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“So I’m just supposed to hang around until you get tired of me?”
“I’ll send Mo to pick you up.”
“I’m busy.”
“Your time is now my time.”
“Not until I see a contract.”
“You’re pushing me,” he said in an icy voice.
“Whores always make sure they get paid first.”
He didn’t respond. She wasn’t sure what that meant, but she felt like it was a point for her.
“Send me a contract promising to sell back the shares and that you won’t come after them again,” she said in a rush as she started to lose her nerve. “And I want in writing how long I’m supposed to put up with you. I’ll send you my email address.”
She hung up and sagged against the car. When the phone began to ring again, she declined the call and sent him her email address. He immediately texted her.
Roth:Pick up your phone.
She blocked his number again. He wouldn’t be able to get a contract until tomorrow at the earliest. She didn’t want to talk to him any more than she had to, and she needed time to come to terms with what she’d done.
Between Colette, her business with Roth, and how sick she felt, there was no way she would make it back to Tuxedo Park. Instead, she checked into a hotel and asked room service for cold medicine, a notebook, and soup. As soon as she entered the room, she filled the tub with steaming water and soaked her aching muscles. When the knock came, she answered the door in her robe. She accepted her requests and ignored the food and medicine and grabbed the notebook. She flopped on the bed and took a moment to admire the fancy hotel pen that glided over the page easily.
For an hour, the only sound in the room was that of a pen scratching on paper. Writing was a defense mechanism she had developed as a child. Whenever things got rough in real life, she retreated into her imaginary world. Instead of dwelling on her choices and the future consequences of her actions, her mind switched gears and focused on work. In the midst of her personal hell, she caught a glimmer of a potential storyline for book five and leaped on it. All of a sudden, rearranging words on a page didn’t seem so difficult. This she could control. This made sense. The real world didn’t.
When her fingers cramped, she drank the soup and popped pills before she went back to the page. She contemplated asking room service to buy her a computer but discarded that thought almost immediately. She was wary of interrupting her flow, and there was something about going old school with pen and paper that freed up a different part of her brain. When she finally stopped, she had over twelve pages of dialogue and her forearm was aching. As the meds did their thing and she slid beneath the covers, she floated in the mind of her character, not her own. The character’s voices echoed in her ears as she drifted off to sleep. She clung to them, wanting desperately to be a part of their world instead of her own.
Jasmine woke at noon. Before she got out of bed, she checked her emails but didn’t see anything from Roth. She didn’t know whether that was a good or a bad thing but decided to view it as a stay of execution. Maybe he was going to take his time getting the contract together. That was fine with her as long as he didn’t do anything to Hennessy & Co in the meantime. She was tempted to unblock his number to see if she had any texts or voicemails, but she didn’t want to discuss it further. It was a straightforward transaction. Sex to atone for her sins and ensure her family’s legacy. Not complicated and a rich man cliché. This was a business transaction and nothing more. Talking would only make things worse. And if they had to negotiate, they could do so through lawyers.
As she slipped out of bed to splash water on her face, she called Lyle. “How is she?”
“They’re monitoring her.”
“Do you want me to come by?”
“Nothing to do here. I brought my laptop, and I’m getting some work done. I’ll call you if anything changes.”
“Okay, love you guys.”
“Same.”
She called room service for a meal and requested clothes before she showered and wandered back to her notebook. The moment she set pen to paper, the characters came alive. She began to document the conversation in her mind and was just starting to lose touch with reality when there was a knock on the door. She wheeled in a cart and went back to the notebook. At times like this when scenes were unfolding in her mind, writing became an addicting adrenaline rush. Her hand moved over the page of its own accord, and she read the story as it appeared on the page. Most times, she felt more like a transcriber than a creator. She didn’t know where the words came from and didn’t try to analyze the process too closely.
When hunger took precedence over the story, she took a break. She tried on the jeans and button-up shirt delivered by room service. Her dream world vanished in a puff of smoke when the jeans wouldn’t button up all the way, and the shirt gaped over her breasts. She undressed and checked the labels. Apparently, she had put on some weight. She was too embarrassed to call room service again, so she left the top of her jeans unbuttoned and pulled her jacket over the ill-fitted shirt before she left the room.
She got some sideways glances as she walked through the ritzy lobby. The chilly breeze put a spring in her step as she bypassed the line of taxis and made her way to 59th Street and Lexington. Her grasp on her dream world dispersed as the city demanded her undivided attention. Autumn in the city was just as stunning as it was in the country. The splash of red, orange, and yellow trees juxtaposed against the brick, glass, and concrete buildings was stunning. The racing pulse of the city invigorated her while the stampede of people forced her to keep up. The eye-catching, festive shop windows reminded her that the holidays were approaching at breakneck speed, and she had yet to buy any gifts for her family. She hunched her shoulders against the cold and eyed a woman’s plaid overcoat enviously. Fall fashion was in full swing, and everyone around her proudly displayed the colors and trends of the season. She was in dire need of a wardrobe update.
As she stopped at a crosswalk, people congregated around her. No one looked at her twice. She loved being anonymous. After growing up in the spotlight, she cherished being able to get lost in a crowd. Most of the people around her would recognize her last name since it was stamped on a good portion of the city. Knowing who her father was would automatically create an image in their minds of who she must be… and she wasn’t that person. She never had been. When Roth offered her an out, she took it. She hoped that she would be a better wife than a Hennessy daughter and employee, but she failed at that too so she became Thalia Crane. She felt more herself as Thalia than she ever had as Jasmine Hennessy. She would never obtain the same level of success as her father, and she was okay with that. She didn’t want fame or riches. She just wanted to be able to create in peace.
She looked up at the buildings towering overhead. New York never failed to make her feel small. It was scary and liberating at the same time. Her grandfather lived the American dream when he had emigrated from Ireland and made a name for himself. She wasn’t sure how he summoned the strength and determination to succeed in the most cutthroat city in the world. Her grandfather had done amazing things and passed the baton to her father who had accomplished even greater feats. The level of expectation put on her shoulders at such a young age had been crippling. She hadn’t been able to live up to it, but her sisters had. She might not be part of Hennessy & Co, but she could ensure their company didn’t end with the third generation.
When the light changed, she crossed the street with the mob. She had to do some fancy footwork to make her way into Bloomingdale’s. It was busy, hectic, and roused memories of her childhood as she walked along the black and white checkered floor. Generally, she didn’t care to shop. As a child, such a huge emphasis was placed on image that she came to hate clothes shopping. But times had changed. Now, she could wear what she wanted to a certain degree. Since her father’s death, she had been the focus of some media attention, so she would try to look somewhat presentable for her sisters’ sake. Being forced to shop for clothes when her self-esteem was at an all-time low wasn’t the best combination, but she had no choice unless she wanted to drive back to Tuxedo Park.
When she walked into the women’s section, she went up to a smiling sales clerk, and said, “Help me.”
The sales clerk didn’t miss a beat. She was cheery, upbeat, and, apparently, knew exactly what she needed. The clerk put her in a changing room and started bringing clothes that suited her body shape. An hour later, she had a whole new lease on life. The too-small jeans, shirt, and dirty sneakers were gone. In its place were thigh-high suede boots, a skirt, and a camel-colored coat. She looked chic and fashionable and ready to take on the world. The clerk forwarded her packages to the hotel while she moseyed into the kid and baby sections.
