*
The next two days were relatively peaceful. Nick picked them up, and all three of them went out to lunch. Sanders always seemed uncomfortable around Nick, probably because he felt like his loyalties were being pushed to the limit, but Nick never seemed to care. Nick could probably dine with Hitler, and do it with a polite smile. He was just that nice of a guy, he always wanted everyone to feel comfortable around him.
They got all dressed up for the charity event that he had come to town for, and it was actually a lot of fun. Sanders refused to come along, and though she loved him dearly, Tate was a little glad. Sometimes, Sanders made her feel guilty about having a good time. Which was silly – she was allowed to have fun, with or without Jameson. The only thing she didn't like was the photographers. There were a lot of them about, snapping photos with large flashes. She chewed on her lips.
“I don't want my picture taken,” she told Nick for the hundredth time. He put a hand on the small of her back.
“So you've said. I'm trying, but it's probably going to happen. What's the big deal?” he asked.
“Pictures of people on the internet is what started my whole problem,” she grumbled, letting him lead her to their seats.
“They're just pictures, who cares. He'll get over it. It's not like I've got my tongue down your throat in any of them,” Nick laughed.
“Oh jesus.”
He was right, though. Photographers from every newspaper were there, so it was going to happen. Tate just made sure it happened with a lot of different people, and not just Nick. No use pissing off Jameson more than was necessary. She had photos taken with almost every ballplayer on the team, and one with her hugging the team manager.
It was fun to be around the team again. It felt nice to be wanted, nice to be liked, for something other than her skills in bed. She could make the pitcher laugh, talked the alcoholic outfielder out of having a drink, and helped the mother of the umpire to the restroom. She felt pretty good about herself.
That you ever thought you could be a 'bad girl', is hilarious. You're Mother fu-ckin' Teresa.
There was an auction at the end of the night, put on by Sotheby's. All the proceeds were going to a charity for a specific type of lung cancer. The amount of money being thrown around blew her away a little, which really said something, considering the kind of money Jameson had, and spent, on a day to day basis. Nick bid on, and won, a perfect condition 1958 Karmann Ghia. Only $60,000, that's all. The highest bid made was on a Ferrari, which went to some older gentleman in the crowd. There were also several anonymous buyers, bidding via phone calls. A delicate China tea set went to one, a vintage Cartier necklace to another, and a bronze dog sculpture to the last one – she didn't understand that piece, but apparently it was worth $8,000 to someone.
“You people are insane with your money,” Tate laughed while Nick helped her into her jacket.
“What, you're telling me Mr. Kane doesn't buy lavish things?” he chuckled, walking her out the doors.
“Oh, he does, just not quite so publicly. He'd be more likely to buy everything in one go, then sort out the shit he doesn't want, just to save time,” she joked.
“Jesus, wish I had that kind of money.”
“Don't we all?”
“You don't get to talk, he spends it on you.”
They climbed into a cab after that, and she was quiet for a while. She wasn't sure what to make of his statement. Jameson didn't really spend that much money on her, comparatively speaking. But that he spent any at all on her, was amazing in it's own way. She had worried people saw her as a slut for the baseball team. She also worried that people saw her as a whore for Jameson. Not okay.
When they got to her building, Nick surprised her by walking her inside. She had told him at the beginning of the week that Jameson “wasn't comfortable” with Nick being in the condo. She had put it politely. He had respected that, didn't even question it, so she was fine with him coming into the lobby. She was a little surprised, however, when he got into the elevator with her.
“I had a really good time,” she assured him, a little nervous.
“Good. I'm glad. Tate, I go home the day after tomorrow, and I just wanted to tell you -,” he started. She winced.
“God, please don't say something that'll make this awkward,” she begged, and he laughed.
“I wanted to tell you, that my offer still stands,” he said. She raised her eyebrows.
“Huh?”
“What I told you, when you were in Paris. You like him, or you think you like him, or he might like you, or whatever. I'm still here,” he stressed.
“Nick, I don't get what you -,”
He practically dove into her, kissing her hard. She gasped, completely stunned into immobility, and he wrapped one arm around her waist. Cupped the back of her head with his other hand. He was trying to tell her something, something she obviously didn't want to hear. But she was getting it, loud and clear now. Every part of him screamed with want for her, from his fingertips in her hair, to his lips against her own, to his chest against hers, to the rock solid erection pressed against her. The elevator doors dinged open, and she finally broke away. Of course, Sanders was standing in the open doorway.
Of fu-cking course he is. Cause nothing ever happens easily with me.
“I'll be there for you, if anything happens. I'll wait,” Nick stressed. She struggled to get out of his arms, glancing at Sanders.
“Don't do that, not for me,” she urged him through clenched teeth.
