Jasmine looked like she was about to lose that fake air she had going on, but she composed herself and said, “No, it’s Jasmine. Jasmine Bush. And again, you are?”
“Rachel Jackson Adams, first lady of Zion Hill Missionary Baptist Church in Houston.”
“Oh”—Jasmine put a finger to her head like she was thinking—“I’ve never heard of it.” She didn’t give Rachel time to reply before saying, “Wherever did you get that adorable pantsuit? I thought I saw it in a commercial for Marshall’s last year.”
Jasmine’s tone let Rachel know this was definitely not intended as a compliment. “No, if you must know, I got it from T.J.Maxx. Yours is lovely, too. Whose tithes paid for it?”
Lester stepped in before she could reply. “Lady Jasmine,” he said, reaching around Rachel and extending his hand. “It is such a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard wonderful things.”
What was this Lady Jasmine crap? Rachel glared at her husband out of the corner of her eye as he took Jasmine’s hand. He’d balked when she suggested she be called Lady Rachel. Oh, she would definitely be telling Lester about himself later.
Jasmine looked like she was breathing fire out of her nostrils before she finally smiled and said, “Reverend Adams. It’s my pleasure.”
Lester grinned like he’d won the Lotto as Hosea approached them. “And if it isn’t the esteemed Reverend Hosea Bush.” He vigorously shook his hand. “I am so honored. I’m a big fan of your show, Bring it On. Your messages are always on point. And the work that you do in your community is just phenomenal.”
Oh, hell to the no, Rachel thought as her husband dang near salivated at the sight of Hosea. He was acting like he was meeting Barack Obama himself. It was just disgusting.
“Lester, darling, don’t be so modest. You do a lot yourself,” Rachel interjected.
Jasmine looked like she was eating the whole scene up. Hosea nodded. “Reverend Adams, your lovely wife is right. I hear you won the Southern coalition hands down.”
“He did,” Rachel said, draping her arm through her husband’s. “But it’s no surprise. I mean, you should see what he’s done with our church. The membership has multiplied since he took over.”
“Oh, that’s right, to a whopping three thousand people,” Jasmine said with a fake smile. “Honey, didn’t City of Lights have three thousand members back in, what, ’85?”
No, this heifer wasn’t trying to downplay their membership rolls. Rachel dropped her arm and took a step forward. “Well, we believe in quality, not quantity,” she said as nicely as possible. “And we try to keep our family-feel so that our members can truly be fed in the Word and not just be a number on a roster. Let me guess. City of Lights, Camera, Action has an ATM in the sanctuary?”
“Okay, ladies,” Lester said, putting a hand on Rachel’s forearm to calm her down.
Rachel and Jasmine stared at each other in a face-off. Sure, Jasmine may have had ten or thirty years on her, but Rachel wasn’t about to let this broke-down Chaka Khan–looking woman punk her.
“Jasmine,” Hosea said sternly.
“What?” Jasmine raised an eyebrow at her husband.
“Reverend Bush, let me apologize for my wife,” Lester said, shooting Rachel the evil eye.
“Apologize for what?” Rachel snapped. The ghetto was seeping out. “Chaka here is the one that stepped off the plane in her designer duds like she’s royalty, talking about she’s the new first lady of the American Baptist Coalition.”
“Chaka? Who is Chaka?” Jasmine asked.
“‘Cha-ka, Cha-ka. Chaka Khan, let me rock you—’” Rachel sang with an attitude.
“Rachel Adams,” Lester admonished, cutting her off.
Rachel caught herself, rolled her eyes, and managed a tense smile. “I was just kidding with her. You know when you get old, you lose your sense of humor, so I was just trying to lighten the mood.”
Lester looked horrified and Jasmine looked ready to pounce. Rachel was thrilled. She’d wiped that smug expression right off Jasmine’s face.
“We’ll see who has the last laugh,” Jasmine said, not bothering to smile. She turned to her husband. “Hosea, sweetheart, we really should get going. Where are the cars?” she asked, turning around and noticing that the three Town Cars were gone.
