Lady Jasmine (23 page)

J
ASMINE LIED AGAIN.

She’d lain awake almost the entire night and, at dawn, finally eased from the bed. Minutes later, when she came from her closet dressed in a jogging suit, Hosea had rolled over and asked where she was going.

“For a jog.”

“Really?” He peered at her with sleep-filled eyes. “You haven’t done that in months.”

“I know. But I need to do something about all of this stress.”

He propped himself up a bit. “Is it because of last night?”

She shook her head and with a smile pretended that she’d forgotten about his accusations. “No, it’s the stuff that’s going on with Dad and at the church.” She shrugged. “And it’s not a bad idea to start exercising again,” she said, patting her stomach to show him where she carried the few extra pounds she’d gained.

The way he smiled and fell back against his pillow, Jasmine could tell that Hosea thought her lie was a good idea.

“Okay, maybe I’ll join you tomorrow,” he said, before he rolled back over.

Jasmine dashed from the apartment and out onto the just-
arousing New York City street. Early joggers met her as soon as she stepped outside, their focus on getting to the running paths in Central Park. But Jasmine walked in the opposite direction—heading east and turning right on Sixth Avenue.

Only then did she pull her cell phone from her pocket and do what she’d been thinking about all night. She pressed the Speed Dial button.

Mae Frances’s groggy voice greeted her, but Jasmine didn’t have a single regret that she’d awakened her friend at five thirty in the morning, Texas time.

Mae Frances had barely said hello before Jasmine charged into her, “What’re you trying to do to me?”

“Jasmine Larson, is that you?”

Jasmine walked up Sixth Avenue, her anger propelling her to move so fast she
was
almost jogging. “You know it’s me, Mae Frances. Don’t play.” She stopped in the middle of the street. Turned around and went back the other way. “I am so mad right now I don’t know what to do.”

“Why’re you mad? It’s too early for me to have gotten on your nerves.”

“Not true! I’ve been pissed at you for hours. I couldn’t even sleep! Why did you leave a message on my phone? Now Hosea thinks I lied to him about being in Houston.”

“You did lie to him!”

That truth made her mad enough to want to reach through the phone and choke her friend. “That has nothing to do with it, Mae Frances! Are you
trying
to break up my marriage?”

“What kind of stupid question is that?” Mae Frances pushed back. “Preacher Man’s never going to leave you. And anyway, I’ve left you a million messages on your cell phone before and it was never a problem.”

“But you didn’t call my cell, you called me at home!”

“I did?” She sounded confused. “Well, I thought I was calling your cell. You know I don’t know how to work this thing;
you gave me this phone,” she said, as if this was Jasmine’s fault. “All I did was press your name like I always do. I guess the darn thing dialed your home.”

But Jasmine was too mad to settle down. She turned around, stomped back down Sixth Avenue.

“Well, you need to be more careful. You shouldn’t have called me at all. You should’ve just waited until I called you!”

And on the streets of New York, not one person turned to look at the woman who was screaming, with hands flailing like she wanted to kill somebody.

“Well, I couldn’t wait,” Mae Frances shouted, now as indignant as Jasmine.

“Why not?”

“Because I got the information you wanted.”

Her anger made her deaf. “Don’t you know that if Hosea catches me in one more lie—” Then, she stopped—stopped moving, stopped talking. Her voice was lower, calmer when she asked, “What information?”

“Hmph, that’s what I thought.” Now it was Mae Frances who huffed. “I guess you’re gonna slow your roll.”

“Mae Frances, what did you find out?”

“I shouldn’t tell you a thing,” her friend grumbled. “I love you as if I gave birth to you myself, but how do you think I feel with you calling me up in the middle of the night—”

Jasmine rolled her eyes. “It’s not the middle of the night—”

“Yelling at me,” Mae Frances continued, “like you don’t have a penny’s worth of sense.”

“I’m sorry, Mae Frances. But if you knew what Hosea said to me last night…” She paused, knowing she’d have to say it again. “I’m sorry.” Jasmine tried to be silent so that her apology could sink in, but it was hard to wait. “Did you find something on Ivy?” the question rushed out of her.

“No.”

“Oh. On Roxie.”

“No.”

Jasmine frowned. Had she apologized for nothing?

“But,” Mae Frances began, with a bit of taunting in her tone, “I do have something on that Whittingham lady.”

Jasmine pressed her lips together so that she wouldn’t start screaming all over again. What was Mae Frances trying to do to her? She hadn’t asked Mae Frances to find anything on Mrs. Whittingham!

“I couldn’t find anything on those Ivy or Roxie girls,” Mae Frances explained, “but I wanted to get something for my money. So I told my connection to keep digging.”

What a waste!

“Now, that Daniel Hill, he’s got a couple of traffic tickets that he’s never bothered to pay…”

She’s driving me crazy!

“But our good Mrs. Whittingham…seems that she’s not so good after all.”

Jasmine rolled her eyes, her anger rising.

Mae Frances asked, “Did you know that she had a child?”

Jasmine shook her head, then took a breath so that she wouldn’t yell. “Mrs. Whittingham doesn’t have any children.”

