Mistress for Hire

by Niobia Bryant

  For years, she wondered what had become of her child. She worried the legacy of her parentage would affect her. She wasn’t naive to think these couldn’t be more to her story beyond what appeared in the file, but her life was still far better than what she’d imagined it could’ve been.

  Do you finally see me? I’m Georgia, Mother. Don’t you see me?

  I stopped being yours the moment you gave me away . . .

  Mama, save me.

  All chickens come home to roost.

  Jessa picked up the office phone and dialed the number from Georgia’s file. She paused before she dialed the last digit. And what if she asks me who her father is?

  “I’ll lie,” she answered herself aloud before punching the button.

  It went straight to voice mail.

  “This is Georgia. No essays or soliloquies, please.”

  Jessa actually smiled, remembering the soft-spoken young woman she’d interviewed for a job as an agent and not the cold-blooded shrew who relished in her destruction. “Georgia, hello, this is Jessa. Your mother,” she said, finding the words an oddity to say. “I wanted to speak to you, not about Hammer, to hell with him. He doesn’t matter. That’s over.”

  Jessa released a breath as she tucked the phone between her shoulder and ear and turned on her computer to pull up the Lacey Adams employee file. “Right now, making sure that I speak to you and try to understand that hatred for me is important,” she said, zooming in on her photo to finally notice she had her eyes.

  Do you finally see me? I’m Georgia, Mother. Don’t you see me?

  She looked upward. “I hope you will meet with me. Talk to me. I am your mother, and there is one thing I can promise you—that I have loved you and wanted nothing but the best for you every day of your life. Please call me.”

  Jessa softly placed the handset back on the cradle before she leaned back in her chair and swiveled in it to look out the window. Georgia was back in her life. Neither her anger nor the pain of knowing the child she bore hated her, clouded the fact there was no way Georgia could have found her alone. She had signed nothing giving away her rights to her baby. Georgia had to be presented to authorities as abandoned—she figured that out long after her grandmother died and the truth of the baby’s existence was no longer a question that lingered unanswered between them.

  Georgia had a benefactor who gave her information, and the facts had obviously been pissed upon.

  Was it Hammer? He knew of her first child. He spoke of finding her. Perhaps he had done just that. But what was there for him to gain—certainly more than sex?

  Her mother had neither the resources nor the free time to locate a missing grandchild.

  Her grandmother was dead.

  Jessa tapped her nails against the desk as she released a bitter little laugh. The Halls. Eric’s parents, and unfortunately the grandparents of her beloved daughter Delaney. This was right up Eric Hall Sr.’s alley.

  She bit her bottom lip and focused on a pigeon landing on the roof of a nearby building. “How apropos,” she said. “A dirty bird.”

  What was any dirtier than trying to sleep with the woman who 1) once slept with your son, 2) had a baby by that same son, and 3) you blamed for your son’s suicide after he attempted to murder that same woman? Jessa recalled the hell of them suing her for custody of Delaney. He had threatened to expose the sordid details of her rape and the birth of her first child. She had to get low and fight as dirty as he had. She seduced the duplicitous man just enough to capture video footage on her nanny cam to blackmail him into not only dropping his suit but agreeing to step out of Delaney’s life for good.

  Is he back? Is this some backdoor shit?

  Mrs. Hall’s anger at her during their accidental meet-up at Serenity Spa had been palpable.

  And now so is mine. But first things first . . .

  For the next hour, she got the affairs of Mistress, Inc., in order, calling all of her agents, any current clients, and her webmaster to alert them that the offices were closed for two weeks. After a final call to the management company for the locks to be changed and a quick change to the outgoing voice mail message, she tucked her tablet, iPhone, and the Georgia file back into her bag.

  She walked around the office, turning off the lights and unplugged their Keurig coffee machine. As she stood in the middle of the foyer and looked around, she knew a short reprieve was for the best. Her focus was elsewhere.

  Jessa walked out of the offices of Mistress, Inc., shut the door, and locked it.