Hosea sighed like he knew trouble was brewing. “I sent Mae Frances and the rest of the team on. The kids are extremely tired and Mrs. Sloss wanted to get them to the hotel so that they could rest before the reception tonight. We were supposed to have four cars and the other is on the way. They’re about five minutes out.”
“You’re more than welcome to ride to the hotel with us,” Lester said, trying to ease the obvious tension.
Thankfully, Hosea quickly nipped that idea. “No, no, the driver is on the way. Our plane did touch down a few minutes early.”
“Oh, okay. Well, I guess we’ll see you at the welcome reception tonight,” Lester said. “Mrs. Bush.” Lester nodded toward her.
Jasmine half nodded back. Lester looked at Rachel out of the corner of his eye. She knew he wanted her to say something. Fine. She huffed. “Rev. Bush, it was a pleasure. My apologies if I came off a little harsh. Sometimes people don’t appreciate my attempts to break the ice.”
Hosea smiled. “I’m sure my wife offers up her apologies as well.” Jasmine folded her arms across her chest and didn’t reply.
Rachel wasn’t fazed. It’s not like she was apologizing to that witch anyway. She spun and strutted to the car.
Lester stayed behind, no doubt continuing his apologies. Suddenly, an idea hit Rachel as she climbed in the backseat. She leaned forward to the driver. “Do you work for the same company as all the other cars that were out here?”
The portly gray-haired man nodded. “I do.”
Rachel grinned widely, reached in her purse, and pulled out a fifty-dollar bill as she quickly told the man what she needed him to do.
“That was so absolutely uncalled for,” Lester hissed as he climbed into the limo a few minutes later. “You’d better be glad Rev. Bush is a godly man and didn’t get upset at the way you were acting.”
She reached in her purse again and pulled out a tissue. “Here,” she said, handing it to Lester.
“What’s that for?” he asked.
“To wipe the drool from your mouth since you were all but licking the man’s shoes,” Rachel snapped as she tossed her purse on the seat.
“Rachel, that is ridiculous. Reverend Bush is a highly regarded minister. I’m just showing him his proper respect. Regardless of this whole competition thing, I’m going to give the man his respect.”
Rachel ignored her husband. Respect was one thing. Utter adoration was another. Why couldn’t Lester see that the Bushes thought they had this thing in the bag? It was obvious from Jasmine’s whole demeanor that they believed they were better than she and Lester. And now that Rachel had met Jasmine, she knew that skank wouldn’t be above fighting dirty. Good thing she’d beat her to the punch.
As the limo pulled away from the curb, Rachel glanced back at Hosea and Jasmine standing there waiting on their ride.
“Why are you sitting over there grinning?” Lester asked.
Rachel pulled her sunglasses out of her bag, Chanel knockoffs that looked just like Jasmine’s, but probably cost half as much.
“No reason,” she said, leaning back in the seat. Oh, how she wanted to tell her husband what she’d done. But his Donald Do-Good behind would make the driver turn around. No, she’d wait until they checked into the hotel before she let him know that she’d had their driver radio in and cancel the car service for Reverend and Mrs. Bush. She had already done the same for their hotel. Sure, they’d get it all worked out—eventually. But Miss Priss would probably act a fool, piss a few people off. And while they were trying to figure out what happened, she’d be in the lobby, mixing and mingling with folks, drumming up votes for her man. Rachel couldn’t help but chuckle as she closed her eyes and repeated, “No reason, at all.”
Chapter
SEVEN
A taxi, Hosea,” Jasmine huffed. “We are actually taking a taxi!”
As the yellow car edged away from the curb, Hosea settled back against the cracked pleather seat. “Darlin’, you say that as if you don’t take cabs.”
“I don’t.”
“You were in one yesterday.” He chuckled.
“That was in New York. No one who is anyone takes taxis in LA.”
Hosea did what he always did. He shook his head a little, squeezed Jasmine’s hand, then closed his eyes—without even one angry word.
Jasmine pushed out a long breath, trying to bring it down. It wasn’t easy, though. It would have helped if Hosea had shared just a bit of her fury, instead of reacting like she was some kind of diva. Because truly, this was all so ridiculous.
