Forever. (This. Is. Not. Over. Book 3)

by Shannon Dianne

  “Danielle was asked to join The Board and she’s married to Malcolm. So, yes. I could have, Jacob. I could have gotten there with you.”

  “Danielle has a solid career and a helluva lot of respect around Boston and now the nation, for that matter. That’s why she gained The Board’s attention. She wasn’t asked to join because of her husband. But let’s be honest Jasmine, all you’ve ever wanted to do was stand by your man.”

  “And there’s nothing wrong with that,” I snap. How dare he imply that I had no dreams of my own!

  “Jazz, that’s one of the things that made me fall in love with you. Trust me, I know there’s nothing wrong with having a woman who’s down for you regardless. But that’s not the can-do attitude that gets you invited into the circles you’ve always aspired to belong to. You standing strong and firm by your white husband wasn’t going to get you a private invitation into The Board. Marlon, as much as I hate to admit it, can provide you with something I never could: the life you’ve always wanted.”

  I close my eyes and try to control my breathing. If I can just control my breathing right here, right now with Jacob, I can stop the sob that’s threatening to break out. All I have to do is breathe. I take a deep breath in and then exhale slowly.

  “Why am I here?” I ask with my eyes still closed. If he’s not begging me back, if he’s not apologizing, if he hasn’t said goodbye yet, then why am I here?

  “I owed you this.”

  “Oh yeah? What is this? The final goodbye? A decade overdue, don’t you think?”

  “Jasmine, I always had every intention of telling you goodbye.”

  “Then you’re a damn liar, because you told me—”

  “That I had every intention of leaving Winnie. I know. But that’s because, for the life of me, though I wanted to tell you goodbye, I just couldn’t say it.” I hear him inhale deeply. “I just couldn’t do it.”

  “Well, nothing says goodbye like becoming another woman’s husband.”

  “Better hers than yours.”

  “What are talking about?”

  “You were too right for me.”

  “What does that even mean, Jacob?

  “It means that we both would have had sleepless nights had we married. I would have been living with the weight of my demons and what they were doing to you. You would have been living with the weight of my demons and what they were doing to the family.”

  “Bull, Jacob. That’s utter bull. I would have loved you regardless of what you did.”

  “I know you would’ve, but it wouldn’t have made the weight any lighter.”

  “So you’d rather Winnie love you? Like she’s better than me?”

  “She’s not better than you. Both she and I are dirty, filthy. Both of us are reprehensible, fighters, instigators. We’re both the same kind of devil. You, on the other hand, were always like that angel of my conscience that sat on my shoulder whispering the right way in my ear.”

  “Well if you wanted me to shut up, that’s all you had to say.”

  “I didn’t want you to do anything but be yourself. The world needs people like you. Solid people who can whisper in the ears of devils.” He moves even closer to me. “But the longer you fucked with me Jazz, the unhappier you were going to get.”

  “What are you talking about unhappy? I was happy with you.”

  “You know, for years I tried to figure out why you stayed with me until the very end and I could only come up with one reason. Stockholm Syndrome.”

  “Oh God … no, I can’t do this with you. I’m leaving.” I make every resolve to move my legs, I really do. I warrant my feet to follow each other out the door. But for some reason, when it comes to Jacob Blair, I just can’t walk away. It’s funny, with Malcolm you just cannot come to him. With Jacob, you just can’t leave him. I cannot walk away from this man.

  And he knows that.

  “I was holding you captive.” He’s standing right behind me now. “I’m holding you captive right now. Go ahead, try to leave.” I try to put one foot in front of the other. Resolving to end something always starts with the first step. Leaving only starts with one step. But I just can’t take that step. All I need to do is be the one to take the first step.

  Why can’t I take the first step?

  “I was a cheat, a liar and manipulator and you knew that,” he says to me. “You made every excuse for me, it was never my fault. Or maybe it was my fault but you always gave me a copout: I was stressed because of law school; I stayed with Malcolm and we all know how he is; you missed the flight to Princeton that weekend and I was lonely. But Jazz, I’ve never, ever, been about shit. Yet you would never admit that. I trapped you; you loved me but you weren’t happy, you couldn’t have been. If you were, you would have never started fucking with Marlon while we were together.” Shoot, I knew that would come up sooner or later.

