Mistress No More

by Niobia Bryant

  Virginia’s critical eyes went from Jaime’s still damp and lifeless curls to her robe. Her disapproval was clear as she strolled past her daughter, dressed in her signature Kasper suit and Evan Picone low-heeled pumps. Her graying curls were pulled back in a low chignon. The café au lait of her complexion—a result of her Korean and African-American heritage—only accentuated by neutral makeup. The perfect socialite wife.

  And she’d groomed Jaime to be her clone. Her own Mini-Me.

  “You’re not out of bed, Jaime?” she asked.

  “Where’s Dad?” Jaime asked, looking out the door and hoping to see her burly father making his way toward the house. Instead, she saw nothing but her parents’ black Lexus LS400 parked behind her Volvo.

  “At home.”

  Jaime fought hard not to roll her eyes. Her dad was the buffer between them, and now that she had claimed her own life and independence, Jaime needed him more than ever.

  “So what are your plans, Jaime?” Virginia asked, sitting down on the sofa and placing her patent leather tote in her lap.

  To get fucked before you dropped in, she thought, crossing her arms over her chest as she walked into the living room. She nearly dropped her cell phone and had to move fast to catch it.

  Remembering the text—and looking for a diversion—Jaime used her manicured thumbs to open it. Her eyes widened as she read the entire message. She frowned. Deeply. “Jessa? What the hell?”

  “Jaime, it’s rude to play with your cell phone while I’m talking to you.”

  But Jaime barely heard her mother. Jessa Bell was up to her games again and frankly, Jaime wanted no part of it. Her marriage to Eric was over and everything before the moment she’d decided to leave his sadistic ass just didn’t matter anymore.

  “Sorry, Mother,” she said, deleting the message from her phone and Jessa Bell from her thoughts. “Um, actually I’m planning to start my own business doing interior decorating.”

  Virginia Osten-Pine sighed. “What about your marriage?”

  “Seriously, Mother, you have to know when to stop beating a dead horse,” Jaime countered, thinking it felt damn good to finally say the words that came to her mind. The words she usually swallowed back in her haste to agree to her mother’s every demand and wish.

  “You have to understand Eric’s position with this. I thought it was clear when you two married that he is Catholic and doesn’t believe in divorce.”

  “I’m not Catholic and neither are you, Mother. Besides, Eric is suddenly clutching on to his faith to keep me when he wasn’t man enough to do it himself.”

  Virginia clutched at her pearls. “But you had the affair .”

  Jaime almost giggled at the way her mother said “affair” as if just pronouncing the word would send her straight to hell . . . still clutching at those damn pearls. “You ever think he wasn’t man enough to keep me from doing that either?”

  Her mother’s mouth dropped open.

  “For goodness sake, Mother, the man had me thinking a leprechaun and a pot of gold were easier to get than an orgasm.”

  Her mother gasped so deeply Jaime thought she’d choked on a hair ball. She knew she was wrong to enjoy shocking her mother.

  “Listen, I’m sorry, but I deserved to feel like a desirable woman and not some clinical, passionless, robotic lay that left me waiting for more all the time.”

  Virginia arched a brow as she sat forward to level her eyes on Jaime. “Listen, I don’t know what or who you think you are, but I raised a young, respectable lady and not a—”

  Jaime’s face hardened. “Not what, Mother, A slut? A whore? Go ahead. Say it. It won’t be your first time . . . remember ?” she asked, her voice cold as she flung back the harsh words her mother had called her when she’d learned of Jaime’s affair.

  Her mother shifted uncomfortably before she rose to her feet, her hands tightly gripping the handle of her tote. “Your father and I are tired of being the victims of whispers and stares and gossip about our daughter. Get your act together, Jaime,” she said, briskly walking to the door and snatching it open.

  “Or what?” Jaime asked, her voice cold. Bitter. Hurt.

  WHAM!

  She turned, surprised to see her mother still standing there after hearing the door slam shut.

  Virginia pointed her clear coated nail at her. “Or we will—”

  “Come on get this dick.”

