“I'm sorry,” Jameson whispered, his arms tight around Sanders. “I should've … I should've been more careful. I'm not mad. Never think I'm mad. And you don't have to go. We can work something out, we can try.”
Sanders shook his head.
“No. It wouldn't be right. I am the problem, I am the one in the way. I am twenty-one years old. It is time I do something for myself,” Sanders replied, wrapping his arms around Jameson's middle.
“You can do that from here. She'll miss you, you know,” Jameson pointed out.
“I know. But it's necessary,” Sanders stressed.
“I'll miss you.”
“And I can guarantee I will miss you more. But I am not dying. I will come home for Christmas,” Sanders promised.
Jameson barked out a laugh and pulled away. Held Sanders at arms-length and looked him over. They had been in each others lives for almost nine years, and for seven of them, it had only been the two of them. Always the two of them. Sanders had missed those times, he was startled to realize.
“She's going to be very upset. Would you like me to break the news?” Jameson asked. Sanders shrugged.
“Eventually. I still have some preparations to make, things to set up, before I leave. We can continue as normal until then. I would never try to …” Sanders' voice trailed off, not sure how to end that sentence.
“Don't be stupid, I wouldn't ever think you would. Are you going to just avoid her till you go? You know she won't take that, she'll just come find you,” Jameson warned him. Sanders nodded.
“I know. I won't avoid her. But I think it would be best if I didn't spend as much time in the main house,” he suggested.
“Fair enough. If there's anything you need me to do. Or … not do ...” Jameson was obviously struggling with words, as well. Sanders waved the suggestion away.
“Of course not, I would never ask that of you. Do as you have always done,” he instructed. Jameson sighed, dropping his arms.
“God, this is awkward as fuck. Why can't things ever be normal for us?” he grumbled, rubbing a hand over his face.
He didn't get an answer. Tatum pranced back into the room, wearing a pair of shorts and a tank top over her bikini. She had yanked her hair up into a sloppy ponytail and hadn't bothered with any makeup or shoes. She skipped across the room, to Sanders' side, and kissed him on the cheek. He managed a tight lipped smile as she made her way to Jameson's desk. Both men stared at each other.
“Did you remember to get my veggie spring rolls?” Tatum asked, picking through the food boxes.
“Of course,” Jameson replied. She smiled and grabbed a styrofoam container before turning towards him.
“You take such good care of me,” she sighed in a sappy voice, before standing on tiptoe and kissing his cheek, too.
“Always, Liebe. Go wait in the kitchen, we'll bring the food,” Jameson said in a soft voice, kissing her quickly. She headed off into the kitchen, but not before stealing another kiss.
Liebe. German for love. His love. The only woman he's ever loved.
“I don't want things to be awkward. I would be very uncomfortable,” Sanders said quickly. Jameson rolled his eyes.
“I think it's a little fuckin' late for that. C'mon, Cassanova, carry some boxes. We'll figure this shit out eventually,” Jameson grumbled, then picked up some of the food cartons.
*
A week later, Sanders told Tatum his decision. She did not take it well, as predicted. There was crying and begging and cajoling. Then pouting. Then the silent treatment. She didn't want him to go, and she was willing to go to great lengths to convince him to stay, even if it meant guilt tripping him. Sanders, however, had unshakable reserve.
She cracked after another week, and Sanders woke up in the middle of the night to her crawling into bed with him. He was a little shocked; she had never stayed over at the guest house while Jameson was in town. But she snuggled up against him, cried into his shoulder, and wished him well. Made him promise that she could visit him, wherever he ended up.
Maybe not such a good thing.
It took him an additional month, but Sanders finally figured out what he was going to do. If he was going to “leave the nest”, as it were, then he decided he might as well make it meaningful. He would go back to his roots. He would go to Russia. He knew that his grandparents were originally from Moscow, and though he had no desire to look up his family in Belarus, he lined up a tutoring job with Lomonosov Moscow State University – it wasn't hard, with his ability to speak multiple languages and his grades.
So six weeks after his confession to Jameson, Sanders Dashkevich was ready to leave everything he had known for the last nine years and move halfway across the world.
All because a woman with dark eyes and a teasing smile had dared to kiss him.
“Sanders,” Jameson's voice called out. Sanders had been walking out of the kitchen and turned back around. Walked into the library. It was late at night and all the lights were off. Just the fire was raging, as it always was when Jameson was at home.
“Yes?” Sanders asked, taking a seat in front of the desk. Jameson sat behind it, shadows flickering across his face. Tatum often teased that he looked like Satan. At that moment, Sanders couldn't argue with the description.
“You leave in three days.”
It was said as a statement. Sanders nodded in agreement.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to do anything special?”
“No, not really. I think that will just make it worse.”
“Alright. I'll take you to the airport on Sunday.”
“Just you?”
“Just me.”
“Is she …” Sanders let his voice trail off, his gaze fixed on the flames. It hurt him to see her hurt – she was his friend. A kindred spirit. A soulmate. He didn't want to hurt her.
“No, we talked about it and felt it was best if she didn't come along. But she does have something special she would like to do for you, before you go,” Jameson continued.