“Well, I don’t know what she did with the one she had, but you can trust what I’m telling you. You know Johnnie Cochran?”

“Yeah?” Jasmine’s response sounded like a question. What did Johnnie Cochran have to do with this?

“Well, he and I were good, good friends, God bless him.”

Jasmine’s eyes rose to the heavens. “Mae Frances—”

“Let me finish!” she snapped. “Well, at a New Year’s Eve party back in eighty-seven, Johnnie introduced me to Sonny Santana.”

“Is this going to be a long story?”

“Santana is one of my connections,” Mae Frances continued, as if she hadn’t heard Jasmine, “who has a lot of connec
tions, and he’s never wrong. It seems that back in seventy-one, our little miss holier-than-thou Whittingham went off to college, and by the second semester of her freshman year, she was with child.”

Jasmine’s head was filled with confusion.

Mae Frances continued, “She had a baby girl born at the end of seventy-two, when she was only eighteen.”

“That’s imposs…ible…”

And then Jasmine remembered. The conversation she’d overheard a couple of Sundays ago while she’d been resting in Hosea’s office. Before he’d come in and knocked her upside her head with the door.

Why would it say that Mama was eighteen on my birth certificate?

That had been Ivy’s question, and it hadn’t really interested Jasmine at the time. But what was interesting was the way Mrs. Whittingham had responded, with such venom. Not a bit of it had made sense then.

All of it made sense now.

“Her daughter is Ivy,” Jasmine whispered.

“What?” Mae Frances shouted so loud, Jasmine had to pull her phone away from her ear.

Jasmine stood still, said, “Her sister is her daughter,” more to herself than to Mae Frances. “Mae Frances, I gotta go.” But before she hung up, she said, “And I’m really sorry that I yelled at you. Thanks for always having my back.”

She clicked off the phone and continued down Sixth Avenue to Fifty-seventh Street. She didn’t stop, not even to browse in the windows of the unopened designer shops that she loved. Instead, she marched to Seventh Avenue and made a right, thinking the whole time about Mrs. Whittingham—Ivy’s mother.

This is amazing!
Jasmine thought. All this time, that woman had judged her about Jacqueline. How hypocritical was this?

It was too bad that Mrs. Whittingham wasn’t the black
mailer. Jasmine would have loved to drag that woman down from that high-uppity horse she rode on.

This information was useful, though—if Ivy was the one blackmailing her, Jasmine was going to blow up her world with this news.

But if Ivy wasn’t the one, she would keep the old woman’s secret. She wasn’t going to throw her indiscretion in her face the way Mrs. Whittingham had done to her. She was going to be the better Christian.

Jasmine shook her head as she stepped back into her apartment building. Jerome, Pastor Wyatt, and now Sister Whittingham—all saints at City of Lights.

But it was becoming harder and harder to tell the saints from the sinners.

A
LTHOUGH HER MIND WAS PACKED
with other thoughts, Jasmine smiled as Jacqueline jumped up, her ponytails bouncing as she raced around the slide once again.

“Look it, Mama!” she exclaimed and climbed the steps. At the top of the five stairs, Jacqueline sat down, held her hands high above her head, and pushed forward. “Whee!” She screamed and giggled as if she were sliding down a hundred-foot apparatus. At the bottom, she jumped up again, clapping her hands as she ran around Jasmine so that she could do the routine all over again.

Pure joy radiated from Jacqueline’s face, and Jasmine sighed, wanting that joy, that peace. Her hope was that peace would soon return to her life—especially with all the dirt she’d gathered.

Jasmine wasn’t sure who was more scandalous—Jerome, who with the two e-mails he’d sent last night had proven he was a straight fool. She couldn’t believe the man actually propositioned the girl for sex over the Internet. Hadn’t he ever watched any of those investigative shows?

Then there were the Wyatts. Earvin hadn’t killed his brother…he just wouldn’t let his brother rest in peace.

And finally, she had Ivy, through Mrs. Whittingham. She’d get the old woman to control her daughter if Ivy turned out to be the blackmailer.

Only Roxie appeared to be clean personally, though she was sleeping with a pedophile. Jasmine could turn Jerome’s issue into Roxie’s problem if she had to.

Her plan now was to confront each of them and make a deal—a secret for a secret. In truth, she wished that she could expose them all—their secrets were far more immoral than hers. But for now, all she planned to do was go to them one at a time, tell each what she knew and pray that one would fall to their knees and confess.

Then this nightmare would be over.

She smiled to herself and tried to ignore the other side of her where fear still stirred. Fear that told her she was wrong. That even after all of this, her secret would still be looming out there because none of her suspects was the blackmailer.

“Wheeeee!”

As Jacqueline’s glee rang in her ears, Jasmine pressed back her fear and turned her thoughts to her plan. She had three days to confront her suspects. She would go to Jerome first, since the Wyatts were out of town. She would save Ivy for last, since she was sure it was one of the men.

No matter how hard she tried though, she couldn’t keep uncertainty away. Suppose, after all of this, she walked into that board meeting on Friday and Mr. Smith was there, like the blackmailer had promised? That thought sent ice through her veins.