  It was Jaime’s turn to gasp in horror as she turned. Pleasure stood at the end of the hall, still naked, still sculptured, still holding his hard dick in his hand. Oh Lawd, whhhyyyy?

  Jaime closed her eyes and dropped her head into her hands.

  “You see, Daughter, I call it as I see it.”

  WHAM!

  This time Jaime knew her mother was gone . . . .maybe even for good.

  “You look like you have a lot on your mind?”

  Renee shifted her eyes from some unknown spot on the textured wall of her spacious living room to look at Darren and her son, Aaron, looking at her. “Huh?” she said, setting down the box of brochures she was supposed to be folding before she rubbed her eyes with her fingertips.

  “You okay, Ma?” Aaron asked, his face filled with concern.

  Neither of the children was taking the news of their father having another child very well. Most days both stayed closed up in their rooms, refusing to have a casual conversation with him, although neither showed any disrespect. Renee hated that they were hurting just like she was.

  “I’m good, just ready to get this event all done and over,” she assured him, reaching over to smooth the fine waves of his low-cut hair. “Nothing a long nap won’t help.”

  And a stiff drink.

  She ignored Darren’s intense eyes on her as he edged forward on the suede sofa to press his elbows to his knees in the distressed jeans he wore with a white collar shirt and a deep navy V-neck sweater. “Your mom does have a lot of work stuff on her plate,” he said, his voice deep and masculine as he gave Aaron a reassuring smile. “It’s all a part of being a busy marketing executive.”

  Aaron turned his attention back to the brochures he was helping her fold.

  Renee ran her hands through her short ebony curls. “Thank you,” she mouthed to Darren.

  In his efforts to help Renee get her shit back together at work—especially for the upcoming fund-raising event—Darren had put in so many hours outside of work. She couldn’t thank him enough.

  His presence around her had forced her to cut back on the drinking, but the craving, the thirst, the need for how it made her feel hadn’t let up one damn bit.

  When she lay alone in bed at night and remembered the days that she had had the warm body of her husband by her side . . . she drank.

  When she gave in to the torture of putting a face to the woman who had fucked her husband . . . she drank.

  When she thought of the end of her marriage of over twenty years . . . she damn near swam in the liquor bottle.

  Fighting the urge to go into her office for a quick sip, Renee rose to her feet and walked to the front door to step outside. The sprawling homes with landscaped yards looked the same, but absolutely nothing about Richmond Hills felt the same.

  Her marriage had changed.

  Her friendships had changed.

  Her life had changed.

  Renee had honestly thought she and Jackson would spend the rest of their lives together in this house in Richmond Hills. She closed her eyes as a sharp and intense pain radiated across her chest.

  “Shit,” she swore, inhaling deeply and seeking an inner calm that was completely lost to her these days.

  Jackson wanted her forgiveness and love.

  Renee was empty of both.

  “Ma, your phone is ringing.”

  Renee turned as her son stood behind her and pushed her BlackBerry into her hand. “Thanks,” she said, frowning as she looked down at the flashing text message icon. Renee hated texts. She found them juvenile.

  As a matter of fact t
he last text message she’d gotten was from . . .

  “Jessa?” Renee said in a soft voice filled with her confusion and surprise as she read the text again . . . and again . . . and again.

  “Why is she sending me this?” she asked aloud, her face troubled.

  “Something wrong, Ma?” Aaron asked from behind her.

  “No, nothing,” she lied, lifting her eyes to look at Jessa Bell’s empty home at the end of the cul-de-sac.

  Was there a chance that Jackson had cheated with Jessa and fathered a child with another woman?

  Renee felt her nerves react to just the idea of it. She felt as if her bowels were loose. This was more than she could handle.

  Enough was fucking enough.

  Renee turned and breezed past her tall and slender son. “Darren, I have to go run an errand real quick. Will you be okay here ’til I get back?” she asked, grabbing her keys and her purse from the end table even as her heart pounded loudly enough to sound like the pounding hoofs of a dozen horses.