  * * *

  Darla tucked her hands inside the pockets of her lightweight jacket as she walked down the driveway of her daughter’s home and her prison. The walls seemed to mock her because she had no power within them.

  It’s Jessa’s house and Jessa’s rules.

  She nodded, thankful to the voice that had recently returned to her and understood her like no else. They were longtime friends, and she missed her.

  I missed you, too, Darla.

  She smiled. The voice was always present. Always there. Always understanding. Always listening. Boosting her like a battery in her back.

  Who is she to tell you not to drink? Fuck her. She’s not the only one dealing with the shame. Right?

  Darla shook her head as she stopped at the corner and reached out to press her hand against the lamppost. She panted and squeezed her eyes shut as she envisioned the man she once loved raping the child she bore for him. “How could he?” she whispered harshly.

  She knew he drank.

  She knew he could strike out in anger.

  She knew he hid a darkness within him with far too much ease.

  That’s why she left him and took Jessa with her.

  But then she left Jessa, foolishly thinking he would never reappear in her life, and never warning her mother to not allow him to do so.

  It wasn’t your fault, Darla. You weren’t there.

  “Lies!” she spat. “I shouldn’t have left her behind.”

  Darla opened her eyes to find one of their white neighbors staring at her oddly as they walked their dog. She gave the woman a wide-eyed, unblinking stare as she hurried past her.

  Relax, Darla. Re-lax.

  She looked over her shoulder, grimacing as the woman upped her walk to a jog.

  The breath she released was shaky.

  A drink will calm your nerves.

  She knew where to find it. She smiled as she patted the pole and continued down the block, taking in the tree-lined streets with wrought iron lampposts and large pots with colorful perennial flowers. She turned the corner, widening her stride as the street inclined.

  We’re almost there. Can’t you just taste it, Darla?

  “I sure can,” she said, licking her lips as she came to a stop at the brick house on the corner with the beautiful gardens—floral in the front and vegetable in the back—all behind a metal gate designed like lattice.

  Darla opened the gate and walked up the brick-lined path to the double doors painted a bright red.

  Your heart’s pumping.

  She rang the bell, not sure why she felt so nervous as the door opened. “Hello, Frankie,” she said, smiling at the tall gray-haired man with a fair-skinned complexion like shortbread cookies. He looked at her over the rim of his glasses.

  Months ago, she’d spotted him from her bedroom window sitting in his yard, listening to jazz and drinking snifter after snifter of some brown liquor. The little buzz she had from the eggnog before Christmas and her boredom had stoked her hunger for alcohol. Two walks past his house and Darla finally caught his attention . . . and an offer to sit a spell and have a drink. Not long after that she discovered he really poured one on after a hand job and took a nice nap that allowed her to pilfer from his stocked bar.

  “Hey there, neighbor,” he said, waving her in with the gardening gloves he held in one hand.

  Cheers!

  * * *

  Jessa sat outside her house for at least an hour listening to old-school rhythm
and blues on her XM satellite. She checked her phone. There was nothing but voice mails and text messages from Hammer. She ignored them all.

  She was hoping Georgia would call.

  She looked out at day turning to night as she mouthed along with the O’Jays singing “Forever Mine.” Ain’t no such thing as forever when it comes to love.

  Jessa scratched her scalp with her nails as she shook her head. Her attorney said she couldn’t even file for divorce for six months and then there was still time before it was processed. The separation would have lasted longer the marriage. In the words of Keyshia Cole: I just want it to be over.

  She could claim residency in Nevada and get a divorce in six weeks or get one in the Dominican Republic in a day if Hammer legally agreed to the divorce being filed in that country. Easy to get into and hard to get the fuck out of.

  “Thank God for that prenup,” Jessa muttered.

  Bzzzzzz . . .

  She picked up her phone from the console. “Winifrid?” she said, before she answered.

  Her eyes widened at the commotion in the background.

  “Mrs. Bell, please hurry home,” Winifrid said.

  Delaney let out a wail that seemed to reverberate.