  “About that, it’s just that … well … it was my freshman year of college and you were studying and it was my birthday weekend and Danielle didn’t tell me she had a hookup until I got down to New Orleans and I don’t know … Marlon was nice and …” I shift uncomfortably from one leg to the other.

  “Let me start off by saying that I fucking hate Marlon. Okay? I hate that muthafucka. He got you; I hate him for it. It’s that simple.” I shift uncomfortably to the other leg. I don’t know why but I feel protective of Marlon right now, even though I’m talking to Jacob. I kinda don’t want Jacob to disrespect him because if Marlon deserves anything, it’s respect. “But I understand why you started talking to somebody else. No one can be happy being cheated on, lied to and controlled. But no matter who you were with, you were mine. I made sure of it. I knew exactly what I wanted and that was you. I lied to you every step of the way; there was never a truthful moment. I slept with you and fucked other girls. I became engaged to another woman and lied to you about it.” His groin lightly presses against my bottom. “But still, through it all, you stayed with me. You told me you loved me. I made you promises that I would never keep and dreams that we would never create. You were my prisoner in this fantasyland that would never exist. I started getting into your head instead of you getting into mine. I started to be that voice whispering in your ear; I was louder than your own conscience. I hypnotized you with whispered lies; you’d tell me you knew they were lies but you loved me anyway. You were in a trance by the time it was all over.”

  He leans down and places his mouth near my ear. “And that would have been your life,” he whispers. “Day in and day out, wondering what I was doing, who I was fucking, and if I would ever change. And the answers would have always been: I’m doing shit that could get me killed, I’m fucking any woman I can get my hands on and I’m never gonna change. By the way, you smell good.” He sweeps my hair to one side and lowers his face into my neck, sliding his tongue along as he goes. “But if you wanna move back into our world,” he whispers, “that world just above hell and just below heaven, pack your bags.” He kisses me on the neck.

  Our world. Jacob and I have our own world. That reminds me of what Malcolm said tonight, that he lives with Danielle in the land of Complicated. “But I have to be gone by nine every night.” Yet Jacob would just be visiting.

  “I don’t want you to leave your family,” I whisper back as my breathing catches in my throat. “I just want a proper goodbye.”

  “Then what’s your room number?”

  Jacob

  (gwyneth. yates.)

  “I just don’t get it,” Laura says to us all. “Why did Malcolm go to the DNC? Who cares what they have to say?”

  “Yeah,” Dena-Jo adds. “I don’t get it either. It can’t be a networking thing. Can it?” She looks between Nat and me.

  “We network with everyone, sweetie,” Nat says as he pours Dena-Jo another glass of wine. “Democrat or not. And, since Malcolm’s personality is more conducive to attaining connections of varying social sets, he’s the best man to be the face of the firm he, Jacob, Cadence and I want to start. It’s q
uite simple, dumpling.”

  “Well yes, my love, I know that Malcolm is—”

  “Perfect in each and every way,” Laura says as she bats her lashes.

  “Gregarious,” Dena-Jo says. “But to go there alone?” He’s not alone; he’s actually at the DNC (Democrat National Convention) with Jasmine after she confirmed that Jon would be a no-show. Apparently Jon was tired. That was his only excuse.

  It was Malcolm who arranged the admission tickets and it was Jasmine who begged him to take her instead of me. It’s been a month since Jasmine’s been crowned Queen Jasmine, Miss Black Massachusetts and she’s taking her royal title seriously. She’ll be reporting back to her subjects on the going-ons of the DNC and her article will be showcased in The Black Boston Gazette. So I freely passed her my ticket with one exception: no one can know that Malcolm or I gave it to her. She’d have to find some bullshit excuse as to why she came across an extra ticket. I would have loved to attend. I’m republican but I lean liberal; everyone knows that about me. But I know how important it is for Jasmine to get her face out there and there’s no better way than to do it at the DNC standing side by side with a twenty-year-old redheaded feminist who’s set to give a speech there. Sure the speech isn’t on camera but just being asked to speak is an accomplishment in itself. It’s also the reason Malcolm had to go there in order to actually see what Danielle has to say. He’s beyond impressed that she was given this chance and he refused to miss one of the biggest accomplishments she’ll have in her life. For him, she’s the perfect girl: she has her own shit, does her own thing and looks good as hell while doing it. But Nat and I say nothing as we each dig into our crab cakes, trying to hurry before we all head to the Ritz with the rest of the politicos in our set. We have the presidential suite rented out so that we can all cram in there and watch the DNC on the big screens in peace.