  Darren rose to his Gucci-covered feet. “No problem. Is everything okay?”

  Renee nodded as she turned and sailed out of the house.

  Racing to the car, getting in and cranking it, even the drive to Jackson’s town house was all a blur.

  Jackson and Jessa? Was there a chance he was fucking Jessa, too? Was Jackson a sex addict or some weird shit? Just where all did that motherfucker have his dick?

  “Like the fucking baby ain’t enough shit on me,” Renee snapped, slamming on the brakes so hard her tires squealed against the streets outside Jackson’s house. She threw the Benz into PARK wishing her thoughts would stop racing.

  Another woman is pregnant with my husband’s child. My husband fucked my friend. Another woman is pregnant with my husband’s child. My husband is a manwhore. Another woman is pregnant with my husband’s child. My husband ain’t shit. Anotherwomanispregnantwithmyhusbandschild. Jessa and Jackson? That crusty dick bastard.

  Renee fought the urge to scream as she hopped out of the car and charged up the concrete walkway to the black front door. She made a fist and knocked on it like she was the police.

  It was time to get all her questions out. The answers would hurt like hell, but the uncertainty was hurting worse. Way worse.

  As the door swung open, Renee felt her mouth water for a drink. She fought it off, but it kept nudging her, poking at her, calling her name. Renee licked the beads of sweat from her upper lip as she looked up at Jackson’s square handsome face shaped with surprise . . . and some other emotion she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  “Hey, Renee,” he said, stepping down to pull the door behind him.

  Renee studied the eyes of the man she had lived with for well over twenty years. Although she’d completely missed his affair, she knew him well. The look in the dark depths of his eyes was guilt.

  Renee reached past his broad frame and opened the front door, pushing it open wide. He moved to shut the door and step in front of her. Using one of her son’s tackling moves, Renee crossed her arms and pushed Jackson square in his gut. He fell back against the door, pushing it open wide and sending him crashing to the floor with an “umph.”

  Renee stepped right over his dazed and amazed ass, but it was her turn to be shocked as she locked her eyes on the white woman sitting on the leather sofa of her husband’s living room. Her eyes missed nothing. Not one detail. The straight blond hair she flipped over her shoulder, the coldness of her blue eyes, or the pale whiteness of her hand as she stroked her belly.

  “Renee,” Jackson said from behind her, touching her arm.

  Renee slapped his hand away. Hard. “Are you the bitch pregnant from my husband?” she asked in a low voice.

  “My name is Inga . . . not bitch,” the blonde said with a slight accent.

  Renee laughed bitterly as she raced across the room quick as shit. “No, bitch, your name is mud,” she said, reaching out to connect her palm with the other woman’s face.

  WHAP-BAP-DAP.

  She landed three good slaps before she felt Jackson’s strong arm around her waist. As the woman gasped and pressed her own hand to her reddened cheeks, Renee turned in Jackson’s embrace and began delivering blow after blow to his head and shoulders.

  “You no-good bastard.

  “You slick son of a bitch.

  “You sellout.

  “You fucking coon.

  “Get off me!

  “Let me go.”

  “Jackson, she is acting like an animal!” Inga screeched.

  Renee saw all shades of red. All of them. She bit down on Jackson’s shoulder.

  “Ow! Damn, Renee,” he hollered.

  Renee jumped down to her feet and raced at the blonde bitch. The woman’s blue eyes got big before she turned and ran. Renee reached out for a handful of blond hair and tugged hard with her fist, feeling a clump of the strands break free of her scalp.

  “Help me. Please help me,” Inga screamed.

  “Shut up,” Renee snapped, tugging some more on her hair.

  Jackson recovered and grabbed Renee’s wrists. “Let me go, Jackson,” she warned.

  “She’s pregnant, Renee,” he stressed, tightening his grip on her wrists.

  She looked up at him with eyes filled with the anger and—in that moment—hatred that burned deep inside her chest. “Who gives a fuck?” she said coldly, her chest heaving like she’d just run a marathon.

