Race Traitor: BWWM Romance Novel for Adults Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  The Return

  Unwelcome Visitors

  The Message

  My Fears and Desires

  One Drop

  Hell is Empty

  Trouble Always Follows

  Epilogue I

  Epilogue II

  Mailing List

  Back Catalog

  Other BWWM Authors

  African American Romance

  Audiobook Deals

  Copyright

  Copyright © Jamila Jasper Romance

  All Rights Reserved.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to P. N, a loving soul.

  Prologue

  Rickshaw, Mississippi

  1925

  Janie Ruth Ross held the hymnal tightly in her hand. She longed to send the little book skipping across the surface of the water. She’d like to see it sink in the blue depths of the river and be lost forever. She wondered if it was sinful to think so. Probably.

  The thing was, it was a hot day in the longest summer of Janie’s life, and she was just about tired of sitting around with her pious Aunt Sarah waiting to catch the spirit. The only thing she’d be catching in that church was heatstroke.

  Her cheek still stung from Aunt Sarah’s slap, administered during a particularly lively part of the sermon. No one had heard the slap over the rolling thunder of the preacher’s voice, but Janie sure felt it. It took all her willpower not to pull the wide-brimmed hat off her aunt’s head and send it sailing over the pews. The old woman was a shrew. A harpy. She hated Janie and Janie hated her right back. To hear Aunt Sarah tell it, Janie’s mother was the whore of Babylon, and Janie her apprentice. The argument from yesterday morning still echoed in Janie’s head.

  The old woman had had a bee in her bonnet about something- Janie still didn’t know what. She’d been glaring at the girl all morning. Now she fixed her mouth to talk.

  “I don’t know what they teach you out there in Sin City,” Aunt Sarah said, surveying her grand-niece with a piercing eye. Sarah was a squat, light-skinned woman of an indiscernible age. She bulged everywhere she aesthetically shouldn’t, and had green eyes so small they seemed to shrink into her head.

  Janie hadn’t said anything. The old woman’s lips clenched tight. She hated when Janie didn’t rise to her bait.

  “I suppose they gave you all kinds of ideas about what a girl like you is worth,” she continued. “Only sixteen, and they got you out there cuttin’ it for every Man Jack, singing for yo’ supper. You must think you the cat’s meow, just like yo’ mama did. We country folks wasn’t good enough for her, I guess. And she done filled you wit’ the same ideas.”

  Don’t you talk about my mama, Janie thought. Her fingers clenched around the handle of the pot. She kept stirring the grits.

  “But what do you expect,” Sarah droned on. “Dark as you is, I suppose ain’t much else you could look forward to but to be some man’s good-time gal. You sho’ ain’t pretty like yo’ mama was, and you dumb as a sack of- put them grits down and listen to me, girl!” She snapped.

  Janie looked Aunt Sarah directly in her beady eyes. The old woman swelled like a bullfrog.

  “I hates to even look at you. Full of sand, that’s what. Eatin’ my food and shelterin’ under my roof ought to have taught you a thing ‘bout gratitude. But you full of sand. Good for nothin’ little bitch.”

  Still, the girl said nothing. Her Aunt just kept going. “Yo’ mama wasn’t nothin’ but a slut. Too good for gutter trash. Ask anyone here. Couldn’t keep that heifer from nobody’s man. I says it serves her right, what happened to her. Know why you ain’t met yo’ daddy? Cus he was my own husband! Yes ma’am. And after she done stole him from me, she had the bare nerve to say he forced her.”

  Sarah shook her head, the picture of pious suffering. “Bad blood. That’s all it is. But I’m a Christian woman, y’hear me? I wanted to stamp that stain from yo’ bloodline. Wanted to make you more like me. But I can tell an effort wasted when I see it.”

  She observed Janie with some satisfaction- she’d finally pierced the girl’s defenses. The girl’s deep brown eyes were sparking. That was Aunt Sarah’s method. She only let the brat alone once she got a response. But Janie Ruth Ross always had the last word.

  “You right, Aunt Sarah,” said Janie pleasantly, turning back to the stove. She began to serve the grits into two bowls. Her hands were steady. “I ought to be grateful you don’t want me to be like my Mama. ‘Cus it seems bein’ a old and ugly brood-sow, wit’ all yo’ gut hanging down to yo’ heels, done worked out for you just fine. ”

  The woman lunged at Janie, but the girl was out the door in a flash. Janie could run like a deer when she had to.

  Well, that had been yesterday. Today in church the old bitch had put her hands on Janie again. Once the Holy Spirit got the preacher moving, he expected everyone else get moving too. Janie had just sat there, buffeted by the heat. She thought she might pass out. Instead she fell asleep. Then Aunt Sarah, full of righteous anger, slapped her awake- hard. So Janie had gotten right up and walked out of the church, past a sea of disapproving stares, with no intention of returning. She walked straight into the Blue Woods, trembling all over. Only the forest could really calm her down. She’d discovered a spot there just a few days ago. It wasn’t much- just a quiet place on the river, hidden by the trees. A tiny little beach with black and white stones. Maybe if someone had a boat out there they could spy her on the riverbank- but she’d be able to dip into the foliage and hide pretty quick.