She and Hosea had waited for more than thirty minutes before Hosea had called one of the handlers Pastor Griffith had assigned to them. Fifteen minutes after that, the call came back that there was some kind of mix-up. Their car had been canceled and it would be an hour before another one could be diverted to them; the car companies were all overbooked with the hundreds of convention attendees arriving today.
“So, what are we supposed to do?” Jasmine had asked, totally exasperated. It was bad enough that she’d stood on the curb outside Terminal 8, as if she were some common traveler. Now they’d have to wait even longer? She needed to get to the hotel, rest up, and change into the fabulous St. John dress that her shopper had selected for the welcome reception tonight.
“No, we’re not gonna wait,” Hosea had told her. Then he’d dragged her to the taxicab line, twelve passengers deep—they’d have to wait for the thirteenth car to show up.
It was just absurd that the next president of the American Baptist Coalition would arrive at the Millennium Biltmore in such a pedestrian way.
Someone was going to pay for this. Jasmine was going to let her dissatisfaction be known—in a totally appropriate fashion that was befitting of the new first lady, of course—to Pastor Griffith, as soon as she marched into that hotel.
But then, thoughts of taxicabs, Pastor Griffith, and inept handlers airlifted right out of her mind when the cab came to the red light. At the intersection of Airport Boulevard and her life of shame.
The taxi had stopped at the corner where she’d spent hours peeling off her clothes—and doing many other things—in the name of finishing her college education.
It surprised her—Foxtails, the pink-and-purple stucco building, was no longer there. She’d expected it to be standing for at least as long as she lived—the torturous reminder that she had not always been a first lady, and as Mae Frances liked to say, she had not always been saved.
She pressed her face closer to the window. On the land where the strip club used to be was a McDonald’s, complete with a children’s playground that backed up to where men had come from all over the county to get a look at her—Pepper Pulaski, the stripper who could quake her booty like it was part of the San Andreas Fault.
Foxtails had become McDonald’s—somehow, that just didn’t seem right.
With a single blink, she turned away and glanced over her shoulder. Hosea was still in meditation mode—his eyes closed, his chest rising slowly up, and then down. Good! There were only a few who knew about her life on that dark side, and thank God her husband was not one of them. As far as she knew, her secret life as a stripper had been revealed to only a few: her father-in-law, who’d worked with a private investigator many years before to dredge up that past; Mrs. Whittingham, the woman who’d used that past to torment and blackmail her; and Mae Frances, because Jasmine had needed someone to confide in and help her get out of the blackmailing situation.
So, with Foxtails completely demolished and only three people alive who knew of that dark period, Jasmine decided that she could truly leave that part of her life behind. She would no longer have any memories, no longer have any thoughts of her times at Foxtails—they would stay right here on this corner. All that mattered now was her future … well, Hosea’s future, too. He had to be the one to win the election so that she could step into her rightful role.
Jasmine hated that the election was a week away. Why did they have to wait so long when truly, Hosea was going to stomp that country-fried-chicken preacher? Jasmine did feel a little sorry for Reverend Adams—but his bargain-basement wife? She didn’t feel a dang thing for her. Not after what she’d pulled back at the airport.
Calling her Natasia! That trick actually had the nerve to call her by Hosea’s crazy ex-fiancée’s name. If Reverend Adams hadn’t been standing right there, Jasmine would’ve knocked her right upside her head—the exact same way she’d done Natasia.
Well, maybe not exactly that way. All Jasmine had to do was sniff and she knew Rachel wasn’t anything like Natasia—this one was straight hood and could probably handle herself in a fight.
Yeah, all of Rachel’s power was from the neck down—there didn’t seem to be too many brain cells alive and operating. It would be easy to outsmart this one. All Jasmine had to do was think and she’d have the advantage.
Finally, the taxi eased off the 110 Freeway and maneuvered through the streets of the new and improved downtown Los Angeles. She’d heard about all the changes in the area: old warehouses that had become expensive lofts, clean streets that were no longer home to the homeless. But what she saw was even better than she imagined. Of course, the Lakers had left the Forum in Inglewood many years before for the Staples Center, but downtown was much more than just a sports arena. From the restaurants and theaters and upscale shopping, the area that had become known as LA Live was bubbling with excitement, rivaling other city attractions like Beverly Hills, Hollywood, and Universal City.