  Right now, I’m sitting on the pier of Flounders Seafood and Steak, the sun still high but slowly slinking. Winnie, a recent hookup, is sitting across from me, listening to the conversation, not offering input. She and I have been fucking for about three weeks now—no big deal. She’s definitely not wife material; I flew into Boston and fucked her after the second date. But she’s fine, she’s fun and a damn good lay. She’ll do. Dena-Jo is sitting next to me, Laura is across from her and Nat sits between them. The point is that we all have a privileged view of everyone’s face and expressions but the girls have yet to pick up that there’s anything wrong with Nat and my silence on the Malcolm matter. Then again, I doubt I’ll ever come into contact with a woman who’s as quick as I’d like her to be. I love Jasmine, I do, but shit just flies over her head sometimes. Naïve, innocent, lost … I don’t know what to call it but it’s a common trait among women these days. I do believe that Malcolm’s mother, aunt Angie, and my mother are the last set of women who are quick as hell and actually outthink their husbands. Aunt Angie and my mother would have picked up on Malcolm’s scheming ass in a minute. Too bad they don’t make women like they used to.

  Nat and I flew into Boston this morning, the day the Democrats formally acknowledge their presidential pick. We’ll have to fly out tomorrow morning in order to make it to our first class at ten. But there was no way we were staying at Yale during the final night of the DNC. When you’re born into politics, every day of the presidential election season feels like New Year’s Eve. Until the Republicans and Democrats officially confirm their nominations, there’s nothing but phones blaring, CNN blasting, giddy professors, nominee bashing and predictions of who will win the actual presidential election. The day when a candidate steps on stage and agrees to bring his party to victory is one the most exciting times in a politico’s life. But the girls are right, Malcolm did not have to head to Minneapolis in order to see a candidate declare the Democrat’s party supreme. He went for a reason. But of course the girls would never put two and two together because remember, they don’t make women like they used to.

  “I hear one of our own will be in attendance,” Winnie says as she takes a sly sip of her wine and looks at me. What’s that all about? I narrow my eyes at her.

  “That’s not saying much,” Dena-Jo says. Boston is die-hard Democrat. She let out a shudder. “People here won’t be happy until every street is named Martin Luther King Boulevard, every sign is written in Spanish and all the gays are married with gay kids.”

  “Hmm,” Winnie says as she takes another sip of her wine, her lips lingering on the glass. Have I mentioned that Winnie’s an excellent lay? I think I have but it bears repeating again. I’ve been back to Boston twice since I met her a few weeks ago and that last time I got a nice sweaty fuck in before heading over to Jasmine’s condo in the Waterfront. I’m not throwing shade on Jasmine, it’s just that Winnie is—shall we say—loose. Damn, I hate to say that. She’s not loose she’s just … easy. No, that doesn’t sound right either. Winnie’s not loose and she’s not easy; she is a man in a woman’s body. She owns her shit, takes a shot of whiskey, opens her legs, screws who she wants, slips out of bed and doesn’t call you in the morning.

  Hell, yeah.

  Though she is by no means wife material, to her credit she’ll only give a certain type of man a chance: old money, connected and degreed. When a woman screws a guy like that and she has her own credentials, not to mention her own family to fall back on, she’s not loose. She’s liberal. Possibly even a feminist. But since ‘feminist’ is a dirty word, and ‘loose’ is derogatory, we’ll just call her liberal. So right now, Winnie’s liberal ass is looking at me over the rim of her glass, a smirk on her face.

  “What’s that about?” I ask with a smile as I nod to her.

