*
Tate walked across the driveway, feeling lighter than she had in a while. Since Paris. It felt good to get it all out with Ang, better than she would have thought possible. She didn't know why she always went against Sanders' advice; it was always right.
That's why when she got out of the car, she hightailed it to the guest house. The back of it faced the main house, so she had to practically beat her way through hedges and bushes. By the time she got to the front door, Sanders was standing on the porch.
“There is a path,” he pointed out. Tate kicked her way through a rhododendron bush and took the hand he offered. He pulled her up the side of the stairs.
“Too easy. How are you?” she asked, brushing her hair out of her face as she walked through his door.
“I am well. How was dinner with Mr. Hollingsworth?” he asked, reaching to take her jacket. She slid it off and he hung it on a coat rack.
“Good. Great. I finally did what you said, I talked to somebody. I told Ang I didn't want him dating Ellie. I told him that I had basically been plotting their deaths this whole time,” she said quickly. Sanders raised his eyebrows, but that was it.
“And how did he respond?” he asked, leading her into his living room.
“He was angry. Called me a crazy fu-cking bitch. We yelled at each other. Then we laughed, and we forgave each other, and I told him he could do whatever he wants with her,” Tate replied.
“Good. Do you feel better?” Sanders asked.
She leaned into him then, wrapped her arms around his shoulders from behind. He stiffened up and hesitated for a second, but then she felt his hands clasp her wrists. Give her a squeeze. She pressed her cheek to his shoulders.
“Yes. Thank you,” she whispered. He squeezed her again, then let her go.
“Good. I'm glad. I told you, communication is key,” he reminded her. She nodded and walked around to stand in front of him.
“I know, I know. I shall always listen to you, from this day forth,” she prattled on, then looked around the large room. “What's going on in here?”
Much like in the main house, the living room of the guest house had a bar built into it, though much smaller. More of a group of cupboards against a back wall. All of them were open, and the counter tops were filled with all different kinds of liquor and spirits and mixers. Sanders cleared his throat.
“The last person to stay in this house was a business associate of Jameson's. He had me fully stock the bar. I have been organizing what's left, alphabetically, and marking on the bottles were the liquid levels are,” he explained. She laughed.
“Afraid someone's gonna sneak your booze?” she questioned, walking forward and looking through the alcohol.
“No. It just makes me feel better to know,” he replied. She nodded.
“Understandable. This is impressive, Sandy, he doesn't have this much stuff in his bar. Angosturas? Lillet? You guys don't mess around when you stock up,” she commented. She heard him fidget from behind her.
“I was actually thinking about that. I wondered if you would do something for me,” he said. She turned around, surprised.
“Of course, anything. Shoot,” she told him.
“I wondered if you would make me a drink.”
Tate was shocked. Sanders didn't drink. As far as she knew, he had never drank. Along side Jameson, he had been to world famous night clubs and top-of-the-line bars and the best wineries in Europe, but he didn't drink.
“Why?” she asked. He shrugged, his eyes not meeting hers.
“I have never done it. I have been curious about it for a long time. There is no one else I would trust enough to do it with,” he replied in a bored voice. She felt all warm inside. Her? Not Jameson?
Take that, Satan.
“Sandy, you're so sweet to me. Alright! What'll it be? You are dealing with South Boston's best bartender!” she said, clapping her hands together.
“I was hoping you could suggest something. I have never done this before,” he reminded her. She laughed and turned to the cupboards, searching for shakers and glasses.
“Hmmm, let's see. Perfect drink ..., well, you look like a sexy James Bond, so how about a martini. Shaken, not stirred,” she did a crap Sean Connery impression.
“I do not look like James Bond.”
“A sexy James Bond, I said.”
It was his first time drinking, and she didn't want to get him wasted. Plus, she wasn't about to let him drink alone, and she didn't want to get drunk, either. So she made the drinks light. The martini didn't go over very well – she didn't understand the appeal, herself. So she tried a Manhattan. He informed her that it was tolerable. After that, she switched it up and made him a Mojito.
“Jameson likes Long Island Iced Teas,” Sanders commented. She raised her eyebrows.
“I'm not making you that, you'd be on the floor. How about Sex on the Beach?” she teased, winking at him. He cleared his throat and looked away.
He said it was by far his favorite. Huh, Sanders liked girly drinks. Who would've thought? She made him a Tequila Sunrise after that, but then cut him off. She could see the effects. They had been at it for a while, she had spaced them out and made him take his time, fed him pretzels and made him a sandwich. But it was still clear that he was a little toasted.
