“Everything is ready. Is there a reason you keep asking?” Sanders replied, flipping through some pages in a folder he was carrying. Jameson glanced down at him.
“Attitude. I like it. I'm just double checking – that stupid fucking party is tomorrow, and I know Dunn hasn't done a goddamn thing to prepare for it. What a mistake, going into a partnership with that guy,” Jameson grumbled, taking another bite of his food.
“I never understood why you agreed to it. The party is all set – I booked the caterer and drove down to Boston yesterday to check out the office space. Everything is ready to go. What are the plans for tonight? Dinner?” Sanders asked, shutting the folder and placing a tablet on top of it.
“No, no dinner,” Jameson said around a full mouth. “Club. If this is my last night in New York for a while, I'm gonna make it count.”
“A very adult approach, I'm sure.”
“Watch it. I don't like attitude that much.”
“Any particular club?” Sanders ignored him.
“I'll figure it out. But I don't want to stay at home, you can have the movers start boxing up the rest of the shit. We'll stay at the Waldorf,” Jameson informed him.
“Alright, I'll book a suite.”
A man came around a corner and Jameson went to side step him, but it forced him into Sanders. The bump was enough to knock all the stuff out of Sanders' hands. The younger man glared up at Jameson, flicked his eyes to the mess on the floor, then back up. Jameson held up his hands, trying hard not to laugh. Sanders hated messes.
“I've got it, I've got it, don't worry your pretty little head,” Jameson teased, then bent down to pick up the mess.
He wasn't looking forward to living in Boston. He wasn't necessarily a fan of Bean Town. But he owned a home there, and Dunn was an old friend who had been looking for a helping hand. Jameson had more than enough money to throw around, and life had gotten pretty stagnant, so he thought maybe it would be fun. He could work with his clients from anywhere in the world, location didn't matter. And New York was always just a drive away, so it couldn't be too bad.
I'll be back living here by New Year's.
Jameson went out alone. He had no problems doing things alone, because not only was he ridiculously happy with his own company, but being wealthy and good looking had multiple advantages - he rarely ended any night alone.
And that night he ended with twice the fun.
The next morning, Jameson was awoken by a shaft of sunlight burning across his eyelids. He groaned and tried to lift an arm to block it, but something was on top of him. He finally opened his eyes. A woman was laying on top of his arm, pinning it between the mattress and her breasts. He couldn't quite feel his fingertips. He looked down at his chest and another woman was stretched across him.
“What fucking time is it?” he croaked out, yanking his arm free.
“Just after seven in the morning, sir. If we want to get to Boston in time to be settled and ready for the event, we should leave soon.”
Sanders' voice was soft, and Jameson looked around till he found the younger man. He was standing in front of the windows, opening another set of drapes.
“Yeah, fine, get them out of here. I've got a headache the size of Belgium,” Jameson complained, shoving the other woman off of him before crawling out of the bed.
He stumbled into the en suite, yanking on a pair of boxers as he went. He yawned and ran his hand through his hair, frowning at his reflection. He looked hungover as fuck; hopefully he'd improve before the evening. He didn't want to look that way in front of potential clients. He shrugged and shoved a tooth brush in his mouth while he turned on the water. He was opening the complimentary tooth paste when he heard raised voices in the next room. He turned off the water and listened. When one of the girls began shouting, he stepped back into the room.
He almost laughed. Sanders was trying to corral the women towards the front door of the suite. One woman was fine, yawning and yanking on a pair of knee high boots. But the other woman – the one who had been sleeping on his arm, if Jameson wasn't mistaken – was not taking kindly to being kicked out. She shouted and argued with Sanders, demanding to know who he was, and why she had to leave. When she shoved Sanders, though, that was going too far. Jameson tossed his toothbrush into the sink and strode through the suite.
“There you are!” the girl all but shrieked. “Tell this pip-squeak I -,”
Jameson didn't care. He grabbed her by the upper arm, yanked open the front door, and practically tossed her into the hall. She yelled and stumbled against a wall. The other girl – Jameson couldn't remember either of their names – left on her own accord. As she pulled on her jacket, she winked at him.
