“I'll have to take your word for it, sir.”
Sanders' own experiences with sex were very limited, and very tainted.
“It's funny, isn't it,” Jameson sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His face was finally in the light, and Sanders could see lipstick stains on his collar.
Those will be very difficult to get out.
“What's funny, sir?”
“Wherever I go, everywhere I go, they just ...”
“They just what, sir?”
“They give me things. Everything. Anything I want,” he said, rolling his free hand around. He was talking slowly, his voice relaxed sounding, and it finally hit Sanders.
“You're drunk, sir.”
“Very much so,” Jameson snorted. “When your last name is Kane, the bar is always open.”
“It must be nice.”
“It is. Bars are open, and so are doors. Homes. People. Legs,” Jameson prattled. “I didn't ask for anything this time, you know. I'm just here representing my father. A quick dinner in his stead. Do you think they do this for him? For some old man? A five course dinner at a Michelin Star restaurant, entry into the most exclusive gentlemen's club in the city, a private room there, a private dance, and not one, but two of their 'best girls' offering me more than a dance.”
“Forgive me if I'm wrong,” Sanders spoke slowly. “But it sounds like you're not happy about all this.”
Jameson shrugged.
“What's not to be happy about? Two women who charge money just to have a conversation with you, fucked me and I didn't pay a dime. I had the best scallops I've ever tasted in my life, and I drank wine from Benjamin Franklin's cellar.”
“And yet you do not sound thrilled about it all,” Sanders repeated his observation. Jameson smirked, then took another quick drag off the cheroot.
“It's boring,” he finally admitted. “It's ... predictable. The last exciting thing that happened to me was finding you.”
“That's very flattering, sir.”
“Shut up,” Jameson snorted. “But it's all just more of the same. Questions about my father, questions about my businesses, about his, about everything but me. All the girls are the same, you should see it – fake tits and fake moans, it's almost embarrassing. All an act, trying to give me what they think I want, instead of just fucking asking me. Instead of just fucking doing whatever they want to do.”
Sanders thought over his words for a moment.
“Some people don't have the ease you do with being themselves,” he tried to explain. “They haven't had the pleasure of a ... relatively easy life. Most of us think we need to behave a certain way and act a certain way in order to get the things we want, or in order to make the people around us happy. We do not all have the luxury of simply acting however we want.”
Jameson glared at him for a long second, the cigar smoke curling up in front of his face, blurring his brilliant blue eyes.
“I feel like you're trying to put me in my place.”
“Then I'm very sorry, that wasn't my intention. I was simply trying to do exactly what you were asking for – speak my mind.”
Jameson barked out a laugh.
“You're a goddamn laugh riot, Sanders.”
“Thank you, sir. I think.”
“And I get all that, I do. I know I'm a spoiled rich asshole, but I'm not a fucking idiot. We all have our little parts to play, sure. But there should be moments when we can be ... can be free. To be whatever we want. Where we can just let go.”
“Maybe,” Sanders agreed. “Though I never experienced those moments until I met you.”
“And it should definitely be that way in bed,” Jameson continued.
“Now that I wouldn't know,” Sanders said, then he cleared his throat once. Then once more. “It seems to me that being naked with someone is very ... exposing, in more than just a physical sense. I'm sure many people get nervous, particularly with someone of your stature. I imagine there aren't many women who would feel comfortable enough in your presence to simply 'let go'.”
“No ... no there aren't many ...” Jameson mumbled.
But he wasn't looking at Sanders anymore. He was staring into the fireplace. It was all prepared for a fire, the logs in place, kindling and newspaper at the ready. He knew Jameson liked a roaring fire, and he considered getting up and lighting it. But he also knew this was a static moment. Jameson clearly had something he wanted to get out of his head, and then he'd most likely go and pass out in his room. The fire would be wasted.
“That's what I need – the perfect woman,” Jameson finally continued. “That's what I'm on a quest for, the perfect woman. Don't know if I'll ever find her.”
“Have you ever met a perfect woman?” Sanders asked.
There was another long pause, then Jameson flicked his still burning cigar into the fireplace. It bounced off a log and showered sparks as it moved. They both stared at it.
“I think I might have. But I didn't know it at the time. And she wasn't quite perfect yet,” he spoke softly.
“Was it a long time ago?”
“Not long enough.”
Sanders wasn't sure what to do with this information. Jameson spent a lot of time in the company of women, but he'd never been in a relationship, had never had a “girlfriend” while he'd been with Sanders. He wondered who this mystery woman was; she must've been something to behold, if she had a man like Jameson Kane pining over her late at night.
“Maybe she's perfect now,” he suggested. “Maybe you should leave behind the German prostitutes and Michelin Star restaurants, and you should simply go spend the night with her.”
Jameson laughed, but it was a dark sound. Almost malevolent.
“There are some things in this world,” he spoke slowly. “That once they're broken, there's very little chance they can be fixed.”
“Are you saying you broke this woman?”
“I suppose I wouldn't know. I haven't seen or spoken to her in almost two years.”
“Then you don't know. Maybe things can be fixed this time. Maybe you won't know until you at least try.”
