Lady Jasmine

by Victoria Christopher Murray

  She didn’t know what it was, but never before had she truly felt naked in front of him, yet now all she wanted to do was yank the blanket from the bed and hide herself.

  “Please,” he said, his voice still soft. “Just this once. And then you will never see me again.”

  She couldn’t speak the word, but her head was shaking, her body was still saying no.

  “I will pay you five thousand dollars.”

  Her head stopped moving. She slowed her breathing. Five thousand dollars?

  But then she shook herself out of the short stupor that the mention of that much money had thrown her into. She’d already made five thousand dollars and more just dancing all these weeks. Why should she do anything else?

  He answered her silent question. “I’m leaving Los Angeles,” he said simply. And in the air were more words, unspoken, but impossible to ignore…There will be no more money.

  “When?” she finally asked.

  “The day after tomorrow. My job, the network—I’m taking over as bureau chief in Washington. We’ll never see each other after tonight.”

  Jasmine felt her future slipping away. She wanted to demand that he stay. And watch her dance. And keep paying her.

  Still, it didn’t matter that he was leaving. She’d still make money at Foxtails, and as popular as she was, Buck would let her work every night if she wanted to.

  “Five thousand dollars,” he repeated, as if he wanted to remind her what was most important to her.

  Jasmine had never seen that amount of money all at once.

  Mr. Smith said, “And I’ll pay the rest of your tuition. Whatever you owe.”

  She’d told him once that she danced only for school. Did he think school was enough to turn her into a whore?

  He continued to plead his case, “Or whatever you need, I’ll pay it. Plus, five thousand dollars.”

  Most of her school bills were paid, but there was her rent.

  No! The moral part of her screamed. I’m better than that.

  Five thousand dollars!

  That money would buy her new clothes, plenty of new shoes, the kinds of things that Mr. Smith had helped her to appreciate.

  “Five thousand dollars?” She wasn’t sure if that was a question for Mr. Smith or a statement to herself.

  He nodded and reached for her, as if he was sure.

  And why shouldn’t he be? Money had gotten him whatever he wanted from her. All he ever had to do was raise the stakes, and she was his.

  “Five thousand dollars?” she asked again.

  Now he shook his head and did what he always did. “Six thousand!”

  For the first time, she noticed how small, how beady his eyes were. And how wrinkly his skin was.

  She cringed and made up her mind.

  She slipped off the pumps and slipped into his bed. When he pressed his thin lips against hers, Jasmine closed her eyes, ready to sell her body and her soul.

  It would be just this once. And one time certainly didn’t make you a whore…

  The knock on the car window startled Jasmine. Made her open her eyes and sit up straight.

  “Miss, you’ve got to move,” the man said.

  Jasmine looked up. She was still sitting in front of Mrs. Whittingham’s building. She didn’t even remember getting into the car, her thoughts had been so far away.

  She revved up the engine, trying to push Mr. Smith from her mind. But ever since Mrs. Whittingham had forced her to remember, the memory of that last night with Mr. Smith had been hard to forget. The memory that she had sold herself for sixty one-hundred-dollar bills, plus the three-thousand-dollar check he’d written to her landlord.

  That was the part she never wanted Hosea to find out. Shame kept her lying. Shame and the way she was sure her husband would look at her once he found out that she and Gomer shared much more than a husband with the name Hosea.

  And as bad as that night had been, the worst part was that it was just the beginning.

  Just like Pastor Ford had said, she’d opened sin’s door, and it became impossible to close it. Once Mr. Smith had walked in, countless men had followed. Married men, single men. Black and white. And her greatest shame…there’d been nights when she’d taken two at a time. All kinds of men who paid big money to share a few hours with the freak who could do the same things in bed that she did on the stage.

  She had turned herself over to a reprobate mind.

  And therein lay her biggest problem: If she told Hosea about Foxtails and Mr. Smith…if he asked whether that man was the only one…what would she say?

