“See? That was a great present,” she laughed. He frowned and wiped at his mouth, then looked down at his fingertips. She had put on a deep red lipstick that morning.
“Pardon me, but my idea of a good present and yours are two very different things,” he informed her. But just before he turned away, she was positive she saw a smile hiding in the corner of his mouth.
“Why do you torture him?” Jameson sighed, watching while Sanders disappeared into the house.
“Oh, deep down, he likes it,” she informed him.
“It makes him uncomfortable. You're going to tease him so much he won't want to come back,” he warned her.
“Pfffft, not possible. We're joined at the soul.”
“You're both strange, that's the problem,” he snorted. She gasped and turned to face him.
“Did you just call Sanders strange?” she demanded.
“Enough about him. Did you have a fun time last night?” Jameson asked, rolling up his shirt sleeves. He'd left his jacket somewhere in the house, but was still in the rest of his suit.
“Yeah, I actually did. We should do stuff like that more often, only maybe with people we actually like,” she suggested. He shrugged.
“Seemed to work out okay for the people we did invite. I walked in on your little friend with one of my employees in the shower,” he informed her. Her jaw dropped.
“Rusty? Oh god, tell me it was that Steele guy!”
“How did you know?”
She clapped her hands together.
“They were eye fucking each other all last night! This is so awesome! She hasn't been with anyone in forever, and if they were showering together, that definitely means they must have had sex,” she pointed out. He snorted again.
“Tate, they were fucking in the shower. She nearly had a heart attack when I came in to get towels.”
“Oh jesus,” she groaned. “She's going to be even more awkward around you than she was before.”
“Probably. I don't think it helped that I stayed and talked with Steele for a couple minutes.”
“You didn't!”
“He's one of our best junior brokers, I wanted to offer him a permanent position.”
“Okay, but did you have to do it while he was inside Rusty?” she demanded. Jameson shrugged.
“I didn't really care. He was there, so I mentioned it. Then I took the towels and left. By the time I went back downstairs, she was moaning his name again. I think it's safe to say I didn't do too much damage.”
Tate was daydreaming, not really paying attention. Rusty and Howard Steele. Wow! She'd been hoping for an end to her friend's dry spell, but now she prayed that it would be more than just a one night stand. Maybe they really had a connection. Maybe they would go on to date, and then who knew what else.
Summer barbecues are magical ...
“Can you imagine if they got married?” she laughed. “Rusty Steele. I would pay to make that happen.”
“Tate, they just met. It's just sex, it doesn't mean anything,” he warned her.
“Pfffft, I had sex with you after we first met,” she pointed out. He rolled his eyes.
“Yes, but you're a slut.”
“Hey!”
“And it was just sex – it didn't mean anything at the time.”
She gasped, then without even thinking about it, she charged at him. He was still looking out over the yard and didn't notice her until it was too late. She'd planted her hands on his side and pushed him, hard. He lost his balance, swung his arms, then tipped over the edge of the pool. She put her hands on her hips as he let out a shout and splashed into the water.
“Didn't mean anything, huh?” she said when he resurfaced. He glared at her and raked his fingers through his wet hair, pushing it back from his face.
“Do you have any idea how much this suit cost?” he asked in a voice that could cut glass.
“A lot.”
“Or this watch?”
“No, how much?”
“A lot more than you're worth,” he replied as he looked down at his wrist.
“Oh, just wait until you get this month's credit card statement. I'll show you how much I'm worth, you stupid – AH!”
He snapped his hand out faster than she could follow, and next thing she knew her foot was yanked out from underneath her. She pitched forward and fell face first into the pool. When she came up, she was hacking and coughing, pawing at her face and wiping at her eyes.
“What were you saying?” Jameson's voice was dangerously close to her ear, then his arms were around her waist, turning her to face him.
“I was saying you're a jerk,” she growled as she shoved her hair out of her eyes.
“Yes, but I'm your jerk, so that must count for something,” he pointed out, holding her close. She wrapped her legs around his waist and let him carry her.
“I think it just means I have bad taste,” she replied, and he barked out a laugh.
“Can't be worse than mine – I married a slut who puts out on the first date.”
“Hey, you love sluts who put out on the first date.”
“I love this one,” he replied, leaning back against the edge of the pool.
“And it always meant something to you, every time,” she added, staring up at him.
“Always, baby girl. Always.”
“Jameson,” she said softly.
“Hmmm?” he responded, brushing away hair that was clinging to her forehead.
“Can we have barbecues every weekend?”
He laughed and tugged sharply at her wet hair.
“You're ridiculous. No.”
“Okay, maybe every other -”
“Tate, I've been thinking about something,” he interrupted her. She stopped smiling.
“Oh god, what? It's awful when you think,” she groaned.
“About what you were saying the other day. About children,” he said, almost choking on the last word.
“Yes, yes, I know you find the idea of having kids with me disgusting, awful, horrible, and any other nasty adjective. I got the memo,” she told him. He glared at her.
“If you'd shut the fuck up, I'll explain.”
“I just don't see why I have to listen to more insults,” she snapped back.