“Is it normal for your lips to be numb?” he asked, staring at the wall behind her. His speech was still clipped, but his voice was soft, his eyelids heavy. His features relaxed. Small things to a normal person, huge things for Sanders. She laughed and sank into a chair across from him, putting her feet up on an ottoman.
“Yeah, sometimes that happens to me, too. How are your toes?” she asked. He glanced down at his shiny shoes.
“Toes?”
“Mine tingle sometimes, when I drink. Fingertips, toes, lips, all that good stuff. How's your vision?” she went on. He shrugged.
“Perfect.”
“I meant,” she laughed, “are you seeing double yet? Things a little blurry?”
“No. Should they be?”
“Not necessarily. So is it everything it's cracked up to be?” she asked. He shrugged again.
“I'm not sure I see the appeal. I feel like I am stuck in slow motion. How does anyone get anything done like this?” he said, his words coming out slow. She laughed again.
“You're not supposed to get anything done. You do it to relax, have fun, be brave, whatever,” she told him.
“Brave?”
“Liquid courage. Makes you uninhibited, makes you do things you wouldn't normally do,” she explained.
“Like take a whole bottle of xanax and swim in a pool?”
He could've hit her and she would've been less shocked. She licked her lips.
“Yes, things like that,” she whispered. His eyes finally met hers, and he stared right into her.
“That's not very courageous, or brave,” he commented.
“I know. Sometimes, alcohol can make you the stupidest fu-cking person on the block,” she managed a laugh.
“I was very upset with you. You worried me,” he told her, his voice full of bite. Another shock.
“I'm sorry, Sandy. I wasn't in my right mind. I won't ever do that again,” she replied, staring back at him. He looked angry. She didn't think she'd ever seen him look angry.
“And Jameson ..., I was so upset with him. Angry. I was angry at him,” Sanders stressed. Tate nodded.
“I know. Me, too.”
“But I have forgiven him. Why can't you?” he demanded.
“See, this is that uninhibited thing I was talking about,” she pointed out. He waved his hand in the air.
“I was counting on this,” he replied. “Why can't you forgive him?”
“I'm trying, Sandy. I really am. You know, don't you, that I wanted to hurt him, too, like I wanted to hurt Ang,” Tate said softly. He nodded.
“I had figured that much out. I just couldn't quite understand why. You said you forgave him, for Petrushka, for his cruelty,” he explained, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. She had never seen him in such a relaxed posture.
“I know. I lied. I didn't believe him. I don't know if I believe him, now. I just can't stop feeling this way. Like, why was Pet in Spain? Did he tell her he was there? Did he tell her what night club we would be at? When we were going to the apartment? And Ellie and Ang. I refuse to believe he didn't know about that – how could he not!? I mean, he booked them onto a plane he paid for! He keeps things from me, he messes with my head, and I -,” she started to ramble, and could feel her blood pressure rise as the memories flooded into her brain. Sanders held up a hand.
“No. He doesn't. I do,” he said quickly. She blinked at him.
“Huh?” she almost grunted, stunned.
“I knew Petrushka was in Spain, I saw it on the internet. The other things were merely a coincidence – Jameson frequents the restaurant that he took you to, he is friends with the owner. I'm sure she knew he would turn up there sooner or later. I never told him she was in the country,” Sanders explained, rolling his glass between his hands, his eyes never leaving hers.
“Why wouldn't you tell him that?” she breathed. She felt like she had been tasered. She had been so angry, the whole time, at the wrong person. And the right person ..., she didn't think she could be angry at him.
Not him. Not fair.
“Because it would have upset him and I do not like to do that. It would have upset you, and I do not like to do that, either. I knew she was a problem between the two of you that needed to be dealt with it, so I left it to happen. Which it did. Rather nicely. I am not prone to violence, but I can honestly say, there was something enjoyable about watching you hit her,” he said, and she thought she could detect a hint of a slur in his voice. She gave a half hearted laugh.
“Glad I could entertain you,” she whispered.
“I found out about Mrs. Carmichael coming with Mr. Hollingsworth the day before they were to arrive, the airline sent me an updated itinerary and bill. Her name was on it, of course. That one confused me for a time. I knew if I told Jameson, he would tell you. That wouldn't have been right, it was Mr. Hollingsworth's confession to make. Obviously he was bringing Mrs. Carmichael along with him in order to do so. I did not agree with his actions or his decisions, but I was not in a place to advise him that he shouldn't do those things. So it had to happen,” he explained, and then hiccuped into his fist.