  With a sigh, Jasmine swerved the car to the right and headed downtown. Why was she spending so much time and thought in the past? She was so far from being that woman. She had God in her heart now. And Hosea. She was better because of both of them. And Reverend Bush had taught her that she truly wasn’t who she used to be.

  She shook her head. No, she didn’t need to think about the past. All she needed to think about was her victory.

  She could now blackmail her blackmailer.

  One down.

  FORTY-SIX

  JASMINE STRUTTED DOWN THE LONG hall, walked straight to her husband, and kissed him on his cheek. Then she turned to Mrs. Whittingham and tapped her on her shoulder.

  “Would you mind coming into my office?”

  Without a single glance toward her, Mrs. Whittingham shot right up and walked back down the hall, retracing the steps that Jasmine had just taken.

  Hosea whispered, “What’s that about?”

  “I want to talk to her.” Jasmine leaned back and looked at him innocently. “I want her advice about a new design I’m looking at for the bulletin.”

  “Oh, okay.” He grinned. “I’m glad you guys have found a way to get along.”

  “You have so much on your mind, babe, that Mrs. Whittingham and I made a pact. There’s no need for us to keep acting like we’re in high school.”

  She kissed him again, and Jasmine’s smile was wide as she moved toward her office. She could feel Hosea’s eyes, and she added a bit more sway to her swagger—a promise of things to come when they got home.

  She turned back and winked at him before she stepped into her office. But then all of her good feelings faded fast when she saw Mrs. Whittingham, standing at the edge of her desk, staring out the window.

  “Thanks for coming in,” Jasmine said, her power making her civil.

  The woman turned to her, eyes weary, shoulders slumped, a stance of defeat. Jasmine had to work hard to push aside the sympathy she felt rising. She sank into her seat. “I need you to do something for me.”

  Mrs. Whittingham said nothing, just waited for her orders.

  “I need you to postpone the board meeting for tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Whittingham blinked, taking a moment to register the request and then more time for her brain to figure out if Jasmine’s words made any sense.

  “How am I supposed to do that?” But the edge that was usually on every word that Mrs. Whittingham spoke to Jasmine was gone, and for a millisecond, Jasmine wished for that fight to be back. It was no fun to spar with a beaten partner.

  “I don’t care how you do it,” Jasmine said. “I want the meeting postponed.”

  Mrs. Whittingham shook her head. “It’s not going to change anything. Pastor Wyatt still has enough votes to have Hosea removed. It’s only—”

  Jasmine held up her hand, stopped the woman from talking. “I don’t need much time. Just postpone it until Monday. And don’t let anyone know that I had anything to do with this.” Then she wiggled her fingers in a dismissive wave.

  With a sigh, Mrs. Whittingham turned around, but before she got to the door, Jasmine called out, “Wait.” Then she asked the question that had given her another sleepless night. “How did you find out about…”

  Jasmine stopped right there. No more was needed; Mrs. Whittingham knew what she was talking about.

  Mrs. Whittingham’s lips curved a little, and she spoke as if her
next words were her greatest joy. “From Samuel.”

  Mrs. Whittingham’s joy was Jasmine’s pain. A pain that shot right through her center. “Reverend Bush?” Jasmine whispered, as if she needed clarification. As if she hoped that there was another Samuel in Mrs. Whittingham’s life.

  Mrs. Whittingham’s weak smile strengthened when she nodded.

  Jasmine asked, “He told you that I…”

  Mrs. Whittingham stood taller, raised her head higher. “Not directly.” Triumph was in her voice when she said, “He was having you investigated.”

  “What?”

  Mrs. Whittingham nodded. “I read the private investigator’s report.”

  Jasmine had to remember to breathe in, breathe out. And not show any signs of weakness to the enemy.

  All kinds of reasons, all kinds of possibilities drifted through her mind, and she couldn’t come up with one that made sense. Why would her father-in-law have her investigated? Their animosity was years behind them. Reverend Bush had accepted her (and Jacqueline) into his heart even before Hosea had been convinced to do the same. Reverend Bush had forgiven her—for everything. At least that’s what he’d said.

