Kiss Me Twice. Geri Guillaume
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tone.
“Then, if you can’t make me understand why you called within the next fifteen seconds, I’m going to end this conversation. I have a very full schedule, Mr. Thibeadaux.”
“What? You gonna hang up on me, now? Let me guess. In your rule book, time is money? I think maybe you wanna make time for me, cher. ”
That southern dialect came out thick and strong then with his casual use of a term of endearment. Cher. Dear one. With it, he resurrected in Phaedra long-buried vestiges of a memory. Less than vestiges. Flashes. A jumbled mix of chaotic impressions. Images, though disjointed and out of sequence, that told Phaedra a story that she’d deliberately made herself forget.
Oh no!
Phaedra breathed the words so softly that she was certain no one could hear her. But anyone in the coffee shop watching her would see her distress. She picked up her newspaper and held it in front of her face while she composed herself.
Bastien Thibeadaux’s voice took her back almost fifteen years. Like special effects from a science fiction show, she found herself no longer in the coffee shop but in a darkened room. A single light shone over in a far corner, casting shadows on the motions of a skinny young man in a baseball cap, tag still dangling from it, shifting back and forth between tables set up around him in a makeshift DJ’s booth. He lifted old-school vinyl albums, inspecting yellow, white and red labels and making selections to keep the mood of the house party going.
As Phaedra sat shaking with a sudden anxiety attack at the coffee shop, her back stiffened in an instantaneous reflex as she remembered the feel of a solid wall against it and the rumble of bass turned up, squeaking treble turned low. The wall thrummed, vibrated up and down her spine, her bottom and her thighs. Wasn’t too much separating the wall and her skin. A thin layer of leopard print spandex and nothing else. No bra. No panties. Just the leopard print catsuit, a headband with leopard ears and a mask covering her eyes and cheekbones.
Her back had been against the wall, but she hadn’t planned to be a wallflower. Not that night.
Junior year. Combination homecoming and Halloween party on The Hill, a familiar name for her alma mater Prairie View A&M University. Enough booze and bodies to make her want to forget that she was at a party she shouldn’t have gone to. Her back was against the wall, in the shadows, because Phaedra didn’t want anyone else to see how she’d allowed—even encouraged—one or two or maybe three of the frat brothers who were throwing that party to approach her. She was playing all of them at the same time, using her anonymity and their arousal to her advantage.
She remembered that voice now. That soft, sexy voice that was finally able to convince her to move from the shadows. That voice. How could she have forgotten it? Southern and slowed from one too many whiskey shots. Half the night, she’d watched with horrified fascination and counted each one as he’d tossed the shot glasses back, draining each of the amber liquid. Party crowd chanting. Egging on. Applause. Cheers. And jeers when he got up from the table victorious, last man standing, and looking for someone to share in the celebration.
The glow of luminous hazel eyes, more green than brown, scanned the room, finally landing on her. Her of all people! Quiet, studious, oh-so-serious Phaedra Burke-Carter determined to be freed from her chrysalis and the voice, his voice, that offered her the key to that freedom. The voice that promised to take her to paradise if she consented to ditch the party and go with him to one of the rooms upstairs. Of all the young men who’d approached her that night, he was the only one who’d gotten close enough to make her consider his offer.
What was it about him? All swagger and confidence. Hardness, heat and hormones. He wasn’t the typical Texas boy that she’d known. Something set him apart. Something about him that night caught and held her attention. The moment she’d laid eyes on him, something about him said, “That’s the one.”
Was this the same person? Phaedra was torn between wanting and not wanting to know for certain. Was this that Louisiana boy from her college days? Maybe it wasn’t. He wasn’t calling himself Bastien then, but some stupid football inspired nickname. And his friends were all calling him by an initial. B? T? She wasn’t sure. Maybe she wasn’t remembering correctly. He certainly didn’t seem to remember her. Small wonder. It was fifteen years ago. Why would he remember her? It was only one party. She wasn’t even giving her real name to any of those guys at the party, either. Or her right phone number. It was all a game back then. Play the boys before you got played.
Phaedra snapped back from her reverie to respond to Bastien Thibeadaux’s question. Enough traipsing down memory lane; this was business. A potential client.
She set the newspaper aside, folding it carefully in half and placing it on the table next to her coffee.
“Time is money. Not necessarily. In my book, time isn’t money. But my time is precious. So, tell me what you need from me, Mr. Thibeadaux, or cut the conversation short.”
“Solly tells me that you get paid to keep people safe.”
“That’s a simplistic way of putting what I do. The same can be said for bodyguards, Mr. Thibeadaux. I’m not in the body-guarding business, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“Workplace safety,” he clarified. “I’ve got some trouble at work. Some…let’s say…behaviors…that I want to nip in the bud before somebody gets hurt. Really hurt. You know what I mean?” He paused.
“And…” she encouraged.
“And Solly seems to think you can help me solve them. Can you?”
“I have to be honest with you, Mr. Thibeadaux, I don’t know. I need to…” She couldn’t make an assessment without knowing more details about his situation, but he didn’t give her the chance to finish her sentence.
“Then what am I doing wasting your time and mine?” he snapped.
“I didn’t call you. You called me. I’m not in the habit of wasting time. So why don’t I hang up and save us both continued irritation?”
Phaedra noted the considerable pause. She listened carefully but could only hear his breathing. Rapid and shallow at first, then slowing as he clamped down on his anger. When he spoke again, it was with a more conciliatory tone.
“I think maybe, Ms. Burke-Carter, we got off to a shaky start.”
“I agree. Shall we start again?”
“When can you come out to discuss my particular problem?”
“This week?” She consulted her PDA, calling up the calendar. “How does Thursday suit you, Mr. Thibeadaux? Thursday at two o’clock.”
“I guess it’ll have to do.” He didn’t sound pleased that she couldn’t immediately accommodate him.
“Your address, please. And a number where I can best reach you.” Phaedra tapped the stylus against the PDA screen, keeping up with the information that he rattled off.
“CT Inspectorate,” she repeated back to him the name of the company and the address. “What type of inspection company do you work for, Mr. Thibeadaux?”
“Grain, primarily. Wheat. Sorghum. Rice. Why? Does it make a difference?”
“I can’t tailor a solution for you if I don’t know what you do, can I, now? I’ll see you on Thursday.”
“One more thing, Ms. Burke-Carter.”
“Yes?”
“How much is this going to cost me?”
“I’m not ready to discuss figures with you, Mr. Thibeadaux. Not until I’ve had a chance to assess your situation.”
“Give me a ballpark.”
“Not even a ballpark.”
“An hourly rate?”
“It varies.”
She