“You weren't 'in a place' to advise him,” Tate almost laughed again.
“So I have been having my own battle with my conscience. Watching you be angry at people for deeds that were my own fault. Realizing that almost everything that has upset you, I could have prevented in some way,” he said calmly, but he couldn't stop spinning his glass, his fingers deftly moving around the crystal. She shook her head.
“No, Sandy, you didn't make Jameson bring Pet home, you didn't -,” she started to defend him – from himself – but he stopped her again.
“But I knew. And I never said anything. I am beginning to think I'm not a very good person,” he told her.
Tate let out a moan, closing her eyes. She wanted to be mad. She had been mad at Jameson, when she thought it had all been him, so it was only fair. But she couldn't. Jameson did things on purpose and with intent, just to make them hurt. Ang did things without forethought and out of stupidity, which still hurt. Sanders ..., Sanders only ever tried to do what was right. Not what was fair, not what made her feel best, or sheltered her, or helped her. But what was right.
And what was right didn't always feel so good.
“Sanders,” she sighed, climbing out of her chair. “You are the best person I know. If you ever think otherwise, that will upset me.”
“I don't understand. When you thought it was Jameson keeping these things from you, you wanted to hurt him. You wanted to leave him, leave us. But when it's me doing these things, it's alright?” he asked, a wary look in his eye as he finally sat his glass down on the coffee table. She shook her head.
“It's not alright. I'm hurt. But I know your heart was in the right place. I can't be mad at that. Just do me a favor?” she asked, moving to sit next to him.
“Anything.”
“Next time something weird happens, or some bullshit gets said, or I get attacked by Jameson's Amazonian love child,” she babbled as she swung her legs across his lap, “fu-cking say something. You aren't protecting anyone by letting us all bumble around in the dark. Alright?” He actually laughed.
“I will try my best.”
“That's all I can ask.”
“Are you sure you're not -,”
“I love you, Sanders,” she breathed, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “There is very little you could do to make me mad at you.”
“You were mad at me in Spain,” he reminded her as he leaned back into the couch. She snorted.
“You practically kidnapped me and handed me over to the devil, I get to be mad when you do things like that. But see, that was pretty fu-cking awful, and I still love you. So we're good,” she assured him. He nodded, though he continued to fidget.
“Are you going to leave Jameson?” he blurted out. She blinked at him.
“Why do you ask?” she countered, propping her knees up over him.
“Because I think you are planning on it, and I really would like you not to do that,” he answered, and there was definitely a slur to his voice. She sighed.
“Are you going to repeat this conversation to him?” she asked.
“If you ask me not to, than no, I won't.”
“Don't repeat this.”
“I won't.”
“Sandy, I ..., what he did, with Petrushka. That's a hard thing to let go. I say I'm fine, and I mean I'm fine, and then it's like ..., like I'm back in that pool,” she whispered. “Like I'm eighteen again, and he's looking at me like I'm trash. I don't know if I want to live life this way, waiting for the next thing Jameson's gonna do to me, and I don't think he'll ever change, or ever admit anything is wrong. I'm not leaving today, or tomorrow, but ..., I can't make any promises.”
“Then I guess that's all I can ask. But Tatum, he does not think you are trash. He has strange ways, and he doesn't know how to talk to you at all, but he cares very deeply for you. If you left him, he would be devastated, in his own way. I know this,” Sanders replied, resting a hand on her knee.
“'In his own way' loosely translates to 'so devastated, he fu-cks every woman in the tri-state area',” she joked. He made a face.
“I wouldn't have put it quite like that, but yes, pretty much like that,” he said, but she knew he was joking.
“What about you? If I decide I'm not strong enough for Mr. Jameson Kane, are you going to disown me? Let me go? Or would you run away with me?” she asked. He thought for a long while.
“I would never disown you, because I don't own you, and if you have to go, then I have to let you go. Sometimes, running away sounds very appealing, but in my experience, it just makes things worse. I suppose we could be penpals,” he offered, and she burst out laughing.
“Okay, I'll take that.”
She pulled him close and hugged him, wrapping her arms tightly around his shoulders. For once, there was no tensing up, no hesitation, he just hugged her right back. Sighed into the side of her hair.
