Temptation: The Aftermath
© 2017 by Victoria Christopher Murray Brown Girls Publishing, LLC
www.BrownGirlsBooks.com
ISBN: 978–1–944359–58–4 (Digital)
978–1–944359–59–1 (Paperback)
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means including electronic, mechanical or photocopying or stored in a retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages to be included in a review.
First Brown Girls Publishing LLC trade printing Manufactured and Printed in the United States of America
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It is reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped” book.
Chapter 1 — Jasmine Cox Larson Bush
Chapter 2 — Kyla Blake
Chapter 3 — Jasmine
Chapter 4 — Kyla
Chapter 5 — Jasmine
Chapter 6 — Kyla
Chapter 7 — Jasmine
Chapter 8 — Kyla
Chapter 9 — Jasmine
Chapter 10 — Kyla
Chapter 11 — Jasmine
Chapter 12 — Kyla
Chapter 13 — Jasmine
Chapter 14 — Kyla
Chapter 15 — Jasmine
Chapter 16 — Jasmine
Chapter 17 — Kyla
Chapter 18 — Kyla
Chapter 19 — Jasmine
Chapter 20 — Jasmine
Chapter 21 — Kyla
Chapter 22 — Jasmine
Chapter 23 — Jasmine
Chapter 24 — Kyla
Chapter 25 — Jasmine
Chapter 26 — Kyla
Chapter 27 — Jasmine
Chapter 28 — Jasmine
Chapter 29 — Kyla
Chapter 30 — Jasmine
Chapter 31 — Kyla
Chapter 32 — Kyla
chapter 1
Jasmine Cox Larson Bush
The coffee pot slipped from my hand, crashed to the floor, but made no sound. I didn’t hear anything because the image on the television screen was louder than any noise. “Jasmine!”
I heard Hosea’s shout and I even comprehended that he’d called my name, but there was no way I could respond. The shock kept me silent.
“Darlin’!” Now, my husband stood in front of me. “What’s going on?”
It was only when his hand touched my shoulder that I was able to step out of my fog. But I did it only with movements, because still, I had no words. I lifted my arm and pointed to the television that was perched on the kitchen counter.
Hosea picked up the remote and aimed it at the TV, increasing the volume.
“The perpetrators of this, what’s come to be known as a flash rob, are still at large,” the NBC reporter holding the mic spoke to the camera. She was standing in front of Harlem Hospital and a ‘Breaking News’ banner was across the bottom of the screen. “But the police chief said that while there were dozens of teens who entered the store, they have no doubt they will find the shooter and the others and bring them to justice.”
The television screen switched shots, this time moving to an image of New York’s police commissioner, Ted Hardwood, standing in front of a podium and facing a gaggle of reporters.
“We want to insure the citizens of New York and all visitors that our city is safe. Crime, especially violent crime is way down, and it is unfortunate that this happened during the American Medical Association convention, one of the largest conventions to come to New York. We also want to let the family of Doctor Jefferson Blake know that we will use all of our resources to find the shooter and everyone involved. And we’re sending Doctor Blake’s family our thoughts and prayers.”
Now, Hosea stood as still as I was as the screen switched back to the news anchor.
“There is one last thing, Kristen,” the reporter spoke to the anchor in the newsroom.“This morning, the police are reporting that they’re looking for a potential witness who may be able to identify the shooter. The manager of the bodega said that Doctor Blake came into the store with a woman and the police are searching for her to get more information about ….”
The sound faded as Hosea, once again, used the remote and this time, quieted the television. He set the remote on the table, then turned to me. I knew that he wanted an explanation. His questions weren’t verbal, though; he interrogated me with his eyes.
Finally, I was able to squeak out, “I know him.” I paused to give my brain time to compute.“I know Doctor Blake.” Another pause. “Jefferson Blake.” And then another. “Jefferson.”
“Really?” Hosea said.“Wow! I saw the news I guess just minutes after it happened.”
I tilted my head. “You saw it? When?” My voice was still shaky. “Last night. It was a breaking story.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“First, it was after midnight and you were asleep and second, I had no idea you knew this dude.” He paused and glanced at the TV once again. “So, you know him? Like know-know him or just know of him?”
The way Hosea asked that question brought back a flood of memories. Of that time with Dr. Jefferson Blake. Of that time when I knew this man in the truest sense, the biblical sense. Of that time when I slept with my best friend’s husband.
Hosea was giving me that look again, that glance that was filled with questions. “I … know … know him.” That was my way of telling the truth, I guess, without actually telling the truth. I took a breath. “Yes, I know him. I know him … well.”
There were more questions in his eyes as I grabbed the remote, then clicked off the television. Then sinking down onto one of the kitchen chairs, I fixed my elbows to the table and held my head in my hands.
“Jefferson was shot.” That wasn’t a question, just a statement.
That wasn’t for Hosea, just for me.
Hosea crouched down, picked up the coffee pot and returned it to the counter before he sat next to me. “Who is he?”
