Lady Jasmine (20 page)

T
HE MOMENT SHE HEARD THE
footsteps, Jasmine lowered the computer screen on her laptop, hiding the travel Web site she’d been viewing. She was already looking up when Roxie stood at her door.

“Mrs. Whittingham gave me this for you.”

“Thanks,” Jasmine said, reaching for the FedEx envelope.

“I’m getting ready to get out of here, unless you have anything else.”

Shaking her head, Jasmine said, “Nope.” Roxie tried to peek at her computer, and Jasmine lowered her laptop lid even more.

“What’re you working on?” Roxie asked.

“Nothing.”

Roxie sighed, but Jasmine didn’t care. Being here was her idea—and with her friendship with Jerome, Jasmine was never going to let her get close. Plus, it wasn’t like she was sure that Roxie wasn’t the blackmailer—even though she was beginning to doubt it.

Roxie said, “I was thinking about stopping by the hospital. Is Hosea there?”

Jasmine nodded.

When Jasmine didn’t add anymore, Roxie said,
“Okay…well, then…I’ll see you.”

The moment Roxie was out of sight, Jasmine opened her laptop again. She hadn’t decided when she would go to Georgia, though she was leaning toward this weekend. That way, she could attend the Sunday service at Church of the Solid Rock. If that church was anything like City of Lights, it would be the best place to find a loose-lipped lady who’d want to talk about her former pastor.

With her eyes on the computer screen, Jasmine picked up the FedEx package, ripped it open, then pulled out the single page. She held it for a moment, before she turned her eyes to it and then dropped the paper as if it was a snake on fire.

The letter fell onto her desk, faceup, the words right in her face, taunting her:

Get your husband to give up his position or else at the next board meeting, Mr. Smith will be there to tell everyone about ’83.

Jasmine’s hands shook as she stuffed the letter back into the envelope. She checked the FedEx slip—the package had been addressed to her, and in the return address was her name and home address!

Her heart pounded even more as she pushed herself from her chair and rushed to the front of the church.

“Where’s Roxie?” she demanded to know.

Mrs. Whittingham turned away from her computer and glared at Jasmine over the rim of her glasses. “She’s
your
assistant.”

“Where is she?” Jasmine growled.

Mrs. Whittingham frowned, but this time she answered, “She just left.”

“Did you give this to her?” Jasmine waved the FedEx packet in her face. “Where did you get it?” She was trying not to sound frantic, but the look on Mrs. Whittingham’s face told her she wasn’t succeeding.

The woman sat back, eyes wide, as if she wondered if Jas
mine’s hysteria was dangerous. She gripped her desk and kept her eyes fixed on Jasmine, ready to make a move if the mad-woman in front of her did something crazy. “The man,” she began, “from
FedEx
gave me the
FedEx
package.”

“This came as a delivery?”

“Yes, that’s what FedEx men do. They deliver packages,” she said slowly, as if that would help Jasmine understand and maybe calm down. “That one came for you and this,” she held up another package, “came for Hosea.”

Now, it was Jasmine’s eyes that widened. The envelope Mrs. Whittingham held was identical to the one in her hand. It was the blackmailer—exposing her!

She snatched the packet from Mrs. Whittingham and rushed away before the woman could yell “Hey!”

Inside her office, she slammed the door shut and took a closer look at the envelope she’d just hijacked. It was addressed to Pastor Hosea Bush, with a return address from First Presbyterian Church.

But that was only a trick, she was sure. She ripped the package open and quickly read the letter inside. Twice. Just to make sure.

It was an invitation from the anniversary committee at First Presbyterian Church for Hosea to attend the celebration of Reverend Godfrey’s fifty years in ministry.

Jasmine let the envelope and letter slip from her hand to the floor; then she slumped into her chair.

She’d been so scared that the blackmailer was contacting Hosea. Telling her husband all about her secret life, all about her secrets with the man she came to know as Mr. Smith…

The man with the money and the flower came to the club every day for the first seven days Jasmine worked at Foxtails. But after each of her sets on the stage, he’d vanish.

Then after her first week, he was gone altogether.