“And that is?”
“A surprise.”
Sanders looked away from the fire, back to Satan.
“What kind of surprise?”
“One we both think you'll enjoy.”
“Oh god.”
Jameson laughed and stood up from his chair, came around the desk. Clapped Sanders on the shoulder.
“I will miss you, Mijo. More than I can tell you,” he said softly. Sanders nodded. Cleared his throat.
“Claro, and I will miss you, too.”
There was silence for a moment, then Jameson squeezed his shoulder one last time before walking out of the room. Another moment later, and the door slowly swung shut. But Sanders wasn't alone in the room. He finally turned in his chair and took in Tatum standing in front of the door, her hands behind her back.
“How are you?” she asked, smiling at him. He frowned.
“I am well. And you?”
“Good.”
“What is going on?” Sanders demanded.
Tatum laughed and finally walked forward, taking Jameson's seat on the opposite side of the desk.
“Nothing bad, I promise,” she assured him.
“I don't believe you.”
“Not a shocker. Look. You're leaving soon. Jameson and I were trying to figure out something to do for you, something … something …” she was clearly searching for the right word.
“Something what?” he asked, looking around the room.
“Something special,” her voice went soft.
“Special how?” he pressed.
“Things are going to change a lot. You've never lived alone. You'll be surrounded by people you don't know. I worry about you,” her voice got even softer.
“Pardon me, but I lived on the streets of London for over six months – behind a dumpster, no less. I think I can handle living in the house I've rented,” Sanders assured her. She laughed.
“Not what I mean, Sandy. Look … just … hear me out, alright
?” she begged.
“Oh god.”
“I want to give you a send off that will help you in your new life, help you adjust,” she kept stumbling over her words. Sanders sighed.
“Please just say it. I have heard many strange things come out of your mouth before, and I have yet to be truly disgusted or offended. So there's no need to be afraid,” he promised. She leaned across the desk and smiled, but it was decidedly dark. Almost a little evil. Satanic.
“I want to give you a present ...”
1
They went to Gloucester, Massachusetts. Sanders wasn't entirely sure why – the beach during the summer was awful. So many people and tourists. But Tate loved Good Harbor Beach, so he'd allowed himself to be dragged to the coast.
He was somewhat regretting it now. He'd assumed she'd book a house for them. Money was no object for people like Jameson and Sanders, so even at the height of vacation season, they could have found something. Silly man, he'd forgotten who he was dealing with, though. She'd booked them a room at a quaint but cheap motel that was directly on the beach.
When they'd checked in, he'd kept calm and collected, but inwardly, his skin had been crawling. So many people, all around him. Being loud and rude. Flip flops clacking away, the smell of sunscreen everywhere, hairy backs as far as the eye could see.
“We could have gone to Saint-Tropez,” he'd pointed out. She'd laughed at him while she signed them into their room.
“And waste half a day getting there and then again coming back? I only have you for four more days, I'm not wasting any of them.”
The room had been small. One king sized bed with an ugly comforter. A scratched dresser against the wall, and a worn but comfortable sitting chair near the bed. Surprisingly enough, the bathroom was very large. A spacious, but dated, tub took up most of one wall, and a shower stall, vanity, and toilet were across from it. There was lots of floor space, and he assumed it was because of the beach. Giving the motel dwellers ample space to clean off all the sand.
I wonder if there is a Hilton nearby, I cannot be expected to shower here.
Though Sanders loved any time he got to spend with Tate, he couldn't quite figure out her game. Good Harbor Beach wasn't exactly anywhere special. They put their overnight bags in a corner in the room. They had a normal dinner at a plain restaurant. All things that could have been done at home.
“Will you tell me now?” he finally asked.
It was almost midnight and they were down on the beach. There were some bonfires in the distance, and once in a while a couple people sauntered by up closer to the street. But they were down in the water line, letting the ocean lap at their legs. It was also unseasonably chilly out, so that seemed to be keeping people away.
“Tell you what?” Tate asked, staring out over the black sea. The wind was whipping some loose strands of her hair around and she kept trying to tuck them behind her ears, almost absentmindely.
“Why we are here,” he said, looking down at her. She was to his side and a couple steps in front of him. Her sandals were dangling from one hand and she had her other hand up by her face, still fighting with her hair. Though it was cold, she hadn't bothered changing out of what she'd driven up in – high waisted black shorts, which were very tiny. Almost more like bathing suit bottoms. On top was a loose black crop top. Ridiculous for the weather, really, but so perfect for her.
Sanders was still in his suit. He had wanted to change before going down to the beach, but she'd insisted on walking straight down. He'd left his shoes, socks, and jacket up by the motel, then had rolled up his pant legs before going into the water with her. His tie kept flapping around in the wind, so he finally unbuttoned the middle button on his shirt and slipped the length of silk through the hole to keep it in place.
“I like the ocean,” she sighed. “And you like the beach. I knew the weather was going to be shitty, which meant it wouldn't be crazy busy. I thought it would be nice for us to spend some time alone together. I know we won't get a chance again.”
