Authors: Niobia Bryant
Mistress No More (6 page)
Jackson called?
She hated that her heart raced.
“Just let me know if you need to talk,” he offered, rising to his Gucci-clad feet.
Renee’s eyes shifted from the slip in her hand to his hard and tight buttocks in the impeccably tailored pinstripe slacks he wore. A hint of his warm and spicy cologne still clung to the air. Although he lacked classically handsome features, his dark coloring, strong angular features, and lean muscular build were hard to ignore. On top of all that, Darren’s wardrobe was always well tailored and stylishly on point. All of it equaled one sexy-ass black man.
“Maybe I should come by your house tonight and we can work on getting these mailers out,” Darren suggested.
Renee genuinely smiled. “Thanks, Darren, I appreciate that.”
“No problem,” he said over his shoulder, before walking out of her office.
She leaned back in her chair, looking down at Jackson’s message in her hands.
What does he want,
she wondered. Her entire body felt tired, her brain felt fried, and her soul was long past weary.
What does he want,
she wondered. Her entire body felt tired, her brain felt fried, and her soul was long past weary.
Another woman is pregnant with my husband’s child. Another woman is pregnant with my husband’s child. Another woman is pregnant with my husband’s child.
Anotherwomanispregnantwithmyhusbandschild.
It hurt too much to even talk to Jackson, hear his voice, or even hear his name called. Anything and everything involving him was like a sharp dagger to her heart. Balling the message up in her hand, she dropped it into her leather wastepaper basket.
Renee took a deep breath to try and beat down the emotions she felt rising from the pit of her stomach. She fought hard to focus on her work, but in the back of her mind she couldn’t forget.
Another woman is pregnant with my husband’s child. Another woman is pregnant with my husband’s child. Another woman is pregnant with my husband’s child.
Anotherwomanispregnantwithmyhusbandschild.
She felt a strong pull within her to drink, but she fought it hard.
“I gotta get my shit together,” she whispered to herself, sliding on her reading glasses and picking up her Mont Blanc pen. “I can’t let this shit—
his
shit—beat me.”
his
shit—beat me.”
The night he’d told her about his one-night stand and the baby, Renee had only wanted Jackson out of her sight. Thinking of the gun she’d held on him, she was glad he’d obeyed her command to just leave. She couldn’t swear that she wouldn’t have shot his ass. In the days after, she’d offered him nothing but her anger and her silence. She avoided his calls. She made sure not to be in his sight when he picked up or dropped off the kids. She created a world where Jackson didn’t exist. At least she tried to. But they had children. They still had a huge mortgage and so many ties that even his adultery couldn’t break.
Still, a million questions flitted into and out of her mind throughout each and every day. Questions that a wife deserved to have answered. Questions only Jackson could answer.
Renee eyed her phone, biting at her bottom lip.
Do I really want to know the who, what, when, where, and why? Do I?
Do I really want to know the who, what, when, where, and why? Do I?
“No, not yet. Not while I’m sober,” she admitted even as she reached for her phone and dialed Jackson’s office number.
“Kilton Enterprises. How may I help you?”
“Hello. May I speak to Jackson Clinton, please?” Renee leaned down to open her Coach briefcase with her index finger.
“Yes, ma’am. Who may I say is calling?” the female voice said politely.
“His wife.” Renee cringed, hating that the words had slipped out of her mouth with ease.
It took her a minute to notice that the line was quiet. She assumed she was being transferred.
“His wife?”
Renee’s back stiffened at the sound of annoyance . . . anger . . . or shock in the woman’s tone. “Yes, his
wife
,” she stressed, her eyebrows drawn together.
wife
,” she stressed, her eyebrows drawn together.
Click.
The line disconnected.
Renee’s mouth fell open as she looked at the phone like she held a deadly cobra in her hands. “What the . . . hell?”
And she sat there for a very long time, trying to make sense of the odd exchange. Trying not to draw conclusions. Trying not to get answers to questions she wasn’t ready to have answered.
She felt the dread deep in her bones. Weighing her down. Angering her. Disappointing her. Stunning her.
Fucking
with her.
with her.
Bzzz . . . bzzz . . . bzzz . . .
Renee’s eyes quickly shifted to her BlackBerry vibrating where it sat on the corner of her desk.
She knew it was Jackson. She just knew it was him.
She hung up her office phone and picked up her cell. His office number showed on her caller ID. She answered the call with one hand and pulled her little silver flask of Firefly Sweet Tea from her briefcase to pour a hefty shot into her cup of tea. She’d learned the alcohol blended well with real tea and was a perfect camouflage at work. “Jackson, I have just one question for you and if you are half the man I
thought
you were you will tell me the truth,” she said, slowly and almost methodically as she fought hard not to scream.
thought
you were you will tell me the truth,” she said, slowly and almost methodically as she fought hard not to scream.
“Renee—”
“Does your pregnant whore work there with you?” Her voice was cold, but her heart was prepared to turn completely frigid where he was concerned.
“Renee—”
“Yes or fucking no, Jackson.”
He sighed heavily. “Yes, Renee, but . . .”
Renee laughed bitterly as she skipped the cup and took a hefty swig from the flask. “One-night stand, my ass, you lying motherfucker you. I’m sorry that me calling there upset her so much that the bitch had to hang up on me and then I assume she called you to . . . what . . . ask you why your
wife
is calling you and then you hopped your happy ass on the phone to call me, worried about what she said to me. Am I right?”
wife
is calling you and then you hopped your happy ass on the phone to call me, worried about what she said to me. Am I right?”