  Seemed like what he’d said had been a lie.

  Except Jasmine had been lying for a long time; she knew a liar, and her father-in-law was not one. No, Reverend Bush was on the opposite end of the spectrum, the kind of man who would look you dead in your face and tell you nothing but the truth.

  So he was having her investigated? That couldn’t be.

  Jasmine stared at Mrs. Whittingham, searching for clues that she was lying.

  “Where’s the report?” Jasmine demanded to know.

  For a moment, Mrs. Whittingham stood, lips pressed together, defiant. But when Jasmine began a slow rise from her seat, Mrs. Whittingham remembered which one of them was in charge.

  She said, “It’s at home,” as she glared at Jasmine.

  “I want it.” Her look was as fierce.

  A pause before, “I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

  Not even a second passed before, “I want it now.”

  “You want me to just leave the office?” she asked, as if Jasmine’s request was ridiculous.

  Jasmine sat, her answer in her stare.

  Mrs. Whittingham broke away first, lowered her eyes, and trudged out of the office.

  Jasmine turned to her computer, but her hands wouldn’t move across the keys. She couldn’t work. She wouldn’t be able to concentrate until she saw that report. And could figure out why her father-in-law had had her investigated.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  THERE WAS NEVER ANY REST for the tormented.

  Jasmine’s eyes were once again wide open while Hosea rested next to her, deep in a peaceful sleep.

  Tonight, she was tortured by thoughts of the report Mrs. Whittingham had given her this afternoon. The FedEx packet that was now hidden deep in the secret corner, in the back of her closet.

  When Mrs. Whittingham had given her the package earlier, Jasmine had frowned. She recognized the packet—she’d held it in her hands the morning after Reverend Bush had been shot. The hospital administrator had given it to her, along with his other personal affects.

  Jasmine remembered being curious when she saw the return address for L.A. Investigative Services. But then the hospital administrator had walked in and had taken her attention away. Right then, Jasmine had handed Mrs. Whittingham all the ammunition she needed to blackmail her.

  But with Mrs. Whittingham’s blackmail behind her, those were not the thoughts she had as she surrendered to her sleeplessness and sat up in the bed. What made her restless now was the question she could not get out of her mind: What did her father-in-law know? And why had he commissioned the investigation in the first place?

  “Are you okay?” Hosea’s groggy voice eased its way into her thoughts.

  “Yeah, I’m going to the bathroom.”

  That was a good excuse because, by the time she stood, Hosea’s head was back on his pillow and the rhythm of his breathing let her know that he’d returned to his peace.

  With heavy steps and an even heavier heart, Jasmine made her way into the living room. Like so many nights before, her plan was to pace until she tired. But tonight, a storm raged inside of her—thunder and lightning collided in her mind.

  Jasmine couldn’t remember if the package had been opened when the hospital administrator handed it to her. She’d asked Mrs. Whittingham this afternoon, but when the woman told her that the packet had been opened, Jasmine wasn’t sure if she believed her.

  Her hope was that Mrs. Whittingham was lying. But if she wasn’t, then her father-in-law knew everything…like Mrs. Whittingham did. But this information was much more lethal in Reverend Bush’s hands.

  After long minutes, Jasmine slumped onto the sofa, but her mind was still fully charged. Once again, she reviewed the report she’d read. She didn’t need the pages in front of her; she’d memorized almost every word.

  Whoever Leonard Hobbs was, the investigator had earned his money. The report had been complete—from the club she’d worked at to Buck’s name and current information to the clients who had become her regulars, including Mr. Smith. The only thing that was missing was exactly how much she’d been paid. And although the report didn’t quite say that she had slept with Mr. Smith or any of the other men for money, the inference was there. It was there in the fact that she’d moved to a luxury apartment. It was in the fact that bank records showed how her balance had grown from zero to thousands.