  She hopped out of the car. “What’s wrong with her?” she asked, her heart pounding.

  “Your mother fell with her—”

  Jessa ended the call and rushed toward the house at a full run. She pushed the front door wide open, leaving it that way as she took the stairs two at a time in her heels.

  “Give me my grandbaby, you bitch. You don’t know who you fucking with!” Darla screeched.

  Delaney let loose another shrill cry.

  “Mrs. Darla, please leave her be. You’re upsetting her!” Winifrid said, her voice calm in the midst of the storm.

  Bzzzzzz . . .

  Jessa ignored the vibration of the phone against her palm as she rushed down the hall and into Delaney’s bedroom. Winifrid looked grateful as she handed Delaney over to her.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  Winifrid shook her head and released a heavy breath. “I left her alone in her playroom while I went to the bathroom. Just a minute or so. When I stepped back in the room, your mother was dancing around the room with her, and she tripped on something and fell backward—”

  “I didn’t hurt her, Jessa,” Darla said, her words slurring.

  Jessa could hear her drunkenness in her voice and smell the liquor that seemed to press the fresh air out of the room. She closed her eyes and shook her head as Delaney finally being to settle down, her wails diminishing to whimpers.

  “Grandma scared me,” she whispered as she buried her chubby little face against Jessa’s neck.

  That broke her heart and infuriated her beyond belief.

  “I got one granddaughter you won’t let me see and another one I ain’t never met,” Darla said, pounding on something behind her. “What kind of shit is that?”

  God help—

  She shook her head. It was a habit that she would soon break. There was no turning to Him when she felt he had forsaken her. It felt like the worst betrayal of them all.

  “Please take her down to my car and stay with her until I’m done here,” Jessa said, forcing calm into her voice and momentarily shielding the anger boiling over inside her.

  Winifrid nodded, attempting to take Delaney from her arms.

  Delaney shook her head and tightened her grip on Jessa.

  “Jessa, I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. I’m sorry,” Darla said from behind her.

  “I’ll walk y’all down,” Jessa said to the nanny, leaving the room and avoiding even looking at her mother.

  They descended the stairs and reached the front door.

  A crash from upstairs echoed, breaking the quiet.

  “Delaney, I need you to sit with Winifrid for a little while I talk to Grandma,” she said softly into her ear, desperate to protect her by all means—the way she had not been sheltered. “Be a big girl for Mama, okay?”

  She patted and rubbed Delaney’s back as she gave Winifrid a nod to take her. She did and Delaney outstretched her arms for her, but Jessa turned her back and looked up the flight of stairs.

  “Mama!” she roared as soon as the front door closed.

  Her fists were clenched as tight as they could be with her long nails, and her chest heaved with every breath as she released the anger and bitter disappointment she felt about her mother.

  Darla stumbled into the railing lining the second floor and leaned against it as she sought stability. Her eyes were clouded and bloodshot. There was a fine sheen of sweat on her brow and across her upper lip. Her soft black and silver hair was plastered to her head. The neck of the T-shirt she wore was damp with it. She swayed back and forth as she looked down at where Jessa stood.

  “You off your meds?” Jessa asked, her tone ominous as she rubbed her thumb against her index finger in a futile attempt to calm herself.

  Darla shook her head vehemently.

  “Liar,” Jessa said. “Tell me, Mama, why does it always have to be about you?”

  Darla stumbled back as she reached into the pockets of her slacks to pull out a small bottle of liquor.

  Jessa’s face crumpled with her emotions, but she closed her eyes and released breaths through pursed crimson lips until she felt the welcome sensation of her soul going numb. “You made a choice to drink . . . just like you made a choice to leave me at that window that day and you made a choice to never come back for me.”

  Darla nodded and wiped her lips with her trembling hands. “I know it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jessa,” she said, opening the bottle and taking a drink.