“I used to hate it when you touched me,” he said softly. She laughed.
“I know, I think that's why I liked doing it so much,” she replied, scratching his back.
“Now I almost think I like it. Sometimes. Thank you, Tatum.”
“You're very welcome, Sanders.”
She squeezed him tight, and he finally pushed her away when she tried to leave a hickey on his neck. He walked her to the door after that, though she hesitated to leave him. He waved her away, assuring her that he would be perfectly fine, that he would just go to bed. They said goodbye and she made her way back around to the main house, using the path he had pointed out. She shoved her hands in her jacket, guarding against the cold as she made her way home.
Home.
Her universe had, once again, shifted a little. So many things she had been holding against Jameson, poof. Gone. So angry at Jameson, all because Sanders was loyal to a fault and because she was a crazy bitch.
She was telling the truth, though; the incident with Petrushka would probably never sit right with her. Jameson had done that to hurt, had no regard for her feelings. He still had never officially declared how he felt, probably because he didn't feel any certain way towards her. Sure, he wanted her, wanted to own her, wanted to be the only person to own her. But that didn't equal feelings, or caring.
Or love.
As Tate stomped up the porch, she decided she needed just a little more time. She had learned a lot of new things – from Ang, from Sanders, from herself. She felt like one more blow, and she would be thrown irrevocably into crazy-fu-cking-bitch land. Then no one would want to be her friend.
As she pushed in the front door, she took a deep breath. Tomorrow. Or the day after. Then she would have a nice, long, chat with Mr. Kane and he would definitely -,
“Where the fu-ck have you been!?” his voice snapped from behind her. But before she could turn fully around, she was being grabbed around the waist. Thrown over his shoulder. Carried down the hall.
“Out to dinner! What the fu-ck are you doing!?” she demanded.
“It's almost midnight. Who the fu-ck has dinner from eleven o'clock in the morning until midnight?” Jameson demanded.
“Apparenly I fu-cking do! What is your problem!? Wait, stop. What are you doing!?” she all but shrieked as she heard a door get kicked open.
“It is most definitely time to rip off the band aid,” he growled, and then he was walking through the door he had just opened.
I just needed a couple more days, then I would've done anything you wanted.
She threw her hands out and gripped onto the doorframe, wiggling her hips against his head. He had one arm wrapped around her thighs, and he dug his fingers in painfully. His other hand went up and grabbed one of her arms, yanking it free. She shrieked and tried to pull away, but it was too late. A couple strides, and she was in the library.
“What the fu-ck, Jameson!? You can't just grab people and make them do -,” she started to yell, but it ended in a shriek as she was tossed onto a couch. She bounced around and gripped onto the back of it.
“Apparently, I fu-cking can. I have been waiting all day for you. Do you not answer your phone anymore?” he asked, leaning over her. He looked pissed. She felt a shiver run over her skin.
“It's in my purse! I was busy,” she told him.
“Too busy to answer your phone. I see. So what were you and Angier up to for so long?” he asked.
“Humping our way across Boston,” she snapped back.
“Goddamn, took you long enough.”
“Not everyone can be as quick as you.”
His hand was at her throat in an instant.
This is not quite how I imagined this evening ending.
“Watch what you fu-cking say to me,” Jameson growled. “I have babied you. I have been nice to you. I have bent over fu-cking backwards for you. I have done things for you that I have never done for anyone else. The least you can do in return is answer your goddamn phone when I call.”
“Someone missed me,” she said softy.
“fu-ck you, Tate,” he spat out, his fingers digging in harder. He wasn't pressing down on her, though, so she slowly sat up.
“Is that what you've been sitting at home doing? Worrying all night? About what Ang and I have been up to?” she asked.
“Don't flatter yourself,” he replied.
“You flatter me, by being this upset. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you actually cared,” she laughed lightly, holding onto his wrist with one hand.
“You'd think wrong.”
She stared up at him for a second. Really looked at him. For the past month, she had been working very hard to blind herself to him. Always tried to glance at him, past him, through him. Never directly at him. He was too much. Looking at him, he would invade her. Possess her. It was too easy. It had happened last fall. It had happened in Spain. So she had avoided it.
But if it was true, if Sanders was telling the truth – which he must have been, because Sanders didn't lie – then everything Jameson had done for the past month, had been for her. Everything he had said in Spain, had been the truth. That moment in Paris, it had been real. Those pearls ...