It was hard working and not seeing the twenty dollar bills
falling at her feet, but still Jasmine danced every night that Buck let her—usually four times a week. And the money that rolled in was more than she’d been making at her internship position at Sony.

But although she averaged about five hundred dollars a week at Foxtails, it wasn’t going to be enough to totally pay what she needed with the four weeks that were left in the summer. Still she danced—it was her only option.

It didn’t take many days for Pepper Pulaski to become the club favorite. It was her hips that brought her infamy.

But Jasmine knew that she would need more than her body to make the kind of money she needed. So she worked to perfect her craft.

She found an adult video store ten blocks away from Sony, and each day during her lunch breaks, she walked to the shop, and paid three dollars to sit in a booth and watch videos. The porn stars became her teachers; she measured it all, studying their gestures, their facial expressions—all the things they did to make men happy.

Then at night, she took her lunchtime lessons to the stage. And she slowed down her music. While the rest of the girls loved all that up-tempo, new-style hip-hop music, she stayed with the R&B hits of the day—especially the slow ones—like Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing.” She became the sensual stripper.

On her one-month anniversary, Jasmine had almost clapped with glee when she sashayed onto the stage to the rhythm of Prince’s new release, “Do Me Baby” and swung around the pole. That’s when she got her first whiff of the flower. Her eyes rapidly searched the chairs at the edge of the stage and there he was—her man, with the money and the flower.

She turned it up once she saw him. Rocked and rolled her hips, dipped into splits, swirled upside down and around on the pole. By now, she was used to the cackles and the hoots from
the crowd, but it was this man’s sweat and gasps and tears that she wanted.

This time, she took no chances, and when Prince belted out his final, “Do me, baby!” she jumped off the platform, leaving the clothes she’d stripped off right there on the stage.

It was against the rules, and Buck would have a screeching fit—but she’d apologize, promise never to do it again, and Buck would leave her alone. He had to. She was his top moneymaker—the men drank and drank, in anticipation and appreciation of getting to stare at Pepper’s ample apple-shaped behind.

“Hey, there,” she said in a voice that came from her throat. She’d learned that from her porn teachers, too.

She leaned against the stage, pushed her long hair back so that it fell behind her, and kept her hands at her side. She wanted to make sure that he could appreciate every inch of her full glory. “I’ve been looking for you,” she said.

His small round eyes wandered over her nakedness. Finding his voice, he spoke softly, “Have you?”

“Uh-huh. I’ve missed you.”

“Could you…would you…have a drink with me?” New perspiration popped onto his bald head.

She smiled, hearing the shyness inside his gentle tone. It had probably taken great effort for him to ask that. “Of course,” she purred. “But you know, I can’t sit down.” She leaned closer to him, inhaled the fragrance of his flower, and smiled at the way his head glistened. “Why don’t we do this?” She watched his chest rise and fall, more rapidly with every word she spoke.
“You
drink, and
I’ll
dance,” she said, knowing that he could feel the heat of her breath. “I’ll dance just for you. Will that work?”

He twisted in his seat, adjusted his pants. “Oh, yes!” His head jerked in a nod so many times, she worried that he might break his neck.

Jasmine motioned to one of the bartenders, and then she danced. She used her hands more than she did on the stage—
touching herself, touching him, knowing that Buck would look the other way like he always did.

More than once, she grabbed his tie and allowed the expensive silk to slip through her fingers. She pulled him close enough for a kiss, but their lips never met. And even though she had her hands all over him, he never touched her.

Forty minutes later, he gave her two hundred dollars. And she wanted to kiss him for real.

He said, “I want…I want…you to dance for me.”

“Okay.” She frowned a bit and wondered what he thought she’d been doing. Turning her back to him, she rolled her hips in a wide circle motion.

For the first time, he touched her with the tips of his coarse fingers. She was surprised; his hands felt like he worked in construction. But that was totally contradictory to the rest of him. Although he was a slight, shy man, he was dressed well in a top-shelf suit. Jasmine didn’t know the names of many designers, but she’d learned quality from the men who visited the club. And his suit had to cost hundreds.