“He was … I mean, he is … married to a woman who used to be my best friend. He’s married to Kyla.”
The mention of her name brought a new shock to my mind. “Oh, my God.” I looked up and into Hosea’s eyes. “Kyla was with him. Maybe the guy who shot Jefferson kidnapped Kyla. Oh, my God.” I jumped up.
“Darlin’ wait. Slow down. Don’t make up a story in your head.” “But you heard them.” I pointed to the television. “They said that he was with a woman. The only woman that he would have been with that late at night is his wife.”
“Last night, the news said he was from California here for a convention.”
I nodded and spoke as fast as I paced. “He’s a doctor, a pulmonary specialist. One of the best in his field. But Kyla must have come to New York with him.”
“Kyla.” He said her name, blinked a few times, then paused. “Well, if she was with him, she would have stayed with him, right?” “That’s my point.” I stopped moving. “Kyla was with him, but now she’s not. That must mean ….” I pressed my hands to my lips.
“Oh, my God. She’s been kidnapped.”
Hosea stood and pressed his hands on my shoulders. “Jasmine, you’ve made a big leap to this conclusion.” “But you heard the police.”
“I did. So, let’s find out for sure. Why don’t you call Kyla?”
I nodded. “Okay.” I moved toward the kitchen’s entrance, already planning the next move in my mind. But I’d only taken a couple of steps before I slowed, then stopped, then turned back.
&
nbsp; He frowned.
“I don’t have her number.” Those words, that thought made me sad. Even though I had spoken to Kyla only once in almost twenty years, she was still the one person on this earth that I’d known longer than anyone with the exception of my sister. Meeting in kindergarten back in Los Angeles made it so.
But then, there were the twenty years of silence that had come between us because of my transgression. My sin with her husband. When I’d done all that I could to get her husband to take me to bed. And when I’d succeeded at that, I’d done all that I could to take over her life. Before I had my own.
The memory of who I used to be made me shudder. “I don’t think ….”
“What?”
“That I have her number … anymore.” Then, I added with surety, “I don’t have her number.” I was sure of that. The last time I’d had her number, we were using flip phones that had no screens. And once I’d moved from Los Angeles to Pensacola in 1997, I’d deleted her number, knowing that I’d never want to speak to her again since she had ruined my life by not giving up hers.
But, I wanted to speak to her now.
Hosea nodded, and I was surprised he didn’t ask me more — like why didn’t I have her number if I once called her a best friend? But all he said was,“Well, let’s do a search. On the Internet. Maybe her number will be there.”
In an instant, my husband took over. As he moved from the kitchen into the hallway, he said, “Kyla and Jefferson Blake.” He stated their names as if he knew them; still, I told him he was correct.
I followed him up the stairs and into the office where, with determination and deliberation, he sat behind the desk, clicked a few keys, grunted a few times, then scrolled through a few pages. Behind him, I paced, willing myself to keep the images of Kyla tied up in some long ago forgotten warehouse from my mind. But I couldn’t stop myself. I closed my eyes and my mental pictures became even clearer. I saw Kyla bound and gagged, maybe even beaten. By the time my husband finally said something, I was ready to run to the bank and withdraw all that we had to pay the ransom.
Hosea said, “The only thing that I found is the African American Complete Wellness Medical Center.”
My husband’s words dragged me away from the story in my mind. “Yes! That’s it,” I said, as new memories rushed through my mental banks. In that moment, another flash from the past: the two-story futuristic-looking building with its all-white interior.
“I have a number, but,” he glanced down at his watch, “it’s just after three in the morning in LA.”
I shook my head and he shrugged. Thank you, God. Once again, I was grateful that Hosea hadn’t asked me the next logical question: if Kyla Jefferson was my best friend, why didn’t I have her number?
“Well,” he began, “all we can do is wait until the clinic opens.” “No.” I paused, feeling helpless, feeling almost now, like I was about to cry.“I just have a really bad feeling, Hosea. I have a feeling that Kyla is in trouble and we may be the only ones who can help her.”
He nodded. “All right. Look, let’s do this first. Let’s get up to Harlem Hospital and see what we can find out. Maybe Kyla is there. Or maybe there’ll be someone there who can give us some information. Then, we can go to the police.”
“All right.” We stood together and I wrapped my arms around my husband. “Thank you,” I said.
“I’m going to schedule an Uber. How long will you be?”
“Give me twenty minutes. Can you check on the kids and tell Mrs. Sloss that we’re leaving?”
“Definitely.”
I dashed from the office and down the stairs into our bedroom suite. I had shed my bathrobe before I even hit the heated floor of our master bath. Inside the shower, I turned the water to full blast and as I stood under the shower’s rain, my thoughts traveled through my years of friendship with Kyla. It was more than friendship really; we’d been sisters. Closer even sometimes than me and Serena since Kyla and I were the same age. Second to Mae Frances, there was no one who I had loved more dearly who didn’t share my DNA.