It couldn’t go down that way. The ending couldn’t be such a disaster, not when the beginning had begun so differently…

It started the night she’d left Foxtails to go with the man.

After he’d paid her fees and got clearance from Buck, Jasmine had walked past the other girls who stared at her with
knowing eyes. But she stepped without looking their way. It was a gift that Viva wasn’t working that night—she didn’t want her friend thinking that she was like her. Yes, she was leaving with a customer, but her reasons were far loftier than those of any of the other girls. And she was not going to sleep with him.

As she followed the short, slight man into the parking lot, Jasmine moved to a chorus that played inside her head, but it wasn’t a tune from the club. This was a song she’d been singing for the weeks that she worked at Foxtails;
Money for school. Money for school.

“Would you mind…sitting in the back?” he asked, when they stopped at his black Mercedes sedan.

It was a polite demand, in the form of a question. She slid inside and wondered if he’d changed his mind. Was he asking her to get in the back because he wanted to have sex in the car?
It’s not going to happen,
she thought. Even if this was a Mercedes.

Her frown deepened when he went around, got into the driver’s seat, and then pulled off as if he was her chauffeur.

The car was filled with the scent of his flower, and she inhaled the sweetness. But as they moved, anxiety washed over her, and she kept her eyes on the familiar streets, taking note in case she had to make a quick escape.

When they entered the 405 Freeway, she needed to talk, to make this anomalous moment feel normal.

“So…are you from Los Angeles?” she asked, not caring, but not knowing what else to say.

“No.”

“But you live here now, right?”

“Yes.”

She bit her lip and searched her mind for the right question, one to which he couldn’t give a monosyllabic response.

“What kind of work do you do?”

This time, he didn’t respond at all.

She tried to catch his glance in the rearview mirror, but his eyes were focused on the road.

And even when she repeated the question, he said nothing.

So she shut up. And pressed her hands and legs together so that it didn’t look like she was scared, even though she was beginning to tremble. This was starting to feel too weird.

But what was she afraid of? Surely, she was safe. Girls left the club with men all the time—and they always came back. And this man—who was barely five feet five inches tall and who probably didn’t weigh 150 pounds—couldn’t possibly be dangerous. He was a regular at the club; dozens of people could identify him. He’d talked to Buck and had left his information. And how many men had watched them walk out together? No serial killer left a trail that hot.

Jasmine sat back and made more mental notes as the car edged onto the 110 Freeway and sped toward downtown. Within minutes, the Los Angeles skyline came into view, and not long after that, the man stopped the car in front of the Bonaventure Hotel. When he handed the keys to the valet, Jasmine wondered how it would look when they checked into this fancy hotel without bags.

But once inside the lobby, the man led Jasmine straight to the elevator bank, where an empty glass chamber waited that whisked the two up the side of the building.

The first thing that hit her when she followed him into the thirtieth-floor room was the aroma—of the dozen plants that bore the same scent that the man wore in his lapel. The plants were everywhere—on the nightstands, the dresser, the desk. Several were lined up at the foot of the bed.

She stood in the center of the magnificent room with its king-size bed, thick comforter, and more pillows than she’d ever seen. And the panoramic view that felt as if she was overlooking half of the city was spectacular.

When she turned away from the window, the man was sit
ting at the bed’s edge, his jacket off, his tie loosened. As she had taken in her surroundings, she’d forgotten for a moment why she was in this place—and the mental cocktail of anxiety and apprehension came rushing back.

“So,” she began, but then stopped. Looked around the room as if she might find more words somewhere. “What kind of flowers are these?” She leaned over and took a whiff of one of the sweet petals.

“Jasmines.”

That made her stand up straight. She looked at him with wide eyes, but he only smiled back.

It’s a coincidence.
But still, the fear she’d pressed down began to slowly rise again.

“You don’t have to worry,” he said, as if he knew she was afraid. “All I want you to do is dance.”

Jasmine nodded, although she was having a hard time believing that. She didn’t have any idea what the hotel room cost, but surely it was too much to pay when she could’ve danced at the club.

“Just dance,” he repeated.

“Okay?” she said, turning that affirmation into a question.

The man scooted back, rested against the pillows, crossed his hands and legs and motioned for Jasmine to come toward the side of the bed.

She glanced quickly around the space for a boom box or something; she certainly couldn’t dance without music.

When she looked back at him, he whispered, “Please, just dance.”

So she closed her eyes and began to imagine that she was on the stage.

It was bizarre, at first, swaying and swinging and grinding without a pole or the pulse of a beat. But when she felt the familiar tickle on her ankle and she glanced down at the bills that he had tossed at her feet, this oddity began to feel comfortably
familiar.

It took longer for her to disrobe in the street clothes that she wore; nothing ripped away easily. But finally she was down to the costume that he was paying for.

She swung and swayed some more, still conscious of the missing music. But she squatted and did splits, and finally, she rose from the floor, stood with her hands on her hips, and waited for the man to tell her what he wanted next.

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?”