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.
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.
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.
“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?”
“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?
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
“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.
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.
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.
“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?”
“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?
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
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