  Janie liked exploring. She was generally a nosy, curious sort of person. And she could handle herself just fine.

  Janie sighed, looking out at the rippling water. She thought about her Mama. She thought about being back New Orleans. She hated it here in Rickshaw. It was old and backward, and the white people were mean as the devil. What did Mama mean, sending her to live here anyway?

  New Orleans was all of life in a single drop. She reconstructed the memory of music winding up from the street, that old slow jazz, the crooning Creole women on the street corners. The city was dirty and smelly, but she loved it all the same. The art! The food! She wanted to be in the middle of it all. Janie imagined herself in a dazzling red dress that molded to her figure. She pictured her hair cut short in a flapper’s bob. Oh yes, red would be her color. She’d paint her nails. Wear lipstick. And then she’d use that voice of hers and bring the house down, just like Mama always said she would.

  Almost unconsciously, Janie began to sing. It was an old, sad lullaby. A Creole woman had taught it to her, and the words were in French. She brought the music from deep inside of her, in the secret place, and let it hang in the air like a kiss. Her voice grew stronger and sadder, rolling out like sweet thunder over the river. She called feelings up from the well of her soul. She sang about love and life, and she sang about her dreams.

  “Well, I’ll be,” said a soft voice from her left.

  She dropped the hymnal and shot to her feet, heart slamming in her chest. Three white boys had stepped out of the forest line, quiet as mice. But their expressions were feline, predatory. They stared at her.

  She recognized only one- the blonde. She’d seen him promenading around Rickshaw many times. He was none other than Francis Croup, the Sugar Baron’s son. Francis was smaller than average, his clothes exquisitely tailored to his small frame. The neatness of his dress contrasted against his two companions’.

  She quickly sized up the other two. One was fat. Sweat had soaked through his shirt and overalls. He carried a riding crop in his rig
ht hand. The third boy was the tallest. He had loose, curly black hair, a strong nose, and gray eyes which stared down at her from half-closed lids. He was arrestingly handsome. Janie’s gaze was drawn not to those eyes, but to the long hunting rifle slung across his back.

  They were all her age. Perhaps older. But that didn’t mean anything.

  “Hello,” said the Croup boy. “What’s goin’ on here?”

  Janie swallowed. Her eyes darted around for an escape. She couldn’t swim. The boys had her cornered against the riverbank. But she’d jump in and drown herself before they could-

  “I’m talkin’ to you, nigger,” snapped Croup impatiently. “Ain’t got a tongue?”

  Janie licked her lips. Her voice was a squeak. “G-good mornin’.” She had to be careful- any sign of disrespect would set them on her. Hatred flared in her breast. Her fists clenched. The boys were smiling- except for the tall one. Janie became painfully aware of herself. She

  Was wearing a cheap church dress, dirty from walking through the woods. Cheap shoes. One sock had rolled down to her ankle. Her heart was thumping like a rabbit’s.

  “What were you doin’ down here, girl? This is private property,” said the boy with the riding crop.

  “You heard her,” sneered Francis Croup. “She was singin’ them negro tunes. Sounded purty good. Say, nigger-gal,” he said, smiling mockingly. “You wanna sing for us? Do a dance?”

  “Naw, I don’t, thank you sir,” said Janie, sounding far braver than she felt. Just play dumb. “Let me go.”

  “Be nice,” said the fat boy. He tapped her bottom with the riding crop. Janie jumped, which made the fat boy and Francis laugh.

  “Dance,” he commanded. She began to back away towards the water.

  Francis rolled his eyes. “Don’t waste your time, she ain’t gonna do it.”

  The fat boys eyes softened. “We can make her do other things.” His gaze fell to her breasts.

  Janie bolted. She didn’t get very far.

  Quick as lightning, the tallest boy tackled her in his iron grip. For someone so skinny he had a grip like a gator’s jaw. She kicked and struggled and screamed as he dragged her to the ground and straddled her from behind. He shrugged off his rifle. Choking on a mouthful of dirt, her cries echoed over the river uselessly. No one was coming.

  “She’s mine. Y’all go on,” said the boy quietly. It was the first time he had spoken. The cold authority in his voice shocked and frightened her.

  “You ain’t serious,” said the fat boy angrily.

  “What you get so selfish for?” whined Francis. “You got nothin’ to prove to me.”

  “I said what I said. Now git.”

  “Nigger-lover,” spat the fat boy.

  “You better go on before I lose my temper,” said the tall boy placidly. He pinned Janie’s arms to her sides and looked up at the boys, waiting.

  Janie stopped struggling. She thought fast. If this boy wanted to make the others leave- let him. She had better odds against one anyway; even if he had a gun.

