Page 7 of His Third Wife

“But—I—”

“Mama, this isn’t a game. I need you to do this shit. Jamison needs me—my husband needs me.”

She wanted to complain some more, but she didn’t. Heavy histrionics aside, I meant what I was saying and she knew it. She took the key fob.

“I’ll be home right behind you,” I said as Jamison pulled up beside us in his car. “Lorna will let you in.”

“Val,” Mama started when I turned to get into the car with Jamison.

I turned back to her.

“Don’t get in that car,” she said so desperately I actually felt sorry for her.

“Don’t worry, Mama,” I said. “I’ll be fine. I’ll meet you at the house. He just wants to talk.”

I was barely in the car before Jamison pulled away. He’d thrown his suit jacket in the back seat and his shirt was open.

“You’re sweating,” I pointed out, looking at beads of sweat on his forehead.

“Val, I need you to answer a question,” Jamison said. The veins on his hands were popping out as he held on to the steering wheel.

“What?”

“And don’t lie. Because if you lie, I’ll know you’re lying. And that won’t be good.” Jamison turned around a corner so quickly the butt of his car sputtered loose gravel everywhere behind us.

“Slow down,” I said.

Jamison looked at me.

“I’m just saying, we don’t want to get pulled over, too.”

“Val!”

“What? What do you want to know?”

Jamison jammed the gas pedal and sped through a red light before gliding onto the highway toward Atlanta.

“Did you call the reporter?” he asked.

“Call the—? You think I—? Really?”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“Jamison, you know better than that. Why would I call a reporter?”

“You’ve been upset about this whole thing. You wanted a big wedding. Wanted it all on the news. You—”

“I wanted to marry you. I got that. I’m not trying to mess that up on the day I get it.” I couldn’t even believe he was trying to pin the reporter on me. Why would I want that kind of heat? But Jamison wasn’t easy to trust anyone. He’d lost a lot of good friends since he’d entered into politics. Apparently, anyone could be bought. And some of his closest friends had the lowest price tags.

“Don’t lie to me!” Jamison tapped the gas pedal and we jerked forward as the wheels raced ahead.

“I’m not lying. I’ve seen that reporter before, but I don’t know him. He’s not exactly my kind of company.”

Jamison banged the steering wheel.

“I know how this looks,” I said. “But it’s not me. I’m trying to leave my past behind. Not put it on display in front of my mama in front of a courthouse.”

“Your past—” Jamison repeated my words in a way that made them sound like a death sentence.

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