Reception (The Kane Series Book 5)

by Stylo Fantome

  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.

  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 the only thing I've ever come up with – in over three 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.

  *

  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 of 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 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 intimate 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 out of 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 on 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?”

  He never did handle change well.

  “It's time for me to go,” Sanders said simply. Jameson looked completely bewildered.

  “What the fuck are you on about?”

  “I have been taking correspondence courses, this past year. I have gotten my master's degree in Russian historical literature,” Sanders confessed. Jameson went from bewildered to … a look Sanders had never seen before. Didn't know how to decipher.

  “You're shitting me. Why didn't you tell me? For fuck's sake, Sanders, you got offers from MIT and Yale when you were eighteen! Correspondence courses!?” Jameson exclaimed, sitting back against his desk. Sanders cleared his throat.

  “I didn't want to leave home until I absolutely had to,” he responded.

  “Well, I'm very happy for you, but why do you need to leave? What are you going to do with a degree in Russian historical … literature!? Jesus, Sanders,” Jameson grumbled.

  “I can teach. I can tutor. I have also saved every single paycheck you have ever given me. I don't have to work at all, if I don't want to,” he explained.

  “But why? Why do you need to go? Harvard is right next door, teach there, tutor there. You don't need to leave home,” Jameson told him.

  “I do.”

  “You don't. Do you have any idea how much this is going to upset her? She's -” Jameson started to point out.

  “She is the reason I need to go.”

  The silence was heavy. She had always been a double-edged sword between them, slicing right through their bond, seamlessly and effortlessly. Sanders was her best friend. Jameson was her lover. At any given point in time, it was impossible to tell whom she would choose, if it ever came down to it. In the beginning, the answer was easy – Jameson. In the middle, there was no question – Sanders. Now? It was like Solomon's Choice, and Sanders was prepared to be the one to let go.

  Jameson certainly wouldn't.

  “And may I ask why she is a reason for you needing to go?” Jameson's voice was soft. Full of steel. His eyes were locked onto Sanders', and they weren't happy.

  “Because.”

  “Because why?”

  “Because … things have changed. I am no longer comfortable being here,” Sanders went on, adjusting his tie. The movement wasn't lost on Jameson.

  “Cut the bullshit. What the fuck is the problem? Maybe it can be fixed,” Jameson snapped.

  “I think I might be in love with her.”

  Jameson lurched away from the desk, away from Sanders. Paced to one end of the room, shoving his hands into his hair. Paced back. Gave an evil stare to Sanders, then paced down again. Came back.

  “I'm sorry. I … wait. Are you serious? Is this a joke? Because if it is, I have to tell you, it isn't fucking funny,” Jameson hissed, getting close to him. Sanders shook his head.

  “I would never joke about this, sir,” he assured him. Jameson got even closer, having to tilt his head down to stare Sanders in the eye. Like a predator. His eyes were narrowed, his anger alive in his glare.

  “And when did this happen?” his voice was soft.

  “I'm not sure. I'm not even sure I am. But I do know that … something is different, and I think it would be best, for all of us, if I wasn't here anymore,” Sanders said.

  “I don't understand how this happened. You two are friends. You know what she means to me, what we are to each other. How did this happen?” Jameson demanded.

  “I don't know. I didn't realize it was happening, and then the other day … I just realized it.”

  Jameson went to say something else, but there was a sound in the hallway. A thud, then a crash, followed by laughter.

  Even her laugh is bawdy. Loud. Sexual. Inappropriate. I will miss it so much.

  “God, I just bit it so hard out there! I think I broke my ass!”

  Tatum O'Shea was a very beautiful girl. Sanders had always thought so – he wasn't blind. But just because someone was beautiful didn't necessarily automatically make them attractive, at least not to Sanders. No, it had taken a while for Tatum to grow on him as a friend.

  There had been a turning point, though. When she had run away the very last time and Sanders had gone with her. A hotel room. A confusing night. A heavy kiss. He had stopped it, and she wouldn't have gone through with anything more, but still. He'd never said anything about it, but it had stayed with him. Suddenly, Tatum wasn't just Tatum anymore. Wasn't a silly girl he was friends with, a girl he had to be around. No, suddenly she was a woman, with curves, and skin, and lips, and a tongue. A tongue he'd experienced firsthand.

  Not good.

  She walked into the room, rubbing at her backside as she laughed. She had obviously slipped and fallen, most likely because she was soaking wet. Jameson had mentioned that she'd been in the pool – she had probably come straight from it. She was wearing a bikini, holding a towel in her free hand.

  Sanders and Jameson exchanged glances.

  “Tate, maybe you should -” Jameson star
ted.

  “Sandy!” she exclaimed, finally spotting him. He cleared his throat. Looked away. “Where have you been? I called you like a hundred times yesterday! We made pizza.”

  As she babbled, Tatum suddenly bent at the waist, rubbing the towel over her wet hair. Sanders was no lech, she probably could've walked into the room naked and he would have maintained his cool. But having just confessed his feelings to Jameson, and having Jameson standing right next to him, and her bent over, in a bikini …

  This is very awkward.

  “I had a lot of things going on, I'm sorry,” Sanders managed. Tatum stood up, whipping her hair back.

  “Well, you should be, you missed out on awesome pizza,” she laughed, starting to march towards him, her arms out for a hug. Jameson smoothly stepped in between them.

  “Hey, go get changed so we can have lunch,” he said, running his hands up and down her arms.

  “I didn't realize it was a formal occasion,” she snorted.

  “Why do you have to make everything an argument, baby girl? Just go put on some clothes, I'll get plates,” Jameson instructed.

  “I still don't -,”

  “I wasn't asking, Tate.”

  There was some huffing and grumbling, but she finally left the room, throwing the towel at them as she went. They listened to her stomp up the stairs, then Sanders turned to stare at the back of Jameson's head. At his guardian. His best friend.

  At my father ...

  “I'm very sorry,” Sanders said in a soft voice.

  Jameson turned around and Sanders halfway expected anger, but the other man just sighed and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him into a hug. Jameson was a lot bigger than Sanders, taller. Broader. They were only ten years apart in age, but he always felt like so much more to Sanders. Stature, size, age. Everything. Sanders felt like he could fit inside him.

  It's where I've been living all these years.