  Her bravado weakened when she heard the crash of receding footsteps. All the stories of what happened to young black girls at the hands of these no-good country white boys became horribly real. And now she was about to be one of those stories. She imagined what would happen if she told anyone. Aunt Sarah would put her out of the house. They’d all say it was her fault. She might have a baby. And she’d be down in the world, fallen from grace just like her Mama, with some white baby that no one would want. If the boy even left her alive. After all, killing negroes and killing flies brought the same consequences.

  Which was to say, none at all.

  Fear paralyzed her. She expected him to get right to business. It would be fast and brutal. But the boy simply sat on her, perfectly still. He was listening, waiting to see if the other two had really left.

  A minute passed, then three. Janie thought he might relax his hold on her, but he didn’t. She kept still. He was very heavy.

  Then suddenly, the boy rocked back on his heels and got up. Janie got up quickly too, preparing to run, but he grabbed her arm. He bent over and gathered up the rifle.

  “Hey, hey,” he said. “I ain’t plannin’ to hurt you.” Sleepy eyes bored into hers. They looked tired. Or amused. She really couldn’t tell.

  “Let go of me,” she begged.

  “Easy, girl,” the boy told her, his tone calm. “Didn’t I say I wasn’t gonna hurt you?”

  She tried to jerk away from him. “I don’t believe you,” she spat.

  “Cain’t say I blame you.” He was close enough that she could count every freckle. She realized that his eyes were hazel, not gray. His eyelashes were impossibly long, like a girl’s. Janie had never been this close to a white person before.

  “I’ll let you go, but you gotta promise not to run,” said the boy. “Or you’ll do something dumb and git smack-blam in the middle of the other two. You’re too scairt to think.”

  She hadn’t promised, but he let her go anyway. He then dusted her off. Astonished, Janie found herself rooted to the spot. His expression was placid; impossible to read. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and licked his lips.

  “I liked your song,” the boy said finally. “It reminded me of somethin’ I heard once. Do you like to sing?”

  She found herself answering, weakly: “Yeah. Uh...I like to sing.”

  “You’re good,” the boy told her honestly. “I used to know french when I was little. But Ma didn’t stick around to speak much when I got old. Kinda lost most of it.”

  “Oh,” said Janie.

  “She liked to sing too, but she didn’t sound half as sweet as you. Can you uh, sing a lil’ piece again? The last part about the moon.”

  The Moon? Janie stared at him blankly. She didn’t know a lick of French.

  He recited the lines back to her. “Go on,” he urged. “It’s my favorite part.”

  Completely bewildered, Janie sang it back to him. He smiled.

  “You got a purty voice,” he told her. “Just b’tween you and me. What’s your name?”

  “Uh, J- Marie.” She gave her mother’s name instead.

  “Well c’mon, Marie.”

  They walked. The boy tread carefully through the woods, his footsteps light as a deer’s.

  “What’s that for?” Janie asked cautiously, pointing at the rifle.

  “This? Aw, I was just practicin’. Aimin’ to be the next best sharpshooter in Mississippi, after my Pa. No pun intended.”

  “Oh.”

  He helped her over a small brook. They were going a different way; a shortcut, the boy told her.

  “I guess you’re wonderin’ why I’m doin’ this,” said the white boy. His voice was so relaxed and easy, it was hard to imagine a minute ago she’d been frightened of his cold expression. “I bet you think most white folks wouldn’t cross the street to spit on you if you was on fire.”

  “They wouldn’t,” Janie said flatly.

  The boy shrugged. “We ain’t all bad.”

  Janie didn’t dare contradict him.

  He shrugged again. “Reckon it’s easy for me to say. But I seen what we do to negroes. Makes me sick, to tell you true. I’d rather be shot wid’ tacks than have to bow down to some folks just ‘cause they’s white. Just the other week they got a negro feller for whistlin’ at Old Tootsie. Strung him up that very afternoon. And Tootsie’s done had half of Tulsa in her bed ‘fore she came over to Rickshaw. Ain’t like her innocence needed defendin’.”

  Janie felt sick. He was talking about Shad Jones. She had gone to the man’s funeral. The whole affair had shocked her to the core, though of course even in New Orleans she’d seen what a wrong word to the wrong white person could do. It was hard to imagine peaceful old Shad whistling at his own shadow, let alone some tartish white woman. Aunt Sarah had spared no detail in recounting what the white men did to Shad before he died.

  “He didn’t do it,” she blurted.

  The white boy looked at her
thoughtfully. “Naw, I don’t think he did neither.”

  Janie almost pinched herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. She had never heard a white boy speak this way.

  “You a sharp little thing, ain’t you?” he said suddenly. “You don’t talk much, but you don’t miss much, neither.”

  They were near the edge of the woods. Janie squinted at him, unsure how to take the compliment. “Well, thank ya.”

  The white boy brushed a lock of hair from his eyes. Then he turned to face her, his expression serious.

  “You better watch it when you’re comin’ through these woods next time. My Pa owns the land, but he don’t take kindly to negroes. But you’re kinda sweet. Next time I might not be there- and then it’d be your ass in the fire.”

  Janie nodded dumbly. She wished she could find her tongue!