  “Oh my God, she pulled out my hair,” Inga wailed from behind them.

  “So you’re begging for me to forgive you and you’re still fucking this trash?” Renee jerked her head toward the other woman.

  “Trash!” Inga snapped with indignation.

  “Be quiet, Inga!” Jackson snapped. He focused his eyes back on Renee. “I didn’t ask her over here, Renee. It’s over—it’s been over—between us.”

  Renee hated the tears and sadness that threatened to overwhelm her. “This is your drama. Your mess. Your life. I’m done. I. AM. DONE.”

  “I messed up, but I love—”

  Renee shook her head. “Save your lies for someone else. Barbie can have you. Now release me.”

  Jackson hesitated. “Renee, don’t—”

  “Now!”

  He unwrapped his hands from around her wrists.

  Renee turned and jumped at Inga. She smiled coldly when the woman jumped back. Taking little joy in that, she turned and walked to the door. Hand on knob, she looked over her shoulder at him. “An affair I could have forgiven because our twenty years is so much more than some sexual slip-up . . . some worthless fuck . . . some worthless woman,” she told him, looking at the man and hating that she felt like she didn’t know him at all. Like the last twenty years—their marriage, their life—had all been some dream.

  Renee pointed to Inga. “That I can forgive.”

  Renee pointed to Inga’s belly. “That bastard I cannot.”

  She left the house, closing the door behind her and thanking God that he let her be. Every step away from his door felt like one heavy weight after another was placed on her shoulders. She felt like breaking down, crying, having a fit, but she refused to let him or his bitch see her fall.

  Renee barely made it inside her vehicle before her body trembled and the tears fell.

  Should it matter that her husband’s mistress was a white woman? Did it matter?

  Renee reached into her purse for her flask and took a deep swallow of the gin and cranberry juice inside. She felt hopeless. Images of her husband’s beautiful brown ass clutching and releasing as he stroked between Inga’s pale thighs taunted her. She took another sip, licking her lips at the familiar warmth of the liquor as she swallowed it down.

  She picked up her cell phone atop her purse. The text message from Jessa was still open.

  Importance: High

  To: 19735558932

  From: 19735550666

  Subject: Let’s talk . . . ASAP

  I’m woman enough to admit I was

  wrong
. Your man is not the man for me.

  Not at all. Want the truth? Meet me at

  the Terrace Room at noon.

  Renee honestly didn’t know if she could take much more truth.

  She texted Jessa back quickly.

  FUCK A MEETING. JUST TELL ME

  NOW.

  She hit SEND and then dialed Jackson’s phone number.

  “Tell her to get the hell out,” she told him as soon as he picked up. “That’s your house and your mess, Jackson, but you’re still my husband and I’m not leaving here with another bitch in your house. Now either she comes out or I’m coming the fuck back in.”

  Renee ended the call and carelessly tossed the BlackBerry onto the butter-soft leather of the backseat. Her show of bravado ended.

  The door opened and Inga walked out, being sure to rub her belly as she passed Renee’s vehicle to climb into some nondescript royal blue four door. Renee watched her in the rearview mirror until she pulled off and drove away. She had to fight the urge to ram her car into the rear of her.

  She jumped, turning to the passenger window to see Jackson leaning down to peer in. Renee pushed the flask down in between the door and the car seat. She lowered the window an inch as she eyed her husband through the clear glass. “A white woman? How fucking cliché, Jackson,” she drawled. “If I were you, mandingo, I would give me fifty feet. Seriously.”

  She pulled off, not giving a damn if she ran over his feet as she sped away. But she made it no farther than the corner before she pulled over and let her tears rise and her head fall to the steering wheel.

  Chapter 5

  As soon as Aria finished up her interview, she hopped into her Range Rover and headed to the Terrace Room. The joy and excitement she’d had about her exclusive interview with a pop icon was squelched by the Jessa Bell bullshit. She’d gotten all the questions out. She’d even thought of a few more as they talked in the living room of her penthouse suite at The Plaza. But the whole time her mind was on Jessa Bell.