“Call me.”
Then she took off down the hall. He smiled and slammed the door shut.
“And that is how you deal with them,” Jameson said, turning to Sanders.
“Pardon me, but I wouldn't touch those women if you paid me to,” was the assistant's response. Jameson laughed and rumpled his hair.
“Such a princess. C'mon, pack my clothes and let's get the fuck out of here.”
By the time they got in the car, Jameson didn't feel so bad. The four extra strength Tylenol he swallowed helped, and by the time they got into Boston, four hours later, he almost felt normal. But his mood was something else. Somehow, Sanders had managed to get them lost.
“No, no, you got us lost,” Sanders countered as he turned down another street.
“How the fuck did I get us lost!? I'm in the back seat!” Jameson snapped.
“You kept telling me when and where to turn. I have repeatedly told you that I don't appreciate back seat driving,” Sanders reminded him.
“Shut up and get us the fuck out of here. Where are we? I feel like we're going to get shot,” Jameson grumbled, staring out the window.
They were in a shitty neighborhood, in a part of Boston he'd never been to; a part he'd never wanted to visit. His father was originally from the Boston area, so Jameson had actually spent a lot of time there when he'd been a child, but hadn't been back a whole lot as an adult. And certainly never to the frickin' ghetto, where he appeared to be now.
He glared out the window, watching as they passed boarded up businesses and liquor stores. He opened his mouth to snap at Sanders to drive faster, but was then caught off guard. They were passing some sort of restaurant, and slowing down for traffic. But that wasn't what caught his attention.
Two women were eating outside at a picnic bench. Or more correctly, on a picnic bench, sitting on the table top. While the car waited at a red light, Jameson watched as the girls hopped off the table. One of them stretched her arms above her head, laughing as she did so. She was wearing a large pair of mirrored aviators that hid half her face, but she had a great smile, and an even better body. She was wearing tight leather leggings, and a white tank top that left little to the imagination. He didn't recognize her at all, which made sense – he didn't really know anyone in Boston. But there was something about her that was familiar. Something ...
“Sanders,” Jameson barked as the car started to roll forward. He watched as the sexy woman pulled on a jacket. “Sanders, turn the car around.”
“Sir, I think the freeway exit is just ahead, I can get -,”
“Turn the fucking car around.”
Sanders did as he was told, but it took a while to find a place, and by the time they were rolling past the restaurant again, the two women were walking down the street. The one who had caught Jameson's eye was doing some sort of silly gallop, making her friend laugh. Then both girls got into a shitty looking VW and he couldn't see her anymore.
“How strange,” he mumbled, trying to stare into their car as they drove past. He couldn't see anything.
“Did you recognize them, sir?” Sanders asked. Jameson sat back in his seat, frowning.
“No. No, not at all.”
~6~
One thing Tate had learned about Jameson was that he was obsessed with mo
ney. Almost as much as he was obsessed with sex. It wasn't even necessarily because he wanted to be rich, he just couldn't sit still when there was a profit to be made, a deal to be drawn, something to be happening. He didn't even have to be making money for himself, hence why he kept working at all. Jameson had enough money to retire for multiple lifetimes. He mostly kept working to help other people make money. It was just second-nature to him.
So of course he found a way to make money in Hong Kong.
“You promised not to leave me alone, remember?” Tate pointed out as they walked down a street.
“And I haven't, I would like it noted. I flew your best friend out here. I think I can have a day to myself to work,” Jameson told her. Tate frowned but didn't argue. She leaned into his side, wrapping her arms around him.
“Fiiiiine. I just don't get it. If you have time to be wheeling and dealing, don't you have time to be flying to Singapore to visit your lawyer?” she asked.
“Tate.”
“Yes?”
“Shut up. I'll see my lawyer when I want to see my lawyer.”
“Fiiiiine.”
