Nah, I was kidding. Go ’head.”
“I’ll make this quick,” she said, before she stepped back into the office.
Sitting in the chair, she slid the letter and envelope from the desk drawer and stared at both. Like Detective Foxx had said, her blackmailer had made a mistake!
All she wanted to do was to rush out right now and confirm it. But she didn’t have a good enough lie that would convince Hosea that she needed to leave their apartment in the middle of the night.
She’d have to wait until morning.
Still, she exhaled a long sigh of relief. After all these weeks. After all those threats. After all her nightmares…it was almost over.
Her line of attack was already in her mind.
First, she’d get confirmation.
Next, she’d go to the source.
And then, Jasmine Cox Larson Bush was going to get her sweet revenge.
FORTY-FOUR
JASMINE’S DAY BEGAN IN THE middle of the night.
She rose, moved stealthily through their bedroom, dressed inside her closet, and was sitting in front of the computer before the hands on the clock rolled around to five o’clock. The new day still had not yet begun to dawn when a half hour later, she scribbled a note to Hosea explaining how she’d forgotten to tell him about a very early meeting she’d scheduled with Malik. And it was a bit before six when the rental company delivered the car she’d ordered online—so that she could move around freely—to the front door of her apartment building.
As she climbed into the Lexus, she turned over what she was going to do. There really wasn’t much to her plan—just two parts: Confirm. Destroy!
Fifteen minutes later, as the tower of City of Lights at Riverside Church came into view, Jasmine could feel the hard beating of her heart, its pace rising as she got closer. She’d timed her arrival perfectly; the sun had made its debut when the tires of her car rolled over the gravel of the vacant parking lot.
Months had passed since Reverend Bush’s shooting, yet she still felt unsettled about being in the church alone. But her eagerness trumped her fear.
After turning off the ignition, she sat for a moment, praying that this was truly the beginning of the end. Then once she said, “Amen,” she shot into action. She jumped from the car and dashed to the door.
Her hands were shaking as she aimed the key for the lock—more anxiety. Stepping inside, the rubber soles of her sneakers allowed her to take silent steps across the area that Mrs. Whittingham claimed as her own. But Jasmine wasn’t worried about anyone hearing her—no one ever came to the church this early.
By the time she sat behind Mrs. Whittingham’s desk, the familiar emotional cocktail stirred inside of her. Her eyes scanned the desktop, but then her excitement waned a bit when she didn’t see what she was looking for. She scrambled through the folders that were neatly lined in the middle of the blotter, not caring about the neat stack that Mrs. Whittingham had left.
When she still found nothing, Jasmine opened the center drawer, rummaged through the rubber bands and paper clips and pens and pencils.
Her heart began to beat harder, but this time, it wasn’t from anticipation. Now it was fear…that she had been wrong.
She opened the top drawer on the left.
And she saw it.
The roll of stamps.
The Black Heritage ones that she’d discovered on Mrs. Whittingham’s desk weeks before. The ones that matched the one on the blackmail letter that had been sent to her apartment.
It will be something small. But blackmailers get careless: they make mistakes.
Mrs. Whittingham had made her mistake, Jasmine was sure. To anyone else, this evidence may have seemed flimsy, but Jasmine knew she was right. Mrs. Whittingham was the person who had been tormenting her. Mrs. Whittingham was the blackmailer.
It was on now.
FORTY-FIVE
“JASMINE LARSON, I CAN’T BELIEVE you’re calling me this early,” Mae Frances raved when she answered her phone without even saying hello. “Did you forget that I’m an hour behind you? Though sometimes I feel like I’m fifteen hours behind you. No, where I am in Texas sometimes I feel like I’m fifteen years behind you…”
“Mae Frances!” Jasmine yelled through her friend’s rant. She eased up on the accelerator and slowed down as the green signal turned to red. What she really wanted to do was to take every light. Get down to Mrs. Whittingham in record time. “I know who it is!” she screamed.
“Who what is?” Mae Frances asked through her yawn.
“The blackmailer. It’s Mrs. Whittingham!”
Jasmine could almost see her friend’s frown. “Sarai Whittingham?” She sounded alert now. “She’s not one of the suspects.”
“I know! Can you believe this? I’m still having a hard time digesting that she would do this to Hosea, but she’s the one.”
“How do you know?” Mae Frances asked, sounding doubtful.
Jasmine paused, not sure that she wanted to share what she’d found. She could imagine Mae Frances’s reaction.
A stamp? her friend would say before she laughed. Mae Frances would think that was ridiculous. You think she’s the blackmailer because you found a stamp? Anyone could have used her stamp.
And then Mae Frances would talk and talk until she talked Jasmine out of such a preposterous theory.
But this was a mind-heart thing. In her mind, she remembered what Dete
ctive Foxx had told her, and in her heart, she knew she was right.
Jasmine said, “I know it’s her, and I’m on my way over there now.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“Yup. You were right; Mrs. Whittingham did have a daughter, and then she let her parents raise her child as their own,” Jasmine said, giving Mae Frances the story she’d put together during her sleepless hours last night. “Can you believe how much of a hypocrite she’s been? I cannot wait to take her down.”
“Maybe you should think about this,” Mae Frances said slowly.
Jasmine couldn’t hide her shock. “Think about what? This woman has been torturing me for weeks. For years, really. Now, I’m gonna show her that she messed with the wrong one.”
There was a pause before Mae Frances said, “Sit back for a minute, Jasmine Larson.”
“You’re amazing.” Jasmine shook her head. “I thought you’d want to be on the first thing smoking out of Texas, wanting to get a piece of her yourself.”
“Now, you know Mrs. Whittingham is not my favorite person, but this situation—if you expose it—I have a feeling it could blow up on you.”
“But you’re the one who gave me the information!”
“Because I wanted you to have what you needed, but I want you to be smart, too. Before you do anything, think. It might be time for a little compassion.”
“She never had any compassion for me.”
“Well, those idiots in the Bible didn’t have compassion for Jesus either…”
Oh, brother! Jasmine closed her ears and rolled her eyes. Why had she ever taken Mae Frances to church? Her friend had been a much more effective ally when she’d been an atheist.
Mae Frances said, “All I’m saying, Jasmine Larson, is to talk to her and make sure she doesn’t say anything to Preacher Man about your being a whore—”
“Don’t use that word!”
Mae Frances ignored her. “But after that, let it go.”
Lady Jasmine Page 24