She felt her eyes tear up, and Jameson looked shocked. He let go of her throat and lowered himself, so they were eye to eye. She looked away. Around the room. At all the furniture. Everywhere, but at him.
“You rearranged,” she sniffled, realizing for the first time that she was in the middle of the room. He nodded.
“Yes.”
“I like it,” she said, her voice getting even more watery.
“Tate.”
“Oh my god, is that the Rothko from your office?” she asked, sitting up straighter. The couch had its back to the fireplace and Jameson's desk, and was facing the far wall. The bookshelves had all been rearranged, and the large painting was hanging in the middle of the wall.
“Yes.”
“When did you bring it here?” she asked, wiping at her nose as her eyes wandered over the painting.
“Today.”
“Why!?” she exclaimed. She felt his fingers curve around her jaw, and he slowly pulled her head around until she was facing him.
“Because one time, you said you liked it.”
The tears couldn't be held back, after that. She didn't stop crying until he had laid her out in their bed. He left the room and she sniffled, took off her clothes, curled up under the sheets. It was a couple minutes before he came back in the room and she sat up, hugging the sheets tight around her body.
“Tea?” she asked with a laugh, taking a steaming mug that he was holding out.
“Yes. Here,” he said, producing a handkerchief from his pocket and holding it in front of her face. She simply leaned into it and blew her nose. He made a face like he wanted to vomit, but he didn't say anything, just stepped away and threw it into a hamper.
“Thank you,” she sighed, sipping at the hot tea. He crawled onto the bed and sat across from her.
“Care to explain?” he asked, cocking up an eyebrow at her. She looked into her tea. It was hard to bare her soul when he was always looking at her like she was annoying.
“It was just a lot to take in. It was an intense dinner with Ang, an intense talk with Sanders, and then that. Believe it or not, I have my breaking points,” she joked. He didn't laugh.
“What did you talk about with Sanders?” he asked. She chewed on her bottom lip.
“Stuff. Europe. You,” she answered sort of truthfully.
“Sounds dangerous.”
“God, you have no idea. That man has a wild side none of us know about.”
“Cut the shit, Tate. What's going on?” Jameson demanded.
“It's not easy, being with you,” she blurted out.
“No one is keeping you here. Like I said, I have been trying my hardest. Maybe that's not good enough for you, and that's fine, but if it's true, then there's the fu-cking door. Because this is all you're gonna get,” he told her, gesturing to himself.
That's it? Feels like too much and not enough, all at once.
“I didn't necessarily mean it like that, I meant ..., I'll like you one minute, and hate you the next. I'll be having fun, and then remember how awful you are. You made me bipolar. I didn't even know that was possible,” she laughed into her tea.
“I can only apologize so many times, Tate. Maybe you just can't accept it,” he pointed out.
It was a fair and honest statement. She should just let him go, if she couldn't accept his apology. But stupid man, it wasn't that easy. She had tried. A million times in her mind. Three months ago, she had convinced herself that she would never see him again. Two month ago, she swore to herself that she wouldn't let him win his little game. A month ago, she was promising herself that she would rip his heart out.
Now, she was realizing that none of those things had happened, or would happen. She would never be rid of him. He had branded himself onto her soul. Like it or not, he was a part of her, and she was a part of him.
“I don't want to go,” she whispered, staring into her tea.
“You need to decide if that's how you really feel. No more of this back and forth, hot and cold, bullshit. You say you want to be with me, but two weeks ago, you were plotting to fu-ck Angier in my bed, just to push me away,” he reminded her. She nodded.
“I know. You make it a lot easier to hate you than to like you,” she pointed out.
“Deal with it.”
“I'm trying.”
“Try harder.”
“I think you need a nap,” she laughed. He rolled his eyes and took the mug out of her hand, set it on a night stand.
“What am I going to do with you, baby girl,” he grumbled, grabbing at her legs through the sheets and dragging her closer to him.
“Sometimes, I ask myself the same question,” she sighed.
“No more games?” he asked. She shook her head.
“No. I had this whole game plan, you know. I was gonna eat you alive,” she warned him. He nodded, pulling her legs out and settling them on either side of himself.
“I know. You weren't exactly subtle. You have a lot to learn from me,” he informed her.
“Pfffft. You're about as unobvious as a sledgehammer to the skull,” she replied.
“When you're a sledgehammer, you don't need to be unobvious. You just need one good hit.”
“Stop being a smart-ass.”