  “You abandoned me. My father raped me. My grandmother tore my baby out of my arms and gave her away. Now that daughter hates me. My husband crushed me,” Jessa said, walking over to tilt her head and look up at her mother as she wiped the liquor that spilled onto her mouth with the back of her hand. “Ain’t that enough, Mama? Huh? Your crazy wants me crazy, too? Huh?”

  Darla leaned onto the banister again, the bottle in one of her hands over the side. “I want you happy,” she said. “I do. I want my little girl happy.”

  Jessa shook her head, denying her words. “You were a lousy mother then and you a lousy motherfucking grandmother now,” she stressed, drawing out the word for emphasis.

  Darla let out a little moan. The bottle slipped from her hand. She cried out and bent over the railing, outstretching her arms as if to reach for it. She failed. The bottle crashed against the floor of the foyer, the stench of the liquor quickly rising to fill the air as the brown liquid pooled amongst the shards of glass.

  “No!” Darla cried out, pounding her fists upon the railing.

  Jessa sent up a bitter laugh. “Did you cry that hard for me? Ever? Huh? When you were off screwing men and looking for love in a bottle or with drugs? Did you every cry for the daughter you abandoned? Did you ever cry when you learned I was raped? Did you cry when you heard I watched my rapist takes his own life right in front of me? Huh? Did you shed one fucking tear when your mother took my baby from me? Huh?”

  The air was electrified with their emotions, swirling and clashing and creating an explosive backdrop that fed into the very worst of it all. The shame. The hatred. The anger.

  Darla covered her ears with her hands and wobbled back and forth on her feet. “Stop it, Jessa, please.”

  Jessa refused to cry. She wouldn’t allow it. With her lips snarling with the same ferocity as a pit bull she pointed at her mother. “Delaney and I are not staying here tonight. You go on and have what you love most in the world. Enjoy it. Live it up. Drink it up. Right?”

  Darla stumbled to the top of the stairs, grabbing the railing as she flopped down onto the top step. “I did the best I knew how,” she said, wiping away the tears that mingled with the clear snot running from her nostrils. “I did my best—”

  “It wasn’t fucking good enough,” Jessa told her before she turne
d and left the house.

  * * *

  Ding-dong.

  Darla’s eyes opened and she was looking up at the ceiling. She grunted a little as she sat up, surprised to find she was still sitting atop the top step of the stairs. “Oh Lord,” she whispered, leaning against the railing before she gripped it and fought to rise to her feet without toppling down the stairs.

  You’re all alone, Darla. Everyone’s gone. You’re the queen of the castle now. Top bitch in charge.

  Darla laughed and puffed up her chest before falling into another fit of giggles.

  Ding-dong.

  Darla frowned at the door, squinting as she continued down the stairs, tumbling down a few a few as she did. “Who is it?” she called out.

  Don’t answer it. Now you don’t have to share, Darla. The house is all yours.

  “It’s Georgia. Georgia Coletti,” a voice said through the door.

  No, Darla.You don’t know her. Who is she? She could be a killer. Don’t go to the door without a weapon. Protect your house. It’s your house now, Darla.

  Darla pushed her bob back from her face as she looked around for a weapon. She spotted the broken liquor bottle on the other side of the foyer and walked over in a haphazard zigzag fashion to pick up the broken neck. She cried out as its point dug deeply into her palm, puncturing the flesh and drawing a steady stream of her blood that dripped across the floor as she made her way to the door.

  That’s right, Darla, now you’re ready.

  “I’m ready,” she mumbled, so grateful for the voice as she reached out to press one hand against the wall for stability and opened the door with the other while still gripping the neck of the broken bottle.

  She eyed the young woman standing there from the topknot of her hair down to the red flats she wore with the strapless jean jumpsuit. “What?” Darla asked, barely registering the piercing pain in her palm.

  “Is Jessa Bell home?” the young woman asked, obviously taken aback by Darla’s appearance.

  “No, no, no,” Darla repeated softly as she shook her head. She patted her chest with her hand, leaving a bloody smear across the white shirt.

  “You’ve hurt yourself,” Georgia said, her eyes shifting from Darla’s hand and back up to her eyes.