“Look. I'm trying to invest in this property. How about we throw a party – you like parties,” Jameson suggested. Tate smelled a bribe and let go of him.
“I like my kind of parties, not yours. It's fine, really, go do your deal, make your money. I'll just spend all day with Ang. Alllll day, alllll alone. With Ang. Alone. Ang. And me. Alone,” she teased.
“I swear to all that is holy, if I find out you did anything inappropriate, I'll -,” Jameson started to threaten.
“You know talk like that just gets me hot,” she warned him. Jameson pressed his lips together hard, but didn't say anything else.
They stopped in front of a large building. He made a phone call while Tate poked at Sanders, making him move around. Finally, Jameson kissed her goodbye and left them to their own devices.
“What should we do?” Sanders asked. Tate gave him a wolf grin.
“Anything we want,” she replied in a husky voice. He turned pink and looked away.
“Please don't make me uncomfortable.”
She laughed and hugged him close, leading him back down the street.
“I wouldn't dream of it. Let's get Ang and go get into trouble,” she suggested.
“On second thought, please, feel free to make me uncomfortable.”
Jet lag had knocked Ang out for a solid twelve hours, but he was up and ready to go by the time they got to the hotel. Tate changed into her bathing suit, then they went off in search of a beach. Jameson could work on making money. Tate would work on her tan.
“It's way too fucking hot,” Ang complained, laying down flat on the sand, not even bothering with a towel.
“It's not as bad as I thought it would be,” Tate said, dropping her towel down and spreading it out flat.
“Cause Satan keeps it like a sauna in your house. Where's his little demon, anyway?” Ang asked, sitting up and looking around.
“Can you imagine Sanders in a bathing suit?” Tate laughed, stretching out on her towel. “He'll be back in a couple hours, I'm sure he's off making mischief of his own.”
“Does he even know how to spell mischief? Sanders wouldn't know how to stumble into trouble,” Ang snorted.
“That's what you think.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.”
They were silent for a while. Tate settled in, soaking up the warmth and humidity. Hong Kong did kinda feel like a giant sauna to her. When they were outside, the heat and heaviness of it all just made her want to curl up and take a nap. Which she pretty much did, right there on the beach. But then something woke her up. She felt something against her leg.
“I didn't realize it left such a scar,” Ang mumbled.
Tate opened her eyes. Ang was still sitting up and was looking down at her legs, frowning. He was running his forefinger up and down a scar that ran parallel along the side of her right knee. It really wasn't that big, maybe three or four inches, and had faded over the year.
“It's not so bad. I think it's kind of cool, makes me look like a bad ass. I tell people I got it in a knife fight,” Tate joked, bending her knee up. She had been in a nasty car accident the previous winter, gotten pretty banged up. The cut had required stitches, which wasn't so bad.
The broken leg, however, had sucked ass.
“I'm glad I wasn't there, I probably would've lost my shit,” Ang commented.
“God, Jameson lost his shit enough for you, me, and twenty other people. I swear. If I ever doubted that man's love, that accident certainly proved it. I didn't know he could get that upset,” Tate said, sitting up and looking at the scar as well. She had been jogging. The driver hadn't been paying attention. Next thing she knew, she had been waking up in a hospital room.
Jameson actually tried to beat up the driver. Only Sanders and two police officers had stopped him. Then he stayed in her room, the entire time she'd been in the hospital. Didn't take one phone call, didn't see one client. Slept on chairs till she got her cast, then slept in the bed with her. Completely wrapped around her, like he was afraid to let her go.
“I can't imagine Satan getting upset over anything,” Ang laughed, wiping sand off of her leg.
“You'd be surprised. It was very sweet. He was very worried about me,” Tate said softly.
“Maybe there's hope for him after all.”
Tate chewed on her lip. She had never told Ang the full story. They had been visiting Sanders when the accident had happened, halfway across the world. It had been a supremely fucked up trip, though luckily most of the drama hadn't involved her – for once. She didn't feel quite ready to share it all with him.
“Jameson asked me something weird last night,” Tate changed the subject and lowered her legs.