  “I hear that a Rouge is speaking at the convention.” Oh shit. “I was on the phone with Jacob when Malcolm came in his room and mentioned it,” she says to the table. I watch Nat adjust his tie and resettle in his seat. The last thing he wants is for Malcolm and Laura to break up. We need her.

  “Oh yeah?” Laura asks as she cracks a crab leg open. “Who’s speaking? Attorney Rouge or Dr. Rouge?” Everyone, black or white, knows of the Rouges.

  “Danielle Rouge,” Winnie says as she gives a lazy blink and drifts her eyes over to Laura.

  “Oh, shoot, dropped some butter on my dress,” Laura says as she grabs her napkin.

  “Oh really?” Dena-Jo asks, taking a sip of her wine. “She was asked to speak?”

  “Does anyone have a towelette?” Laura asks.

  “She was,” Winnie says, “for the feminists.”

  “I gotta admit, that’s impressive,” Dena-Jo replies. “How old is she?”

  “Jacob and Nat, you two went to school with her, right? The paper says she went to St. Bernadette. How old is she?” Winnie’s prodding. I smile at her; she winks back.

  “Oh, I think she’s a couple of years younger than us, right Jake?” Nat asks as he cuts into his steak, his eyes focused on severing the meat.

  “I can’t remember,” I say with a shrug. “So long ago.”

  “I agree,” Nat says and then adds quickly, “So what are we thinking for dessert?”

  “I have to admit, she’s really pretty,” Dena-Jo says. “Nat, don’t you think so?”

  “She’s nice looking,” he says in his most non-committal way. He never tries to get on Dena-Jo’s bad side. He needs her.

  “You think so?” Dena-Jo asks as she casts her eyes over to him.

  “Well … you know … if you like the tall redhead type. What is she, like 5’10”? Kinda tall for a woman.”

  “Where is that waiter?” Laura asks as she looks around.

  “She does tend to tower over everyone,” Dena-Jo says. “You would think that a woman that tall would learn to lower her heels by an inch or two. She has to stand well over 6’1” or 6’2” with those stilts she wears.”

  “This butter’s gonna stain,” Laura says.

  “She’s about 5’9” without shoes,” I say. I don’t know Danielle but I do know that Malcolm is enamored with the girl. Someth
ing in me won’t let Dena-Jo talk about her like she’s some circus attraction.

  “And Rouge. What does that mean? They’re Creole so it has to mean something,” Dena-Jo probes.

  “Red,” Winnie says.

  “Oh, that’s it. I’m going to the restroom,” Laura explodes as she throws her napkin on the table in a huff.

  “Danielle Rouge,” Winnie says, “or as we’d say in English, Danielle Red.”

  “When the waiter comes back, tell him I want the Chocolate Tower for dessert,” Laura says to Dena-Jo as she stands up and leaves the table.

  “Alright sweetie. So she’s speaking tonight?” Dena-Jo asks.

  “Off camera. Right, Jacob and Nat?” Winnie asks, as if she doesn’t already know.

  “Right,” Nat says. “Give me a moment honey,” he says to Dena-Jo. “Let me go and try to find that waiter before we miss the opening speeches.” He gets up and darts from the table. He’s doing what we law students would call ‘leaving the crime scene’.

  “Okay, darling,” Dena-Jo says over her shoulder but Nat’s already long gone. “Well, that will be nice. Malcolm will get to see this Danielle Rouge in person. She may be a Democrat but at least she’s a Boston girl.”

  “I agree,” Winnie says, and takes another sip of her wine while looking at me with another sly grin on her face. “It will be nice that he gets to see her in person.” Hmm … seems like Gwyneth Yates is trying to fuck with me. I smile at her and raise my glass. Impressive.

  She smiles at me and raises her glass back at me. Thank you.

  But now the question is, will she open her mouth to Laura? I raise an eyebrow at her. Are you a snitch? She laughs out loud, throwing her head back in the process.

  “What?” Dena-Jo asks as she cuts into her steak. “What did I miss?”

  “Jacob,” Winnie says before taking a sip of her wine. “I’m the daughter of General Landon Yates of the United States Army and Jacob’s questioning my allegiance.” I give her another nod and smile. Winnie may be more than a good fuck after all. She’s quick. She’s smart. She’s sly.