By the time the cabdriver rolled to a stop in front of the Millennium Biltmore, Jasmine had no memories of her anger. She stepped from the car, then hooked her arm through Hosea’s—the queen being escorted by her king.
She chuckled at that thought—maybe it was time to change her name. Lady Jasmine just seemed too small for her now. Queen Jasmine was far more appropriate.
Jasmine strutted into the splendor of the eighty-five-year-old grand hotel that had welcomed celebrities and dignitaries over the past decades. She and Hosea swept into the lobby, past the soaring columns and vaulted ceilings inspired by Roman architecture. A couple hundred people had gathered in the massive space, an informal meet and greet of the convention attendees before the official welcome reception.
The chatter swelled as the crowd took notice of Hosea and Jasmine.
“Pastor Bush,” many called out.
The gathering parted as if they were making room for Moses himself, and they all invited the Bushes into their midst. There were smiles and greetings of welcome and best wishes. A few even broke out with impromptu applause.
Hosea’s steps quickened against the marble floor, his eagerness to move past the attention apparent. But Jasmine gripped his arm a bit tighter, slowed him down, and basked in the adoration. She gifted the greeting pastors and their wives with her best smile and held her hand stiff in a wave as if she were strutting on the stage of the Mrs. America pageant.
Pastor Griffith found them when they were just steps away from the front desk. “I’m so sorry about the car service,” he said, his eyes on Hosea. But when he added the next part, he turned to Jasmine. “I hope you’ll let me make it up to you.”
Her plan had been to tell him just how unhappy she was and just how embarrassing it’d been. But, with a slight nod of her head, she took the high road and told him that all was forgiven. She wanted the man who wielded so much power in the North to see that she was a woman who was full of grace.
“Here, let me get you checked in,” Pastor Griffith said. “The plan was to have your keys waiting, but as you can see”—he turned and his hand swept across the lobby—“so many are already here. I’ve been working the room, getting all the necessary delegates on our side.”
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br /> As she followed Pastor Griffith, Jasmine’s eyes scanned the crowd. This was her domain—a luxurious space with a predominance of men. She studied the few women who were sprinkled throughout the gathering. Most were pastor’s wives—their hats, tea-length skirts, and worn, tired expressions gave them away. But there were a few younger women who slipped through the maze of men, single and scoping.
You’ve got to be kidding me. Jasmine chuckled. She recognized their kind—she’d been a part of that club for too many years. Groupies, though she always hated that name. She’d never done anything in a group—except for maybe once or twice.
But these were groupies for sure. The question was, what were they doing here? In her hunting days, athletes, actors, even CEOs of major corporations had been the prey. These women were going after pastors? Get out. She laughed aloud. What were these new groupies called? Holy rollers?
Her laughter stopped, though, when she heard Pastor Griffith. “What do you mean the reservation was canceled?”
His tone was a bit condescending. Clearly he meant business, and Jasmine appreciated him even more. He was nothing like her gentle, we-are-all-equal-in-God’s-eyes husband.
“I’m sorry, Pastor Griffith.” The twentysomething woman was trembling already. “But Mrs. Bush called earlier and canceled the suite. She said she didn’t need it—that it was an extra one she was just holding on to.”
With an attitude as massive as the lobby, Jasmine stepped up to the desk, nudging Hosea aside slightly. “I didn’t call anyone,” Jasmine said, her words staccato, her tone matching the man on the left, not her husband on the right.
“There must be some mistake.” Now the woman behind the desk’s voice quivered, as if she saw nothing but blame and punishment in her future.
“Obviously,” Jasmine and Pastor Griffith said together.
Hosea spoke up. “No need to go back and forth. Like you said”—his voice was low and calm as he spoke to the nervous attendant—“this was a mistake and we’ll just rectify it. Just give us back that suite.”
Sinners & Saints Page 5