“Why doesn't that surprise me?”
“He asked me if I ever miss sleeping with you. Isn't that weird? He's never asked me something like that before,” Tate started.
“He's threatened by me. Good. I like it,” Ang teased. Tate threw a handful of sand at him.
“Shut up.”
“And what did you say?” he asked. She shrugged.
“I told the truth – no. I mean, we had some great times, Angie-wangy, but I love my life now,” she was truthful. Ang nodded.
“Yeah. Life isn't so bad,” he agreed, letting sand run through his fingers.
“So you don't miss it at all?” Tate asked, but she was smiling. Ang snorted.
“Tater tot, do you know what I was doing before I got on the plane? Having a foursome with three of the top winners from AVN last year. I love you, you fuck like a champion, but I'm good,” he assured her. Tate burst out laughing and threw more sand at him.
“Oh geez, what happened to 'I'm over having sex', Mr. Jaded-One? Pfffft, having foursomes. Over sex, my ass,” Tate kept shoveling sand at him.
“Okay, maybe 'over it' was an exaggeration. Stop!” he shouted, shoving sand back at her.
“How come we never had a foursome?” Tate demanded, turning her head away and just blindly flinging sand.
“Hey, I tried! Remember that open house we went to!?” Ang reminded her, and then a handful of sand hit her in the chest.
“Angier! I was not going to fuck some random couple at a house viewing! We were there for the free food!” Tate shouted.
“You were always too prudish for me, thank god Satan came along,” he teased.
Tate gasped and turned to face him, only to get sand thrown in her open mouth. While she gagged and coughed, Ang tackled her to the ground. They rolled around in the sand, limbs flailing, struggling to shove as much sand as they could into each others' clothing.
“I can't breathe,” Tate hacked as he pinned her arms above her head and straddled her waist.
“Do you give?” he asked, gripping both her wrists with one hand while his free hand scooped up more sand.
“I give, I give, you win, get off of me,” she begged, rolling her
hips.
“Hmmm, now that I've got you at my disposal ...,” Ang murmured.
“Stop it,” Tate laughed.
“All this talk of foursomes has gotten me pretty worked up,” he told her.
“Please. You couldn't handle me, I'm way freakier now then when we used to sleep together,” she taunted.
“I'd like to test that theory.”
“Pfffft, too bad.”
“Ahem.”
They both snapped their heads up to see Sanders standing behind them.
“Ang is being an ass!” Tate whined.
“Tate's refusing to sleep with me!” Ang whined as well.
“The 'ass' part I believe,” Sanders started. “Tate refusing to sleep with somebody, however, is somewhat shocking.”
They all laughed at that one, and Ang got off of her. After they had shaken most of the sand out of their bathing suits, they headed back to the car. She hadn't realized she'd slept so much; they'd been at the beach for almost three hours.
“What're we doing for dinner? I'm starving,” Tate groaned, struggling to yank a tank top over her head.
“Jameson has something planned for the two of you. Mr. Hollingsworth and I will be dining in our rooms,” Sanders explained.
“What!?” Tate exclaimed, popping her head through the neck hole. “Ang flew a bajillion miles to be here, at a moment's notice! He's coming to dinner with us.”
“It's fine, Tate, I can just -,” Ang started.
“The reservations are specially made, they can't be changed. I am very sorry,” Sanders interrupted.
“This doesn't make sense. Why did Jameson fly him all the way here, just to leave him out? When we get back, I'm going to inform Mr. Man that Ang will be dining with us,” Tate said.
“Jameson isn't at the hotel.”
“Huh?”
“He's not there. His appointment ran late. He will be meeting you at dinner.”
Tate groaned.
The whole time she was getting ready, she didn't stop thinking about it. Why invite Ang, but then not want him around? She knew Jameson didn't like him, but he couldn't avoid him the whole time they were there, it would be ridiculous. But since he had flown Ang halfway across the world, Tate decided she could let it slide. For at least one night.
The Kane Series Boxset Page 84