“No more plotting my imminent demise,” he continued. Tate sighed.
“God, I suck at being a bad girl.”
“Excuse me?”
“That was my whole goal. I mean, I'm fu-cking Satan. How come none of your badness rubs off on me?” she asked.
“Because,” Jameson said, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her closer. “I hate to tell you this, Tatum, but you wouldn't know bad if it smacked you in the face. You're practically an angel.”
“For the last seven years, I thought I was nothing but bad,” she told him, leaning in to hug him. He sighed, kissed the top of her head.
“Just because you have sex with anything that moves, that does not make you bad. A slut, yes. Bad? No. There is nothing wrong with liking sex, and whoever taught you that is very, very bad,” he informed her.
“At least I'm very, very good at it,” she murmured, settling her head on his shoulder. She let her eyes drift shut. She felt so drained. So tired. So warm.
“Yes, baby girl, that you are.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, lifting her head. He groaned.
“What now?”
“You might want to check on Sanders,” she told him.
“Why?”
“Because when I left him, he was pretty drunk.”
Jameson completely froze.
“You got Sanders – my Sanders – drunk!?” he exclaimed.
“It was his idea. When I left, he seemed to be doing okay, but I think he's actually kinda partial to cheap vodka. You might want -,” she started, but Jameson was already rushing out the door before she could finish.
~5~
Tatum woke up the next morning alone. She thought she remembered him climbing into bed next to her at some point, but Jameson wasn't there. She glanced around the room before realizing there was a note on the pillow next to hers. She picked it up.
Be good.
She smiled and slithered down the bed, stretching her arms up over her head. It sounded corny, but she really felt like it was a brand new day. She felt like she had woken up without a heavy weight on her shoulders. Sure, thinking about what he did to her last fall still made her want to claw his eyes out, made her want to hold him underwater in a cold, dark swimming pool. But he also made her happy. He made her feel alive. He made every nerve ending, every synapse, come alive with want for him. He was right – she either needed to get the fu-ck over what he had done, or get over him.
She made her way downstairs. At first she was surprised not to see Sanders. He was almost always up and puttering around before anyone else was home. Then she remembered the night before and she laughed. She threw one of Jameson's coats on over her tank top and underwear, then tripped over to Sanders' house. She didn't even bother with shoes, just hurried along in her knee high socks.
He was up, and he was dressed, and he looked immaculate, as always. But he had a set of bags under his eyes that made her laugh and laugh. He didn't look her in the eye, just pressed his lips together so hard that they turned white. She linked her arm through his and walked him back to the main house, promising to cook him breakfast.
“The very idea of food makes me want to pull my own tongue out of my head. No thank you,” he replied curtly.
He said he remembered everything they'd talked about, and he wasn't embarrassed at all about being “over emotional”. He did, however, apologize for bringing up her stint in the pool. She pointed out that if that's what he considered to be “over emotional”, she was dying to see hysterical.
“Have any plans for today?” she asked as he followed her into Jameson's bedroom.
“Not really. I was hoping for it to be peaceful. Quiet,” he replied. She laughed, heading into the closet.
“I was going to go downtown. Wanna go with me?” she asked, shrugging out of Jameson's jacket. Sanders came to stand in the closet doorway and stared at a wall while she hopped up and down, trying to squeeze into a pair of leggings.
“Of course. What are we going to do?” he asked.
“I never got Jameson a birthday present, I wanna take him one,” she replied, yanking off her tank top before rifling through a bunch of shirts. She settled on a loose, grungy, black tank top with a band logo on it. She pulled it on and looked in the full length mirror. It was a shirt from her life before Jameson, a thrift shop special she had cut the sides low on, so it showed off her lime green bra. She nodded at her reflection and traipsed out of the closet, moving over into the bathroom.
“Oh really. How were things when you got home last night? I know before I left, he was not happy about your absence,” Sanders told her, not moving from the closet doorway.
“He's never happy about much, is he,” she laughed, digging through her makeup bag.
“He is. Sometimes.”
“We talked a little bit. He told me some things. Things I need to understand, if we're gonna do this,” she explained, leaning over the counter as she carefully drew eyeliner around her eyes.
“And may I ask what it is you're going to do?” Sanders' voice floated to her. She was quiet while she finished her eye makeup, making it all smudgy and dark. Dirty. She looked over her handiwork, then moved onto powder and lip gloss.