The years had separated me from what I’d done, though the time that had passed had done little to assuage my guilt. But maybe I could make up for all that I’d done then, by saving Kyla’s life now. And with that thought, I jumped out of the shower.
chapter 2
Kyla Blake
“Okay, sweetheart, I promise,” I said to my daughter in a tone that was much steadier than I felt.
“Mom.”
Her soft, but shaky voice almost broke me. I pressed the tips of my fingers to my lips, praying that move alone would hold back the sobs that threatened to force their way forward. It took a moment for me to be able to say, “I know, sweetheart. You’re scared. And so am I.”
“I just wish that I could be there with you,” she cried.
“I know.” It took all that I had to hold myself together. I wanted to fall apart, right here on this airplane. But I had to stay strong — first for Nicole.“But you’ll get here when you can. And I’ll call you the moment I land in New York. The moment … I see your dad.” “Is he going to be all right?” She sounded like she was five instead of thirty.
“Yes,” I said with the same kind of surety that I used to give my daughter when Jefferson and I would go into her room every night to make sure there were no monsters hiding under her bed. This morning, though, I needed those same assurances. I needed someone to tell me that this monster of a nightmare wasn’t real.
“Okay.” Nicole’s voice was stronger now than it’d been in each of my three calls to her since last night. It was as if my words became her gospel — something in which she could believe. “You’re right. Dad will fight for us. But Mom, what about you? Are you going to be okay?”
“Sweetheart, nothing can happen to me. I’m on the airplane, I’ll catch a cab as soon as I land and I’ll be at the hospital the whole time. I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t take a cab. Uber over. They can track you.”
I chuckled for the first time since I’d received the call about Jefferson. “Okay,” I told my daughter. At any other time, this would have turned into a good-natured battle. You think you’re the boss of me? I would have asked.
But now, I acquiesced because Nicole needed to be in charge of something. She needed to take care of me so that I could take care of her dad.
“And send me your map from Uber when you get in the car.” “You’re in Beijing, what are you going to do if the driver decides
to kidnap me?”
“Mom, just do it, okay?” There was no patience in her tone. “Okay, sweetheart.”
“I just hate that you’re going to be alone.”
I hated that part, too. But there were few choices when quick decisions had to be made. “Not alone. I’ll be with your dad.”
In her next words, I heard her smile. “You’re right. Even unconscious, he’s going to take care of you. The way he always has.”
Now, I smiled through the tears in my eyes. “Yes, we’re going to take care of each other.”
The flight attendant’s voice interrupted my conversation. Told me that the plane’s doors had been closed. “I have to turn off my phone.”
“Okay, Mom.”
“Try to get some sleep,” I said, used to the time difference now.
Her Tuesday was ending as mine was beginning. “Are you kidding me?”
“Just try.”
Then, together we said, “I love you,” and added, “Me, too,” in chorus as well.
I clicked off my phone, closed my eyes and pressed the phone to my chest, feeling just a bit closer to my daughter with that move. Then, I leaned back, but I didn’t do what I always did as the plane edged away from the gate, then cruised down the runway. I didn’t close my eyes. I wanted to be awake because my prayer was that somehow my conscience would connect with Jefferson’s.
Through some kind of mental telepathy or osmosis that came with the love we shared, I had to let him know that I was on my way
.
So, though I leaned against the leather headrest, I kept my eyes opened and focused my thoughts, praying they would travel the three thousand miles to Jefferson.
“Hang in there, baby,” I whispered.
As the plane rounded the tarmac and the hotels on Century Boulevard came into my view, I sent a special thank you to the Lord for finally being on this flight. It had been too many hours since I got that call. Too many hours since I’d heard: “Kyla, it’s Jefferson … he’s been hurt ….”
As I remembered Travis’s call now, what I couldn’t remember was when had my heart started pounding? Was it when I heard the shaking in Travis’s voice? Or had my heart already been pounding before I even answered just because the phone rang at 1:11 in the morning?
“He’s been hurt. Jefferson was shot. Tonight. At a store. In Washington Heights.”
Really, I was surprised that I remembered that many words. Because after I’d heard — Jefferson was shot — my mind could focus on only one thought:
Please God. Please let Jefferson be alive. Please God.
He was alive, Travis told me. Alive, but already in surgery.
My husband was in surgery because he’d been shot in the head inside a store in Washington Heights — wherever that was.
It was difficult for me to make sense of those words.
Please God. Please let Jefferson be alive. Please God.
That had been my prayer for the five hours since I’d spoken to Travis. That had been my prayer when I jumped out of the bed, my prayer when I got on my knees, then, my prayer as I searched the Internet for the first flight that would take me to my husband. That had been my prayer when I called Nicole (for the first time) and then, reached out to the person who’d always been my strength.
Not even twenty minutes had passed from the moment I dialed and then sobbed into the phone, “Alexis, I need you,” before she and Brian were busting through my front door with the key we’d given them for emergencies:
“Kyla!”
I heard the tears in Alexis’s voice before I rounded the corner from the kitchen. But by the time I stood in front of my best friend, there was no sign of sorrow, just her signature strength.
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