  Her father-in-law knew everything.

  For a fleeting moment, she wondered if maybe she should tell Hosea the truth and end all the drama. That was her true desire, but what would she say?

  I used to be a stripper.

  And how would she answer the questions that followed.

  Then I became a whore.

  He would never look at her the same way. No, Hosea could never find out—not from Mrs. Whittingham. And definitely not from his father.

  She would do whatever she had to do to keep this from her husband.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  JASMINE YAWNED AS HOSEA PASSED her the single paper.

  “Here’s the financial report from Malik. He e-mailed it to me for the board meeting tonight.” Hosea paused before he added, “Maybe you need to see the doctor.”

  “For what?” she frowned.

  “You haven’t been able to sleep in weeks; you haven’t been feeling well. Maybe you’re—”

  He stopped short of saying it, but that didn’t make Jasmine feel any better. What could she do to take her husband’s mind off of their having a baby? It broke her heart every time she had to tell him that wasn’t going to happen.

  She shook her head, denying his hope without words. “There’s a lot on us right now, and this is how my body handles stress.”

  The knock on the door made them both look up. Mrs. Whittingham stood, facing them, her lips pressed firmly together.

  “Hosea,” she began, her eyes only on him. “I wanted to let you know that the board meeting has been postponed until Monday.”

  Hosea’s eyes widened. “What’s going on?”

  Standing stiffly, Mrs. Whittingham said, “There were some scheduling problems with Pastor Wyatt, I think…”

  Hosea waited for more, but Mrs. Whittingham turned and left them alone.

  Hosea was frowning when he faced Jasmine. “That was weird.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why would Wyatt postpone the meeting? I would’ve thought he would want to walk into the sanctuary on Sunday as the new pastor.”

  Jasmine shrugged. “Mrs. Whittingham said scheduling—”

  Hosea shook his head. “Wyatt’s too eager to move ahead with this.” He paused. “What’s he up to?” He sat thoughtful for a moment and then reached for the phone.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Calling him.”

  “Don’t.” Jasmine held up her hand. “Leave it al
one,” she said slowly. Then, softly added, “Let this play out the way God wants this to play out.”

  Like he always did, Hosea paused whenever his wife mentioned the Lord. In the next moment, he put the telephone down.

  Jasmine glanced down at the budget report that Hosea had handed her, wanting to change the subject. Her eyes widened a little. “Babe, this looks good. Tithes and offerings are almost back to where they were with your dad.”

  He nodded. “But you know, that’s not what’s most important to me.”

  “I know…” Her voice trailed off, but her smile stayed. Mrs. Whittingham had come through; the postponement gave her the time she needed.

  “Babe,” Jasmine began. “I need to run a few errands for an hour or so.”

  “Go on. We’ll go by the hospital when you get back.”

  She kissed his cheek and marched out of his office, her mind already on her tasks. It wasn’t exactly errands that she had to run—there were a few anonymous calls and deliveries that had to be made. And she needed to be out of the church to do that.

  FORTY-NINE

  HOSEA’S HANDS WERE PERCHED UNDER his chin. His eyes, closed. Praying, Jasmine was sure.

  She took soft steps toward him, but he sat still on the edge of their living room sofa, even though she was sure he knew she was there. Lowering herself in front of him, she kissed his forehead.

  The moment he looked at her, she could see the bad news behind his eyes, and her heart ached.

  Slowly, she asked, “Was that the hospital?” The phone had rung a few minutes before, but she had been in Jacqueline’s bedroom. It didn’t occur to her that all was not well—not until she walked in and saw her husband.

  “Yes.”

  Jasmine swallowed. “Is it your father?”

  He nodded.

  She inhaled deeply.

  “She had to put him back on the vent this morning. She keeps trying to take Pops off, but…”

  She exhaled; her thoughts had been much worse. “He just needs to get stronger.” She spoke in a tone that was meant to convince them both.