“Tate, I would love to have children with you,” he stated, shocking her.
“Excuse me!?”
“Someday,” he amended his statement. “Obviously, there's no one else I would want to have them with. If you ever did find out you were pregnant, yeah, I'd be shocked, you'd have to expect that. But I would also deal with it, and I would hope they had my eyes and your amazing smile.”
“Jameson,” she sniffled his name, trying to hold back tears.
“It's not that I would hate it if you got pregnant, Tate. But right now, it's just you and me. I get you all to myself, all the time. I don't have to share you with anybody or anything, and I'm sorry, but I like it like that. I like having access to your body and your heart and your mind any time I want. I know it can't be like this forever, so I would just like to enjoy it for as long as I can. I wanted you to understand that.”
Tate hated crying, and hated it most of all when Jameson made her cry. One tear slipped out, though, and was quickly followed by another.
“God, I hate it when you do that,” she cried.
“Do what? Say nice shit to you? Me, too,” he said, but he used his thumb to gently brush away her tears.
“I hate if when you do something awful, but then later it turns out you're actually wonderful. It's so annoying,” she told him, trying to glare at him and failing miserably.
“Well, you do a lot more things that are a lot more annoying, so I think I've got a little leeway here,” he said. She gasped.
“See? There you go again, being awful, and just wait, a week from now, you're going to make it seem like you were actually being nice. I can't stand -”
He suddenly dropped down, dunking them under the water. She was so startled, she almost
panicked. But then he was kissing her, and it was still magical, and she still felt all those wonderful things she'd felt the first time they'd ever kissed. She smiled with her lips against his, and she was still smiling long after they'd resurfaced.
Perfection.
~7~
Sanders
Author's note: I have said it repeatedly, and I will say it again – I am not writing a full length Sanders novel. Believe me, I wish I could. I have tried, multiple times. He is still the hands-down favorite character of mine. People love him more than any of my other characters, combined. But Sanders is not an easy soul to communicate with, he only gives me tiny bits and pieces. So far, this excerpt of sorts is one of the only things I've ever come up with – in over five years – that I've been satisfied with, and I know it'll be controversial. That's the other problem – writing Sanders means possibly writing something you all don't like, and I don't know if I could expose him to that. But maybe someday, when the planets align, Sanders will feel like telling me his story, and whatever it is, I will write it down. I hope he does. But until then, I only have this little piece to offer. I hope you enjoy. These events take place shortly after the end of Reparation, and before Completion.
Prologue
SANDERS DIDN'T KNOW why it was different that afternoon, but it just was; something had changed. Between walking into the library and walking out of the library, so many things had changed.
He should not be allowed to touch her like that.
He had been working in the sitting room when he heard the thumping. Thump. Pause. Thump. Pause. Thump. And then her name, spoken in a deep voice. An agitated voice.
“Tatum.”
Pause. Thump.
After a couple more thumps, Sanders got up to investigate. A couple more thumps and her name was said again, and then he was standing in front of the library door. He pushed on it, causing it to fall open a little.
He could see Jameson, sitting behind his large desk. Behind oak and gold and opulence. A very natural setting for a very powerful man. He was looking down, flipping pages on what Sanders knew was a business contract.
Thump.
Sanders lifted his eyes away from the desk. Let his gaze travel across the fireplace. She was standing in front of a bookshelf, holding a heavy, hardback book in her hand. She flicked her eyes to Jameson, then tossed the book over her shoulder. It hit the ground with a heavy thump, landing next to a pile of other books. Jameson didn't look up, so she sighed and took down another book. Flipped through a couple pages. Threw it over her shoulder. Thump. Jameson finally looked at her.
“Tate,” he snapped. She had pulled down another book and now looked up from it, her eyes wide and full of innocence.
“What?” she asked.
“I'm working,” Jameson said, gesturing to the paperwork in front of him. She nodded.
“I know. That's why I'm bored.”
But she was smiling. Sanders cocked his head to the side, trying to figure the situation out. He didn't want to interrupt before he knew for sure whether or not he was needed.
“Go be bored somewhere else,” Jameson grumbled, turning his attention back to his paperwork.
“But it's so much more fun to be bored with you,” she teased, and threw the book over her shoulder. Thump.
“Stop it,” Jameson's voice was full of warning as he looked back at her. She smiled and grabbed another book. Didn't even bother opening it, just started lifting it. “Tatum, I'm not fucking around, I don't want -”
Thump.
Jameson stood up and stalked towards her. It was a menacing move that would have caused most people to back up or scurry away. Not her. She smiled up at him as she reached out to grab another book.
“I thought you were working?” she breathed. He took the book out of her hand.
“I am. You're distracting me. Not good, Ms. O'Shea.”
“I'm not good very often.”
“You should work on that.”
Jameson was crowding close to her, forcing her to move around, forcing her down the room. He finally stopped when they were in front of the couch. She was saying something but Sanders couldn't quite make it out. Her voice was soft and breathy. Sexual. Normal.