Jameson laughed again, and thankfully, his voice was light again. Or really, as light as it could be with him.
“Don't pay any attention to me, Sanders,” he chuckled. “I'm drunk and I'm sexually frustrated and I'm just ... discontent. I'll get over it. There's a lot of women out there, so relatively speaking, I've hardly fucked any. So at some point, I'll find someone as good as her, and then I'll never have this embarrassing conversation again.”
“Forgive me for saying so, sir, but I really hope you're right.”
Jameson got up then. Pulled his loose tie out of his pocket and tossed it onto the coffee table. Sanders stood up, as well, and grabbed the tie – he'd clean and iron it himself. Jameson also kicked off his shoes, then dropped his wallet and watch onto the table.
“I swear,” he groaned as he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Be careful what you wish for, Sanders. Because sometimes you get it, and it's fucking awful, because then you never find it again. Fuck this night, I'm going to bed.”
Sanders held still, holding the length of silk in his hand. He swallowed thickly, thinking back over the conversation. Jameson seemed very hung up on this woman from his past. What if he did seek her out again? What if they fell in love and got married and had a family? What would happen to Sanders? He wasn't Jameson's son, they weren't really anything to each other.
What if she didn't like him? What if she wanted him to go away? Where would he go?
“Sir,” he spoke before he could stop himself. Jameson paused in his doorway, turning back to him as he unbuttoned his shirt.
“What?”
“If you ever find this woman again,” Sanders started, and Jameson barked out a laugh.
“I didn't lose her, Sanders. I'm just not looking for her – there's a difference.”
“But if you went back to her,” he pressed on. “What would ... you might
not be in need of my services anymore, sir.”
Jameson narrowed his eyes, but his lips twisted up into a quirky little sideways smile.
“Sometimes I forget you're still going through puberty,” he chuckled. “I signed the papers, Sanders. They're filed with the New York state court system. According to the United States of America, I'm your legal guardian, forever. For always. So I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you. You're home. So stop worrying about it.”
“But maybe ...” Sanders kept going, because he couldn't stop worrying about it. Sometimes he wondered if he'd ever stop. “Maybe she wouldn't like me.”
“Who?”
“This woman,” he said. “Or whomever you end up with. I'm a very strange person, sir.”
Jameson thought for a long second, then shrugged.
“Sanders, I wasn't friends with this woman before I fucked her, and I wasn't friends with her after. She's not coming back into my life.”
“But what if -”
“She's not,” Jameson held up his hand. “But since you can't seem to fucking let this go, I'll say it again – I don't care what anyone thinks of you, or of us. If I'm with a woman – any woman – and she doesn't like you, then she's not worth being with, is she?”
“Thank you, sir. It ... it means a lot.”
Jameson stepped into his bedroom, and Sanders realized he was gripping the tie in his hand, crushing the silk. Wrinkling it. He frowned and looked down at the material, so he didn't notice when Jameson leaned back into the living room.
“Though for some reason,” he spoke abruptly, startling Sanders. “I have a feeling she would like you. I think she'd like you a lot.”
And then he was gone again, and in his absence, Sanders looked back down at the tie. Smiled at it.
Well, if this woman liked Jameson, and if she'd like a person like me, then she really must be something special.
~3~
Five years later ...
What are the chances?
Jameson sat back in the plush booth seating, his eyes scanning the dance floor in front of him. There were tons of beautiful women, almost all of them eyeing the VIP section, and most of them looking at him, in particular. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. Long legs, big tits, great asses. He could snap his fingers, and any one of them – multiple of them – would come running. He wasn't conceited, he knew all this from experience. It was fact.
And yet he wasn't seeing any of them.
No, because he couldn't get the mental image of another girl out of his head. Sexy, smoldering eyes that hadn't looked half as good seven years ago, and a body even better than his memories. He wasn't even going to think about her lips, or else he'd have to get up and go home.
Or go find out where she lived.
What were the fucking chances of bumping into Tatum O'Shea? On the same day as he'd moved to Boston? Not just bumping into her – she'd been a fucking caterer at a party he'd been throwing for his new business.
Talk about some long fuckings odds.
God, she'd looked good.
Of course, she looked fantastic in his memories. He hadn't thought about her much in recent years, but whenever he had, he'd remembered her with clarity. She'd been good looking at eighteen. Tight body, cute face, and her personality had just been developing into something interesting.
Now, though, she was sex in human form, and goddamn, that fucking mouth. Walking around with a hard on all night, having to deal with his colleagues, hadn't been the most comfortable experience. And then she'd talked with him. Given him attitude. Teased him.
A waitress sidled past his booth, her gaze traveling up and down his body before boldly staring him in the eye. He stared right back. She was blonde, on the short side, with a thick, sexy ass, and small, perky breasts on top. She smiled at him, then drew her bottom lip between her teeth before walking away.
She'd started a game seven years ago. Wasn't that what she'd said? And we never finished it. How could I have forgotten? Silly Tatum, I can't let you get away so easily. Not now that we're both free to do whatever the fuck we want.