“This. What you want. I'm going to try – try – to get the fu-ck over my hang ups, his hang ups, everybody's hang ups, and just ..., see. See what happens, see where this goes. Pick up where we left off last fall,” she said, examining her face in the mirror. Done. She finger combed her hair, swung her head up and down a couple times to give it volume, then called it good.
“You're sure this is what you want?” he asked as she walked back into the bedroom.
“I think so. Isn't this what you want?” she asked in return.
“Of course. I am just making sure. I don't want to see either of you hurt because of rash decisions,” he replied. She rolled her eyes.
“Stop confusing me. How do I look?” she asked, holding her arms out wide and smiling broadly at him. He took his time, his eyes sweeping over her whole form. When he got back to her face, he cleared his throat.
“You look exactly like the woman I first met back in August,” he replied. She sighed happily.
“Good. We haven't seen her in a long time.”
The drive to Boston took roughly half an hour, depending on traffic. She offered to drive, because of Sanders' condition, but he refused. If he was going to be in a car, then he was going to be the one driving it.
She had him stop at a store first, told him to wait outside. Then they stopped at a little shop right downtown, and Sanders insisted on coming into that place. Then they stopped at a party shop and she got a “Who's The Birthday Boy!?” balloon. Satisfied with her purchases, she had him take her to Jameson's offices.
“Should I call him to tell him we're headed up?” Sanders asked as they walked towards the front doors. She shook her head.
“It's a surprise party,” she laughed.
Jameson hadn't been lying, the secretary in the main lobby was a knockout. A chesty brunette with a blunt bob and bangs, she looked like Bettie Paige. She smiled sweetly at them as they headed into the elevators. The secretary in front of Jameson's office wasn't as polite, however, and made a racket when Tate burst into the anteroom that connected to his office. She didn't shut up till Sanders strode into the room, staring at her. She closed her mouth pretty quick and Tate walked through Jameson's door, sticking her tongue out at the lady.
“Excuse me, what do -,” Jameson started to bark out, and then he saw who it was. “Oh. What are you doing?” He looked suspicious.
“Sandy and I wanted to surprise you,” she laughed, taking off her coat and throwing it in a chair.
“To clarify, I did not want to surprise you. I simply drove,” Sanders interjected.
“Surprise me with what? What's with the balloon?” Jameson demanded, still looking between both of them like they were there to assassinate him. Tate took the small brown bag from Sanders. The ribbon for the balloon was tied around the top of it.
“Happy birthday!” Tate shouted, waving her free hand around. Jameson still stared.
“My birthday was January ninth,” he replied. She dropped her hands.
“I know. I kind of ruined it, I didn't even get you a present. So I got you something now,” she explained, holding the bag out towards him. If anything, he looked more suspicious.
“What's gotten into you today?” he asked. She groaned and stomped forward, plonking the present down on his desk.
“I had the very bad idea of doing something nice for you,” she told him, folding her arms across her chest.
He narrowed his eyes, but he leaned forward and untied the balloon. It floated up to the ceiling while he opened the brown paper bag. He cocked up an eyebrow, glanced at her, and then back at the bag before pulling out a bottle.
“Very original, Tate. No one's ever gotten me one of these before,” he said in a snippy voice, holding a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey.
“Not like that, they haven't,” she replied, slipping into her seat. He flicked his eyes up, then back to the bottle. He turned it over in his hands, and finally realized she had scrawled across the label in black marker. He lifted his eyebrows.
“Sanders?” he called out, not looking up.
“Yes, sir?”
“Thank you, for the surprise.”
“It was nothing, sir.”
“Good. Now you can leave,” Jameson ordered. Sanders nodded and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
“You like it?” Tate asked, smiling as she slunk lower in the chair, her arms resting over the sides.
“It's interesting. You're right, I have never gotten a bottle quite like this,” he chuckled, looking over the label again.
“Do people buy you a lot of bottles of Jameson?” she asked. He nodded and pointed across the room. Behind her was a large bookshelf. On the top of it were all different kinds of bottles, with labels in different languages, colors, styles.
“Everyone thinks they're clever,” he replied.
“What's the most expensive one?”
“Jameson Rarest Vintage Reserve, only about $250.”
“Only.”
“Tatum. What brought this on?” he asked. She turned back towards him.
“I've been thinking, about what you said. About needing to get over it. About you bending over backwards for me. While I don't agree entirely with that last part, I still want to call a truce,” she offered.
“Oh really?” his voice was soft, and he finally set the bottle down.