“Renee, meet me for dinner. Let’s sit down and talk about this—”
“Wow, Jackson, the gut punches just keep coming,” she said softly but sarcastically, ending the call as she looked up to the high ceilings before she closed her eyes.
Jaime bit the gloss from her bottom lip as she logged into her online banking account. “Ooh,” she said with a slight wince as she looked at the balance in her checking account. She had just a little over five grand left.
But the money would not last. Plus, she had to define her new life outside of Pleasure’s dick. Hell, outside of the town house.
What’s my next step?
What’s my next step?
Alimony would be great, but she knew Eric would use her affair to make sure she didn’t get one red cent—even if Jaime had relied on Eric to take care of her financially during their marriage. She had ignored her own college degree and made being the perfect wife her career—just the way her mother taught her and just the way her husband wanted.
But an angry and hurt husband wielding a checkbook over his adulterous wife was too shaky a position for Jaime. Particularly when she was used to designer clothing, expensive weaves, and a very comfortable life. She was used to her husband taking care of her.
She would have been a fool not to fear how she would take care of herself if he left her or made her leave. And her fears of being booted to the curb without a nickel to her name had led to her siphoning money from her husband into her own secret account. When she left him that night, she left with a little over eight thousand dollars.
That money had come in handy for the lease on her town house, her upkeep, and her rendezvous with Pleasure.
“Two tears in a bucket . . . fuck it,” she said, exiting out of her account and closing her laptop where it sat on the counter in her kitchen.
The sex during the first years of their marriage was humdrum—quite a disappointment after waiting for their wedding night. No fireworks. No explosions. Just a few pumps between her thighs and it was over. Their sex had been . . . safe, comfortable, predictable, and very anticlimactic. And then the last six months of their marriage had been centered on living as strangers during the day, with the weirdest, most degrading sexual torture and humiliation during random nights of his choosing. “That bastard deserves to pay for me to get some good dick,” she muttered under her breath, reaching in the fridge for a bottle of apple juice.
The first step was leaving the security and seclusion of her town house. It was beyond time. And next? Lawyer time. Her marriage was over and no matter how much Eric fought it, it was time to finalize everything. Hate it or love it, the happily ever after for Eric and Jaime Hall was—in the words of Aria—a done dada.
In the meanwhile she needed to focus on a career and making her own money.
She’d acquired her bachelor degree in interior design, but she was caught up in planning her wedding and she never obtained the required work experience to even sit for the exam to obtain her certification from the National Council for Interior Design Qualification (NCIDQ). In college, she and Eric had dreams of opening a business together. With his degree in architecture, they’d planned to design, build, and then decorate residential, commercial, and retail properties. The total package. Once she strolled her happy-to-be-getting-married behind down the aisle, all talk of a career just disappeared. She gladly stepped into the role of wife, socialite, and volunteer.
A fucking Stepford wife dipped in chocolate.
Maybe she could start her own interior design firm, but first she had to get in the hundred hours of work experience to get her certification. The skill was there, but she had to get her level of professionalism up to par. She’d decorated her own home and the majority of Aria’s and Renee’s homes as well. They had loved the way she mixed textiles and did unexpected small things to take their wishes to the next level. She did it out of love, but maybe it was time to start charging.
Jaime shook her head as she looked around at the decor of her town house. It was clear the sparsely furnished space had yet to become home for her. The little furniture she had came with the rental. A large sofa. A table. A lamp. A few nondescript paintings. Very hotel like. Very cute, but mostly just functional as hell.
Nothing at all like the design showcase of the home she’d shared with Eric. Not much of her life was, for that matter.
She brought her hand up to run through the chin-length soft waves of her natural hair. No more eight-hundred-dollar weaves by celebrity hairstylists. Her closet was no longer filled with the newest designer clothes. The eight grand was going fast and for now the days of thousand-dollar outfits were over.
She’d wanted a new life and a new life was what she’d gotten.
Finishing her drink, Jaime hurried into the adjoining bathroom to shower and get dressed. She had been summoned to her parents’ for another wonderful night of scolding and dinner. They’d promised her that Eric, the minister, or any other part of the cheering squad for an Eric and Jaime reunion would not be in attendance. Supposedly they just wanted her back in their lives. “Fun, fun, fun,” she said sarcastically as she undressed.
Jaime enjoyed a steamy hot shower and then massaged her shapely figure with her favorite lotion and a few precious sprays of perfume.
She chose a pair of skinny jeans, heels, and a short-sleeved ruffled blouse of the finest linen in a bright fuchsia that really was more Aria’s style than Jaime’s usual slacks, suits, and dresses. She was trying something new.
Jaime slid her feet into her heels just as someone rang the doorbell. Frowning, she grabbed her cell phone from her nightstand before she made her way to the door. Her parents were home waiting for her and no one, besides Pleasure, knew where she stayed.
Stepping up onto her toes she looked out the peephole.
Her eyebrow arched at the sight of the broad-shouldered bearded man standing there. Jaime recognized him from the town house next door. Still . . .
“Who is it?” she asked, lowering her slender frame back down onto her heels.
“It’s your next-door neighbor, Lucas Neal. I have some of your mail.”
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