Mistress No More by Bryant Niobia

Author:Bryant, Niobia [Bryant, Niobia]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2011-05-05T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

Betrayal. Once again Jessa Bell’s venom left them momentarily paralyzed. Jaime didn’t know if she would ever recover. How could she when financially she was ass out? No ends. No dinero. Nothing.

“I hate that bitch,” Jaime drawled, as she sat in the back seat of the yellow taxicab.

It was the longest ride ever. It was about more than the miles or the sixty minutes to get there. Emotionally it felt like she crawled across glass on her knees to get where she had to go.

And she had to.

She had no choice.

As the taxi pulled to a gentle stop, Jaime licked the gloss from her lips and looked out the smudged window at the sprawling brick house.

“Thirty-five forty-six, ma’am,” the fair-skinned driver said, looking at her with odd bluish green eyes through his rearview mirror.

“Yes, of course,” she said, picking her clutch up from the cracked seat to look inside her wallet. President Grant was sitting there lonely as hell on her last fifty-dollar bill. All the money she had to her name.

She pulled it out of the wallet, folded it, and placed it in the metal slot in the bulletproof glass. Patiently she waited for her change. She needed it. The days of heavy tip-giving were gone. Long gone.

Smoothing her shirt over her hips, Jaime climbed out of the back of the cab and made her way up the long walk. They knew she was coming—she had to be announced at the gate—still she was nervous about their reaction to her upcoming request.

The ornate front door opened before she was halfway up the walk. Suddenly it felt like a walk of shame as her parents stood there watching her every step. Even though she knew her pale pink suit and pearls were presentable, Jaime knew their eyes scrutinized her. Judged her. Maybe even found their daughter—their only child—lacking.

“Hello, Mother. Hi, Daddy,” she said softly, barely above a whisper, stepping up onto the step just below them, allowing them to look down on her—just like her mother wanted.

Virginia Osten-Pine nodded her perfectly coiffed head, her lips pursed as if she had just sucked on a dozen lemons or swallowed a shot of vinegar. She turned and entered the house.

Jaime knew she was headed for the formal living room, the place where they entertained guests.

“Come in, Jamison,” her father said sternly, using her given name.

Her mother had an ally and Jaime knew it was two against one. Lord help me, she prayed silently.

Jaime walked into the living room. Sure enough, her mother sat perfectly poised on the edge of her French Provincial settee. Jaime took the seat opposite her. Her father, ever the referee, sat in the chair adjacent to them both.

“Well, Jamison, you called and asked to speak with us,” her father began, resting his hands on the round swell of his belly, a sign of the good life he led. “But first, I must stress to you how disappointed your mother and I are in the way you’ve handled your marriage and yourself.

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