| 
Jasmine White slammed her bedroom door and began
discarding clothes like a disgruntled stripper. "I am way
too old for pink taffeta."
Her pumps went hurtling toward the closet like
black satin torpedoes. "And if another liquored-up eighteen-year-old
ever calls me sweet thing . . ." She inadvertently ripped
her pantyhose in two.
"Great. Another ten bucks down the tubes." The
bitterness in the pit of her stomach erupted into a wild laugh.
"And for what? A glorified babysitting job?"
The pink rosebud corsage was next, shooting
into the wastebasket with NBA precision.
"Some assignment. A second-rate TV anchorman
can't admit that his son's too geeky to get a real prom date,
so I get stuck with him."
Jasmine jerked at the gown's zipper, feeling
a rush of pleasure as one flimsy strap gave way. The dress
represented all that was wrong in her world.
Her five-year plan hadn't included bubble gum
pink taffeta. Classic black sequins were more her style. Exit
pimpled teenager; enter handsome foreign dignitary. Revisiting
the senior prom hadn't been in the plan either. Tonight, she
should have been attending a black-tie, political affair.
"I work three blocks from Capitol Hill but instead
of the senators and diplomats, I get their pampered wives
and spoiled brats. What's the point of being a bodyguard if
most of my clients are barely out of puberty?"
Jasmine wadded up the gown, locked her gaze
on the trash bin and went for three points. The dress unfurled
and parachuted to the floor two feet from its target.
She started toward it, ready to exact her revenge,
and caught herself mid-stride. Whoa. She had to bring it down
a notch. She pressed her hands to her chest, both to calm
the rapid thumping of her heart and to prevent the frenzied
clenching of her fists. A frustrated heat was spreading up
her neck. She was losing it.
Pulling on a fluffy terry cloth robe in her
favorite shade of blue, Jasmine sank down on her bed, and
took a deep breath.
She had to think about her situation rationally.
Before joining Core Group Protection, she'd spent a miserable
six months in private practice. Recruiting clients and all
the other headaches of self-employment had taken their toll
on her. Before that, she'd spent an even more miserable three
years as a D.C. cop.
Jasmine had actually been relieved when Nathan
Pruitt hired her as a bodyguard for Core. During the interview,
he'd talked a good game, telling her he was looking forward
to having a female on his staff. Nathan had convinced her
that her feminine appearance and lean build were advantages
instead of liabilities. She'd believed him, waiting patiently
while big clients were passed on to others. All the while,
Nathan promised that her turn was just around the corner.
But, after a year and half, Jasmine had yet to see a decent
assignment.
She was going to have a serious talk with Nathan
in the morning. If he couldn't do better than a high school
prom, she was hitting the road. It was as simple as that.
Jasmine flipped on her clock radio, rolling
the dial until she came to a station playing one of her favorite
slow songs. Climbing into bed, she listened as the deep, after-hours
baritone of the radio host spread through the room.
"This is the Sandman and you're listening to
WLPS Washington, 99.3. It's one-forty-five in the AM, and
we've still got a few night owls hanging out with us. We're
going to take a couple more calls before the Sandman says
goodnight."
Jasmine curled on her side, hugging her pillow.
She was ready to fall asleep when the radio conversation caught
her attention.
"Hello, Sandman. This is Tanya and I have a
dream for you and Dr. Gina to interpret."
"That's what we're here for, Tanya. Tell us
about your dream."
"Well, I've been dreaming about vegetables a
lot lately. Cucumbers, carrots, zucchini. My dreams start
out normally. I'm either sitting in my office at work or doing
something ordinary like the laundry at home when these vegetables
start appearing out of the blue. For instance, I reach into
my desk drawer for a pencil and pull out a carrot instead.
Or I'd reach for the soap powder and find a giant zucchini
in its place. What do you think that means?"
The Sandman jumped in quickly. "Sounds like
it long and hard . . ." he said with a smile in his voice.
"What do you think Dr. Gina?"
Jasmine snorted into her pillow. "Men try to
make everything about sex."
"My guess is that you're dreaming about vegetables
because, on some level, you realize you need to eat more nutritiously."
The doctor's authoritative tone was undercut by the Sandman's
chuckling in the background.
His co-host ignored the interruption. "If you've
been eating a lot of fast food, or you haven't been taking
the time to eat proper meals, you may feel guilty, which manifests
itself as the vegetables that keep appearing in your dreams.
They may be reminders that you need to improve your diet."
"That makes sense." Jasmine propped her chin
on her pillow, staring at the glowing numbers on the clock
radio.
The caller made a skeptical noise.
"What do you think, Tanya?" Sandman asked. "Does
that sound about right?"
"Mmm . . . I don't know. I think my diet is
fine."
Dr. Gina tried again. "Well, there's never one
right or wrong answer when it comes to dreams. I always tell
callers that they are the best judge of their dreams. Think
about what's been happening in your life. What do you think
it means, Tanya?"
The caller was silent for a moment. "Actually,
there is something . . . but I'm kind of embarrassed to talk
about it."
Jasmine rolled her eyes and flopped over on
her back. "Then why did you call the station?"
"Relax, Tanya." The Sandman's voice flowed like
warm ripples into the microphone. "It's almost two AM. Chances
are your mom's not listening. What's on your mind?"
"Okay, it was my birthday last month and my
boyfriend—" She took a deep breath, letting her words out
in a rush, "—bought me a sex toy. I was really embarrassed,
and I wasn't sure what to do with it, so I stuck it in my
sock drawer. My mother is coming into town next weekend, and
. . . well, she's really nosey."
"Ah ha," the Sandman started, but Dr. Gina cut
in.
"That's it, Tanya. You're so uncomfortable even
thinking about this toy that your subconscious is substituting
a safe object—like a carrot. It keeps popping up in unexpected
places because you're afraid the toy will be discovered."
"Another mystery of the mind solved," the Sandman
said. "Here's a word of advice, Tanya. If his little present
makes you that uncomfortable, get rid of it. Especially, before
Mom comes to visit. Tell your boyfriend, next year, you want
a gift certificate."
"Okay, thank you, Sandman. Thanks, Dr. Gina."
The call was disconnected.
The Sandman was still laughing. "That just goes
to show, Gina. You think men try to make everything about
sex, but you've got to admit, sometimes a carrot isn't just
a carrot."
Jasmine felt her body growing heavy as she listened
to their banter.
"We're winding down here at 99.3. We have time
for one more call. You're on the air."
"Is this the Sandman?"
Jasmine's eyes popped back open. "What's with
that voice?" She couldn't tell if it belonged to a man or
a woman.
"You've got it, bringing sweet dreams and slow
jams. What can I do for you?"
The caller's response was distorted and muffled.
"Can you speak up? We can't understand you."
"I said, it's raining. It's pouring. The Sandman
is snoring. He went to bed. I severed his head and he couldn't
get up in the morning."
Jasmine sat straight up in bed, staring wide-eyed
at the radio as the station cut to dead air.
|