“There is always Christmas,” he assured her, frowning at her back. She finally looked over at him, and even in the dark he could see her smile.
“Like I said – I know we won't get this chance again.”
She didn't elaborate, and he didn't ask for more explanation. He understood, and apparently, so did she. Jameson must have told her about Sanders' feelings. Still. What was the difference, then? If she knew about the issue, why bring him out there alone, now?
I may have ruined everything. I can't let us end like this.
“I appreciate everything you've done for me,” he suddenly told her. Her smile got bigger and she turned to fully face him. She was deeper than him, the water coming to just below her knees.
“Really? All the teasing and needling and embarrassing?” she laughed.
“Every moment of it,” he assured her.
“And all the splashing?”
“Excuse me?”
She didn't respond, but instead kicked up a leg. He gasped – actually gasped – as a sizable splash of water soaked his right leg.
“Tatum,” he said in his stern voice. “This suit was specially designed by Tom Ford for -”
More water. This time she swung her cupped hand through the ocean, throwing it up at him. He managed to turn his face away in time, letting the brunt of it hit him in the chest and cheek.
“I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you. What was that?” she asked, wading towards him.
“I hope you realize this suit is completely ruined now,” he said, his voice full of frost. It had absolutely no effect on her.
“Oh please, there's dry cleaning even out here in the 'burbs,” she told him.
“It is not the same.”
“That's what's missing in your life, Sandy,” she said, leaning down to put her hand back in the water. “Messiness. You better get used to it, because life alone can get pretty messy.”
She was already swinging her arm towards him, ready to give his poor suit another wash down, but he couldn't handle it. Without thinking, he abruptly put his arms out and shoved her shoulders. She was already off balance, so it didn't take a hard push to send her onto her back. She shrieked and laughed as she went down on her butt in the water.
“See? That wasn't so hard,” she chuckled as she struggled to push herself upright. “That was lesson number two – standing up for yourself.”
She couldn't seem to find her footing in the shifting sand, so Sanders offered a hand to help her up. He should've known better. She gripped his arm in both of her own hands and yanked hard. He went down without a sound, belly flopping.
“And I guess that's lesson number three. Don't trust anyone,” she was laughing at him when he pulled himself upright.
“Forgive me, but you can get yourself out of the water,” he told her, pulling his tie free from his shirt and wringing it out before heading back up the beach.
Tate crawled out of the water behind him and raced back up to the motel, her toned legs carrying her there quickly. Sanders took his time, rolling down his sopping wet pant legs and putting on his shoes and jacket before striding through a small courtyard. They were almost at the door to the room when Tate let out a startling shriek and leapt backward.
“Do you see that!?” she shouted, grabbing his arm and jerking on it. He moved so he was standing in front of her, shielding her from whatever imaginary danger she was perceiving.
“See what?” he asked, peering into the shadows.
“That!” she yelled, and her arm came around him and pointed at a trash can.
He stared at where she gesturing to, but didn't see anything for a moment. Then the trash can shimmied, its lid falling to the ground with a loud crash. There was high pitched squeal and Tate moved completely behind him, gripping his jacket in both her hands. As he stared, a small raccoon scurried away from the garbage.
“That is what all the screaming was about?” he asked, watching the rotund creature disappear into some bushes.
>
“Are you kidding!?” she snapped, finally peeking around him. “It could have had rabies!”
“The chances of that are very small. I thought it was rather adorable.”
“It's a trash panda – what is adorable about that?” she asked, following him as he covered the distance to their door.
“It's furry.”
As he unlocked the door, he could tell she was trying hard not to laugh. When he stood to the side, she dashed through the entryway quickly, throwing her sandals on the floor.
“Brrrrr, it was freezing out there,” she said through chattering teeth as she hurried on tiptoes into the bathroom.
“Yes, that's what I said before we went down there,” he reminded her. “It is not beach weather tonight.”
“It was awesome,” she called back to him.
He didn't argue.
He'd removed his shoes and was sliding off his jacket when he realized she was running the tap in the bathtub. Was she taking a bath? The door was wide open. As free a spirit as Tate was, she didn't usually bathe in the open. He cleared his throat and took a couple steps forward.
“What are you doing?” he asked from the other side of the open door.
“Come in here.”
“No thank you.”
“Stop being a baby and come in here. I won't bite,” she laughed.
Bracing himself, Sanders stepped around the door and into the room. She was still fully clothed and standing in the tub. The water looked to be steaming hot and was swirling up and around her ankles. She was sighing and had her head tilted back.
“This feels so good,” she moaned. “Get in.”
“Excuse me?”
“Get in.”
“I am not taking a bath with you.”
“I wasn't asking you to strip down and scrub my back,” she laughed, turning towards him. “Just step inside the bathtub, Sandy.”
“I am not taking a bath in my clothing.”
When she grabbed him by his tie and started yanking roughly on it, he had no choice but to follow. If he stood his ground, she would either break his neck or rip the material, and he had hoped that some parts of his suit could yet be saved. So while she pulled, he stumbled into the tub and stood in front of her.
Reception (The Kane Series Book 5) Page 7