“Yes. You need to not be such a dick to me. If you have a problem with me, or you think I'm lying or bullshitting or fu-cking around, then you need to say it – not hide in a different country and get mad about things you don't know anything about,” she told him bluntly.
“Bold words, baby girl,” his voice held a warning in it.
“And I need to deal with the fact that this is you. You are a dick. If I can promise not to freak out every ten seconds about it, then you have to promise to at least check with me before you decide to rip me in half again,” she laid out her deal.
“I don't have to check with you for shit. But maybe, if I'm feeling generous, I'll give you a heads up,” he replied, but he was smiling.
“I never want to deal with Petrushka again,” Tate warned him, and she hoped her voice conveyed just how much she meant that.
“Me, neither. I won't use her against you, ever again.”
“I have never dated Nick. We are not boyfriend and girlfriend, and we never were. I haven't slept with him, since that very first time,” she said.
“I knew he couldn't handle you,” Jameson chuckled.
“You can't even handle having me as a girlfriend,” she snorted.
“So if everything between us is all good, does that mean I get to fu-ck the secretary downstairs?” he asked.
“I don't think things between us ever were, or ever will be, 'all good', and no, you cannot fu-ck that secretary,” she replied.
“What if I fire her? Could I fu-ck her then?”
Tate snorted again.
“Would you like to see what you got me for your birthday?” she changed the subject. His eyebrows shot up.
“What I got you?” he clarified. She nodded.
“Yes.”
“Christ, I'm scared to ask,” he groaned, leaning his elbows against his desk. She scooted even lower in her chair and stuck her leg up, jutting it over his desk so her shoe was in his face. It took him a second, and then he saw it. He curled his fingers around her ankle and pulled it closer.
“Like it?” she asked. He shrugged.
“It's okay. At least they're real this time. Why did I buy you the tiniest pearl bracelet you could find?” he asked, still examining the pearls she had strapped around her ankle.
“I'm not comfortable spending money the way you do, I needed it to be cheap,” she explained.
“Why did you do this?” he asked, letting go of her ankle. She sat upright and put her foot back on the floor.
“I bought it so ..., you would know that I can remember things, too. Good things. You said I deserved them. I listened. I did it so you'd know that I hear you. I'm not very good at it, I'm still trying to figure out how to speak your language, but I'm trying. It isn't necessary to spend $50,000 on a necklace for me. Don't get me wrong, it's nice to know you would have, that you think I 'deserve' them. But real pearls or fake pearls – I wouldn't know the difference anyway. One is just as good as the other to me,” she explained, laughing a little at the end.
“Depending on the intent with which the gift is given,” he repeated what she had told him so many months ago. She nodded.
“Yes. You don't have to spend $50,000, Jameson. Sometimes it's okay to get me the crappy, junior high prom style, pearl necklace. It's okay to just say you like me. You don't have to buy me,” she told him.
“Tatum, come over here.”
She got up and walked around his desk. He swiveled his chair towards her and she moved next to him, swung her leg over his knees, then sat on his lap. He grabbed her by the hips and helped her to adjust, so she was sitting as close as she could get, her face inches from his own.
“Hi,” she laughed, as the chair rocked back and forth.
“Tatum O'Shea, sometimes, I almost think I like you,” he told her.
“See? Such a dick.”
“Shut up. When do I get my real present?” he asked, using one hand to pick up the bottle from off his desk. He turned the front of the whiskey towards her. She had used the label to address him, then wrote her own little note.
When this bottle is empty, you may return it for one night of anything-you-can-think-of-sex, and the giver must comply. ANYTHING. Happy Birthday, Satan.
“It says it right there, when the bottle is empty,” Tate replied. Jameson let go of her entirely and unscrewed the lid.
“You do realize, I have a very vivid imagination. You wrote 'anything', and I'm going to hold you to it,” he warned her, before lifting the bottle to his lips and taking a healthy swig. She nodded.
“I know what I wrote. I'm just very glad you don't own any double ended vibrators,” she joked.
“Yet.”
“I said anything, meaning anything you want. I'm a woman of my word,” she assured him. He narrowed his eyes and took another drink.
“Sometimes,” he amended her statement.
“But I'm begging you, please, no threesome with the busty secretary,” she pleaded. He laughed and his hand cupped her jaw, tilting her head up.
“You said anything I want, baby girl,” he reminded her, then poured the Jameson down her throat.
Doesn't taste as good as him.