Suddenly, Jameson lashed out. Slapped her across the face. Not necessarily hard, but enough to make her head whip to the side. Then he was grabbing her by the throat, pulling her close to him. She was still talking, still breathing silky words. Jameson chuckled, then shoved her, forcing her to fall onto the couch. She laughed, almost more of a giggle, and then he was lowering himself over her. On top of her, pressing down on her. She moaned, working the buttons open on his shirt. Pushing it off his shoulders. Jameson shrugged out of it and then used it to tie her wrists together.
But that's Dior.
Sanders turned and walked away. Walked past the sitting room and out the front door. Kept going till he was at the guest house – his house. Didn't stop till he was upstairs in his room. There was a cushioned chair in a corner, and Sanders sat down on it. Cleared his throat. Adjusted his tie.
Of course he had seen Jameson and her in all sorts of compromising positions. The two weren't particularly shy and had a horrible tendency to forget to lock doors. Or even shut them all the way. Sanders never knocked, because years of living alone with Jameson had conditioned him to not need to. So he had walked in on them, several times, in the middle of sex.
Even before her, Jameson hadn't been bashful. He had long ago explained his somewhat unconventional sexual preferences to Sanders. He liked rough sex, he liked dishing it out, and he liked being mean. Then after he had started sleeping with her, he'd taken Sanders aside and had gone into more detail. Explained that Sanders might see some things that could possibly cause him to worry, but that he shouldn't – she wanted these things done to her. They were her idea. She liked to be treated roughly, she liked what Jameson had to dish out, and she loved it when he was mean. The meaner, the better.
Still. Seeing Jameson hit her. Seeing him slap her. It did something to Sanders. Made him feel something. And Sanders was not a man of much feeling.
He should not be allowed to touch her like that.
Sanders spent the rest of the day trying to sort out his feelings. He left the armchair only to take off his jacket and use the restroom. His phone rang at one point, but it was her calling. He had never purposefully avoided her phone calls before, but he let that one go to voicemail. Didn't listen to her message.
The sun set. He sat in the dark, trying to figure out where his thoughts were coming from, his feelings. He had seen Jameson treat her roughly before, had seen him grab her by the throat. Had seen him push her around. One time Jameson had pinned her to the kitchen floor and cut her shirt off her. Sanders hadn't witnessed it, but they had both told him about it. Another time, almost a year ago, while Sanders had watched from the hall, Jameson had wrapped both his hands around her neck. Shoved her up against the car.
Why was this time so different?
He should not be allowed to touch her like that.
Sanders finally changed into his pajamas and laid in bed. Stared at his ceiling. Sometimes, when Jameson was out of town, she would come over and sleep next to Sanders. It gave her comfort, so he didn't mind indulging her. Sometimes she cuddled against him, and he didn't mind that, either. He usually didn't think much about it.
But as he laid there, staring at his ceiling, he started thinking about it. She was warm, and soft, and usually smelled good. She would hum and sigh in her sleep. She would twine her legs around his, wrap her arms around him. He was an early riser, she was a late sleeper, so in the mornings he would lay as still as possible, waiting till she woke up on her own. She usually did so with a stretch and sigh, laughing at her messy hair and his proper pajamas. So silly.
When did I start looking at her like that?
Sanders glanced at the clock. Two in the morning. He stared back at the ceiling. Thought about what he had seen in the library. Sanders had never been in
timate with a woman before, didn't spend much time thinking about it. Now he couldn't seem to stop. Was he hitting a secondary sort of puberty? He didn't understand it. There were so many questions. She had been acting childish. Annoying. Why did that seem to spark a certain kind of reaction? And how had Jameson known that's what she'd been trying to do?
And how did Jameson know when to get up? How did he know when to touch her? How to touch her? Was there some signal? Something she said? When was it time to lower her to the couch?
So many things Sanders didn't know about, hadn't ever really thought about. It was all like an intricate dance that he didn't know the steps to – and it seemed like everyone else did know. How was he supposed to learn? Who was supposed to teach him?
“... I could show you the ropes ...”
He closed his eyes finally. He had always dreaded this moment. Knew it was going to happen someday. Knew something would bring it about eventually.
But that didn't mean he had to like it.
“SIR,” SANDERS SAID, striding into the library the next day. He didn't look at the couch.
“Where have you been all day? It's almost noon,” Jameson snapped. He was standing next to his desk, holding a Chinese takeout container and using chopsticks to eat chow mein from it.
“I was at home. I need to discuss something important with you. Where is she?” Sanders asked, glancing around. Still not looking at the couch.
“In the pool. Does this have to be now? We just got lunch,” Jameson replied, gesturing to the other containers which were spread across his desk.
“I would like for it to be now, while it's just the two of us,” Sanders said. Jameson glared, but didn't move. Shoveled some more noodles into his mouth.
“Well, make it fast. If this gets cold, she's going to bitch, and then I'll have to order more, and then -”
“I am going to be moving away, sir,” Sanders interrupted.
Jameson started choking.
“Jesus,” he finally managed to hack out, dropping the container onto his desk and then pounding on his chest. “Just like that, huh? 'Hello, good afternoon, oh by the way, I'm moving' – what are you talking about?”
The Kane Series Boxset Page 99