“You're worth it.”
She finally shoved him, hard enough to push him off of her. She pulled at the material on her dress as she huffed off of the elevator. She turned back, praying that he wasn't following her. He hadn't. He was staring at her with sad, puppy dog eyes, ripping her heart in half.
“I'm not, Nick. I'm really not. Don't wait for me, I won't be coming,” she warned him. He managed a smile.
“All the same, if you ever need me,” he replied, and then the doors slid shut.
“I think it would be in your best interest to call -,” Sanders started in a immediately. She let out a small shriek, stomping through the front door.
“He's not God, Sandy! He doesn't need to know about everything, the minute it happens!” she yelled at him. He blinked at her, clearly surprised, then followed her inside, closing the door.
“I don't think he's God, but I do think he will be upset when he learns that -,” he began again.
“Sandy, right now, right this moment, he is fu-cking that playboy-secretary, which means a lot more than kissing her. I know he'll be pissed, but I didn't do that. I didn't know Nick was gonna do that, I have been very honest with him. You heard me, you heard what I said,” she pointed out, kicking off her heels as she walked back to the bedroom. Sanders picked them up behind her.
“I know. I appreciated it. Does that mean you have thought about the situation with Jameson?” he asked, standing near her as she let her jacket fall to the floor.
“No. Yes. God, why is everything so difficult?” she whined, lifting her hair off of her neck and turning her back to him. He immediately stepped forward and pulled the zipper down on her dress.
“Because you both over-complicate things,” he replied simply. She threw a glare over her shoulder at him, then walked into the closet.
“My life was very un-complicated before Mr. Kane, you know. I probably wouldn't have ever met Nick, ever slept with him, if it hadn't been for Jameson,” she pointed out, peeling herself out of the dress and changing into a t-shirt of Jameson's. She padded back into the bedroom.
“Mr. Castille would have come to your bar that night, regardless of whether or not you were sleeping with Jameson, so the result would still be the same,” Sanders returned her logic.
“Maybe I wouldn't have just slept with him, maybe I'd be Mrs. Castille by now,” she bit out, yanking her hair up into a ponytail while she glared at him.
“Is that what you'd like? To be Mrs. Tatum Castille?” Sanders questioned.
“No,” she replied quickly, crawling onto the bed.
“And why not?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because, it'd be boring,” she answered softly. He nodded.
“And that answer, right there, is why your life is so 'difficult',” he told her. She groaned while he walked into the closet. She heard hangers clanking around, knew he was hanging her dress up.
“Your attitude doesn't help, Sandy! Holier than thou, know better than all of us mere mortals, blah blah blah!” she snapped. He came back into the bedroom.
“I apologize. Would you like me to stop offering advice?” he asked. She frowned, wouldn't look at him.
“No.”
“Alright then. What would you like me to do?”
“Will you sleep with me again?”
“Of course.”
Their first night in the condo, Tate had woken up from a violent nightmare. Screaming, hands pulling at her own hair. She had been under water, fighting with someone, though she wasn't sure who. Sanders had been standing over her, looking scared out of his mind. But after she started sobbing, he climbed into bed next to her, let her hold onto him till she calmed down. Till she fell asleep. When she woke up the next morning, he had been laying in the exact same spot. After that, they slept together every night.
“Sandy,” she said softly, long after he'd changed into his pajamas and she'd turned out the light.
“Hmmm?” he responded, clasping his hands together on top of his chest.
“The first time I saw Jameson again, that first time we talked together, I'm the one who turned it all into a game. I'm the one ..., who felt like she couldn't lose. I'm terrified of losing to him. Why do I still feel this way?” she asked, rolling towards him.
“Because he is a lot to take in, to absorb. Because he never loses. And because you've already lost, you just won't admit it,” he said plainly. She winced at his words.
“Ang said that I'm in love with Jameson,” she whispered.
“I have never thought Mr. Hollingsworth to be a stupid man.”
“What if he never loves me back?” her voice kept getting quieter and quieter.
“Is that really what frightens you?” Sanders questioned.
“I'm scared ..., I'm scared that I'm unlovable. That I'm just this dirty human being, a waste of time,” she told him. He sighed and unclasped his hands. She immediately grabbed onto one of them, held it between her own.
“You are none of those things. Mr. Hollingsworth loves you. Mr. Castille loves you. I love you. It seems to me that everyone you know, loves you. So that is a very ignorant statement,” he pointed out.
“But not Jameson,” she clarified. He cleared his throat.
“I said everyone.”
“I don't think he loves me.”
“Tatum, I am not entirely sure that you know what love is.”
“Sandy?”
“Hmmm?”
“Shut up.”
“Of course.”