She faced him when he touched her.

“Not here,” he whispered.

Jasmine’s eyes moved toward the back of the room, to the red door that led to the VIP Lounge. In the month that she had worked the club, she had managed to stay out of there, where, for a price, anything could happen. To Jasmine, the girls who took clients in the back were nothing more than whores. But she didn’t get down like that—she wasn’t about to give her body to anyone. Not for any price. After all, she had a boyfriend, and she really did love Kenny.

As if he knew what she was thinking, he said, “Not back there. You’re too good for that.”

She exhaled a long breath of relief.

“I want you to go with me.”

“I can’t leave,” she said, shaking her head. She already had
her excuse—it was the same one she’d given the others who over the weeks had tried to coerce her into giving them an extra-special VIP treat. “They penalize us for leaving early, and I can’t afford those fees.”

“I’ll take care of that for you.”

She paused for a moment. No one had ever offered that. But still, he wanted her to go with him. Outside of this place. She knew what that meant. And she was not a whore.

He said, “I’ll pay you five hundred dollars.”

“Five hundred?” she asked, thoughts of whoredom fading. He’d already given her two hundred, and with her other tips, this could be her first one-thousand-dollar night.

He nodded. “Plus your fees,” he said softly. And then he added, “At a hotel. You’ll be safe; I know I have to leave my card with Buck,” he said, as if he’d done this before and knew all the rules. When he saw the hesitation still in her eyes, he reassured, “Just to dance. That’s all.”

There’s a big difference between dancing and whoring,
she thought as she agreed.

She’d rushed to the back to change while the man took care of the business with Buck.

And that was the first night she left with the man she later came to know as Mr. Smith…

Jasmine looked, once again, at the letter that threatened to expose her. Threatened to introduce Hosea to Mr. Smith.

Detective Foxx said the blackmailer would leave a clue. Her eyes searched the note—there was nothing to reveal the face behind the words.

But Jasmine began to put her own features on the blackmailer. It was inside her gut—she was sure this had come from either Jerome Viceroy or Pastor Wyatt, although it seemed unlikely that one of them could have found out so much about her past.

She had to get to Hogeye Creek and get what she could
on Pastor Wyatt. And she had to up her game with Jerome. Then, pray that Mae Frances found something on Roxie and Ivy and…in the next instant Jasmine’s thoughts came to a screeching halt. It could all be such a waste if none of her suspects was the blackmailer.

But then she took a deep breath, inhaled fortitude, and shook those doubts away. What other choice did she have?

Her hands were still trembling when she clicked back onto the travel Web site. This time, she didn’t review all her choices—the decision had been made: she had to get to Hogeye Creek now.

She selected her Saturday and then Sunday flights. Once those plans were taken care of, there was only one more thing to do.

She picked up the phone and called Mae Frances.

Tonight, they were once again on their knees at the edge of Reverend Bush’s bed, and Jasmine felt as if she could stay here for hours. She was praying for her father-in-law, but even though she talked to God about Reverend Bush, she could feel that God heard more than her words—He heard her heart, too. He knew all the trouble she was in, and through soft whispers, she was sure she heard Him saying that it was going to be all right.

Her eyes were still closed when she felt Hosea move next to her and help her stand. She’d just rested her head on his shoulder when they heard the gentle knock on the door.

“Pastor Bush?”

Both Hosea and Jasmine frowned at the young guy in the leather bomber jacket and jeans.

“I have a delivery for you.”

Jasmine gasped. This was just like earlier; the blackmailer had come to the church, and now he had followed her to the hospital.

“I need your signature,” the man said.

Jasmine wanted to rip the package away from her husband. Tell him that he could never read it. But the envelope was securely tucked under his arm as he signed.

It’s over!
her mind screamed as she paced back and forth. She needed to confess—tell Hosea right now that she had been a stripper before he read those ugly words. Then she could drop to her knees and beg for his forgiveness.

“I wonder what this is.” Hosea slowly peeled back the lip of the packet. “And why would anyone send a messenger here?”

Before he pulled the letter out, Jasmine breathed, “Babe…”