Lady Jasmine (25 page)

But there was no compassion in her heart, especially not after the way Mrs. Whittingham still spoke to her.

You’re the one who brought disgrace to him!

Those words sliced her.

As she rode down in the elevator, Jasmine heard Mrs. Whittingham’s voice again and again. Like the woman was standing right there, spewing them over and over.

You’re the only one who could have brought Hosea down. You’re the whore!

That was the truth. And that was why, even though she’d told Mrs. Whittingham that she might tell Hosea about that summer, it
was
just a bluff. Jasmine would never, ever say a word to her husband about what had happened in ’83. She had good reasons for taking that job at Foxtails, but would she ever be able to explain to Hosea what had come next…?

For the last four weeks, Jasmine had been making it rain for real!

The fall semester had begun, and she’d become an expert at juggling her time—a student by day, a stripper by night.

She split her evenings between Foxtails and Mr. Smith, leaving weekends for Kenny, who’d been thrilled that his girlfriend suddenly had enough money for both of them. It had been easy to explain her newfound wealth: she told her boyfriend that her money was the final gift from her dead mother, a monthly allowance that was paid from an insurance policy.

That was a good lie.

She was able to explain away her missing evenings, too—telling Kenny that her internship with Sony didn’t stop when the summer ended.

“I’m a production assistant on one of the shows they’re setting up for a pilot, so I’ll be putting in a lot of hours after classes.”

That was a better lie.

Kenny had been impressed, and so he asked few questions when she wasn’t available on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday evenings.

The truth was, on Mondays and Tuesdays, Jasmine helped pack the house at Foxtails. Men came from all over the city to lose their minds when Pepper Pulaski hung on to the pole, turned her back to them, and, with her long dark hair draped down to her butt, honored them with her signature earthquake move—something that not one of the other girls had learned to do.

As the club favorite, Jasmine now brought home almost five hundred dollars for those two nights of work.

Then she spent Wednesdays and Thursdays in one of the five-star hotels in Los Angeles with Mr. Smith. Inside the privacy of some of the best rooms in the city, Mr. Smith paid her double what she made at Foxtails.

And she never had to do anything more than get naked.

Her mind was filled with that proud thought now, as she closed her eyes and gyrated to beats that only she heard in her head. Mr. Smith liked to watch her move without music; he said there was nothing to distract him from the pure beauty of her dancing.

Tonight, she danced atop the bed in the Beverly Hills Hotel. This was her favorite place to come with Mr. Smith. With its golden walls and cream-and-taupe bedding, Jasmine felt like a queen in this castle. Especially surrounded by the many antique Louis XVI pieces—the armchair, writing desk, and armoire.

Before Jasmine had met Mr. Smith, she hadn’t known an armoire from an aardvark. And she definitely hadn’t known anything about neoclassical designs. But her benefactor had become her teacher, exposing her to the best of many things.

She glanced down on the bed where Mr. Smith lay beneath her. Weeks ago, when she’d done this for the first time, Mr. Smith had been fully clothed. But as time passed, his clothes began to shed, as if being naked was contagious.

Now he lay beneath her, as he had for the past two weeks, wearing nothing more than his wedding ring. But it didn’t bother Jasmine. If it turned him on, then it worked for her.

For a moment, she wondered if she’d been turned over to a reprobate mind—she’d once heard her best friend Kyla’s pastor talk about how some people fall so far into sin, there was no turning back.

Be careful,
she remembered Pastor Ford’s words.
Once you open doors leading to sins, it’s hard to close them.

Well, she wasn’t sinning. She was just dancing and giving the customer what he wanted.

“Are you tired?” Mr. Smith broke through all the thoughts she had as she danced. His concern for her was always the same; she heard it in his caring, gentle tone.

She nodded and, like she always did, dropped to her knees, then fell into his arms. They rested together, skin to skin, as if they were a couple.

It still felt strange; every night after she danced, they would lie together, and Mr. Smith would hold her as if he loved her. Invariably, she’d fall asleep, then hours later, she’d awaken—always alone.

It was his absence and the envelope that he always left filled with fifty dollar bills that reminded her that this didn’t have a single thing to do with love. But make-believe wasn’t just for kids, and often she daydreamed about what life would be like with Mr. Smith.

Not that she thought that truly possible. First of all, he was white—and there was no way she was taking home a white man. Next, he was old. She didn’t know his age, but the wisps of white hair that covered his scalp and the wrinkled skin that covered his bones let her know that he had a good three decades over her. And she never forgot about the fact that he was married.

But his money kept her dreaming. Kept her pretending about all the what-ifs.

Minutes passed and then Mr. Smith said, “I have a gift for you.”

Jasmine leapt from the bed, parts of her bouncing as she moved. For several seconds she jumped up and down in front of him, pretending that it was only delight that made her do so. But in truth, it was part of the show. Part of what he loved. It was the reason that he often came with gifts.

Watching her jiggle may have been his favorite part, but rushing to the closet where he always hid the presents was hers.

In the weeks since he’d started bearing gifts, he’d given her diamond stud earrings, plus a slew of other items—a sterling silver bracelet, a pearl necklace. He’d even given her a two-hundred-dollar gift certificate to Chanel, and she’d bought her
first designer purse from the store on Rodeo Drive.

She couldn’t imagine what he’d bought her today when she pulled out the oblong-shaped brown box. But the moment she pulled off the top, she gasped. A pair of shoes. Gucci.

“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed.

“Would you model them for me?” Mr. Smith asked as he pushed himself up in the bed to get a better view.

She slipped on the pumps and strutted back and forth across the soft mauve carpet, twisting and turning and satisfying Mr. Smith with every move.

She was posing with her hands on her hips, when Mr. Smith blurted out, “Would you sleep with me, please?”

Time and her heart stopped. She stood so still, Mr. Smith repeated his question as if she hadn’t heard him.

“Will you sleep with me, please?”

He was such a polite man. Always gentle, his concern always apparent. But no matter how respectful he was, she wasn’t about to do what he asked.

“Please,” he said again. She noticed the way he leered at her. Not that his eyes hadn’t always been filled with lust when she danced, but Jasmine always knew how those times were going to end.

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 al
ready 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.

J
ASMINE 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 to
gether, 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.