Jameson stood up. His business partner, Wenseworth Dunn, was standing at the end of the table, his arm wrapped around some trashy looking girl. A friend of his was sitting next to Jameson, but he quickly scooted out of the booth and out of the way. Jameson didn't say anything, just stalked away from the table.
Seven years. He let his mind wander back over the last seven years. His ex, the singer in Brazil, the pop star in Vegas – all great fucks, he wouldn't deny it. Good enough that he'd been happy to go back for seconds and thirds and on and on.
But still none of them had been as good as the best sex he'd ever had.
Maybe it was the youthful shine on the memory, making it seem different than it really had been. Maybe he'd just built it up too much in his mind. But he'd swear that still to this day, the sex with Tate seven years ago was the best he'd ever had. One night, one impulsive act, that ultimately hadn't meant anything to either of them, and yet it had sent their lives onto totally different courses.
And it was still the best ever.
He moved through the crowd, glad for his height and glad for the waitress's bleached blonde hair. Even in the strobing red and white lights, he was able to pick her out of the crowd. She'd just left the VIP section and was walking along the side of the dance floor. She glanced back at him once, then smiled when she realized he was following her.
Tate had been so different. She'd practically been a scared little girl last time he'd been around her. Sure, she'd stood up to her sister, but it had been the first time ever in eighteen years. And now she was living in exile in Boston. He never would've pictured her as brave enough to live on her own. To drop out of school and work odd jobs.
To speak to him with a mouth that he was positive could blow his mind, among other things.
Fuck, where did her new attitude come from? I can't wait to play with her.
As he gently pushed people aside so he could walk down a narrow hallway, he could feel his frustrations growing. He wanted Tate, wanted to see if reality was anywhere near as good as his memories. Wished he knew where she lived so he could put an end to his curiosity right now. He was following a platinum bonde, so close now he was able to reach out and trace his fingers along the bare skin at her waist, but he was picturing dark hair.
Dark hair and long legs and a mouth that was quite literally made for me.
They reached a door that led into some sort of private room. A break room? He couldn't be sure, and he didn't care. The waitress turned to face him, rubbing her hands down his chest as she spoke, but he couldn't hear her over the heavy music.
It didn't matter. He didn't give a shit about anything she had to say. Didn't give a shit about her.
No, he was only there for one reason, and unfortunately, that reason was somewhere else, and had no clue he was going to be coming for her.
Until then, though, blonde would have to do.
As he speared one hand into the waitress's hair, testing her boundaries by gently pulling, he flicked his leg out behind him and kicked the door shut.
Appetizers are lovely and all, but after seven years, I'm ready for a full meal. I hope you're ready, Tate, because starting tomorrow, the games are definitely back on.
Kane Fun Facts
Jameson Kane was born at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan, on January 9th at roughly eight in the morning.
His mother, Camila Kraven, was born in Salta, Argentina. Her father was the British Ambassador and her mother was an Argentinian teacher in a private school. Her parents divorced when she was five and her father moved back to the United Kingdom. She never saw him again and he passed away when she was eight. Her mother relocated to Buenos Aires and taught school there. Camila grew up multilingual and after she graduated high school, she was hired by various embassies to work as an interpreter.
Through her job, she met Jefferson Kane, a wealthy financier from New York. She traveled around Argentina
with him for two weeks, acting as his interpreter. Though he wasn't a particularly nice, or even likable man, their relationship moved beyond professional and they slept together. It wasn't until after he'd gone back home that she'd realized she was pregnant.
A scandal about impregnating an employee of the Argentinian government was certain to put a damper on Jefferson Kane's political ambitions, so he flew Camila to New York and married her. Nine years later, she died from small cell lung cancer.
Jameson had an extremely close and loving relationship with his mother, and her death was hard on him. He'd never developed a relationship with his father, and directly following his mother's passing, Jameson was shipped off to boarding school, where he stayed until he graduated.
TATUM O'SHEA WAS BORN at Thomas Jefferson University Hospital in Philadelphia, on December 20th at roughly seven in the evening.
She was an unplanned pregnancy, and was also supposed to be a boy. Matthias O'Shea had been counting on a son to carry on the O'Shea name. He held her gender against her for the rest of her life.
Her mother suffers from depression. She is an alcoholic who also has an addiction to xanax, oxycontin, and ambien.
Her father was verbally and emotionally abusive to everyone in his immediate family. He is an outspoken sexist, racist, bigot. He didn't speak to Tate for seven straight years, and hasn't spoken to his daughter Eloise in almost four.
Eloise Carmichael is the elder O'Shea daughter. She dated Jameson Kane for several years before breaking up with him. A year later, she married Robert Carmichael, who became physically and verbally abusive after the nuptials. They have one child together, which she gave birth to after divorcing her husband.
Tatum excelled in school, particularly in studies involving vocab and sociology. She was also an accomplished equestrian, played softball, and once won a painting contest. After her sophomore year, her parents forced her to give up all extracurricular activities so she could focus on her studies. She was accepted into Harvard and moved to Boston, where she planned to have a career in politics.
The Kane Series Boxset Page 108