Reparation (The Kane Trilogy Book 3)

by Stylo Fantome

  “I was actually thinking about that. I wondered if you would do something for me,” he said. She turned around, surprised.

  “Of course, anything. Shoot,” she told him.

  “I wondered if you would make me a drink.”

  Tate was shocked. Sanders didn't drink. As far as she knew, he had never drank. Along side Jameson, he had been to world famous night clubs and top-of-the-line bars and the best wineries in Europe, but he didn't drink.

  “Why?” she asked. He shrugged, his eyes not meeting hers.

  “I have never done it. I have been curious about it for a long time. There is no one else I would trust enough to do it with,” he replied in a bored voice. She felt all warm inside. Her? Not Jameson?

  Take that, Satan.

  “Sandy, you're so sweet to me. Alright! What'll it be? You are dealing with South Boston's best bartender!” she said, clapping her hands together.

  “I was hoping you could suggest something. I have never done this before,” he reminded her. She laughed and turned to the cupboards, searching for shakers and glasses.

  “Hmmm, let's see. Perfect drink ..., well, you look like a sexy James Bond, so how about a martini. Shaken, not stirred,” she did a crap Sean Connery impression.

  “I do not look like James Bond.”

  “A sexy James Bond, I said.”

  It was his first time drinking, and she didn't want to get him wasted. Plus, she wasn't about to let him drink alone, and she didn't want to get drunk, either. So she made the drinks light. The martini didn't go over very well – she didn't understand the appeal, herself. So she tried a Manhattan. He informed her that it was tolerable. After that, she switched it up and made him a Mojito.

  “Jameson likes Long Island Iced Teas,” Sanders commented. She raised her eyebrows.

  “I'm not making you that, you'd be on the floor. How about Sex on the Beach?” she teased, winking at him. He cleared his throat and looked away.

  He said it was by far his favorite. Huh, Sanders liked girly drinks. Who would've thought? She made him a Tequila Sunrise after that, but then cut him off. She could see the effects. They had been at it for a while, she had spaced them out and made him take his time, fed him pretzels and made him a sandwich. But it was still clear that he was a little toasted.

  “Is it normal for your lips to be numb?” he asked, staring at the wall behind her. His speech was still clipped, but his voice was soft, his eyelids heavy. His features relaxed. Small things to a normal person, huge things for Sanders. She laughed and sank into a chair across from him, putting her feet up on an ottoman.

  “Yeah, sometimes that happens to me, too. How are your toes?” she asked. He glanced down at his shiny shoes.

  “Toes?”

  “Mine tingle sometimes, when I drink. Fingertips, toes, lips, all that good stuff. How's your vision?” she went on. He shrugged.

  “Perfect.”

  “I meant,” she laughed, “are you seeing double yet? Things a little blurry?”

  “No. Should they be?”

  “Not necessarily. So is it everything it's cracked up to be?” she asked. He shrugged again.

  “I'm not sure I see the appeal. I feel like I am stuck in slow motion. How does anyone get anything done like this?” he said, his words coming out slow. She laughed again.

  “You're not supposed to get anything done. You do it to relax, have fun, be brave, whatever,” she told him.

  “Brave?”

  “Liquid courage. Makes you uninhibited, makes you do things you wouldn't normally do,” she explained.

  “Like take a whole bottle of xanax and swim in a pool?”

  He could've hit her and she would've been less shocked. She licked her lips.

  “Yes, things like that,” she whispered. His eyes finally met hers, and he stared right into her.

  “That's not very courageous, or brave,” he commented.

  “I know. Sometimes, alcohol can make you the stupidest fucking person on the block,” she managed a laugh.

  “I was very upset with you. You worried me,” he told her, his voice full of bite. Another shock.

  “I'm sorry, Sandy. I wasn't in my right mind. I won't ever do that again,” she replied, staring back at him. He looked angry. She didn't think she'd ever seen him look angry.

  “And Jameson ..., I was so upset with him. Angry. I was angry at him,” Sanders stressed. Tate nodded.

  “I know. Me, too.”

  “But I have forgiven him. Why can't you?” he demanded.

  “See, this is that uninhibited thing I was talking about,” she pointed out. He waved his hand in the air.

  “I was counting on this,” he replied. “Why can't you forgive him?”

  “I'm trying, Sandy. I really am. You know, don't you, that I wanted to hurt him, too, like I wanted to hurt Ang,” Tate said softly. He nodded.

  “I had figured that much out. I just couldn't quite understand why. You said you forgave him, for Petrushka, for his cruelty,” he explained, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. She had never seen him in such a relaxed posture.

  “I know. I lied. I didn't believe him. I don't know if I believe him, now. I just can't stop feeling this way. Like, why was Pet in Spain? Did he tell her he was there? Did he tell her what night club we would be at? When we were going to the apartment? And Ellie and Ang. I refuse to believe he didn't know about that – how could he not!? I mean, he booked them onto a plane he paid for! He keeps things from me, he messes with my head, and I -,” she started to ramble, and could feel her blood pressure rise as the memories flooded into her brain. Sanders held up a hand.

  “No. He doesn't. I do,” he said quickly. She blinked at him.

  “Huh?” she almost grunted, stunned.

  “I knew Petrushka was in Spain, I saw it on the internet. The other things were merely a coincidence – Jameson frequents the restaurant that he took you to, he is friends with the owner. I'm sure she knew he would turn up there sooner or later. I never told him she was in the country,” Sanders explained, rolling his glass between his hands, his eyes never leaving hers.

  “Why wouldn't you tell him that?” she breathed. She felt like she had been tasered. She had been so angry, the whole time, at the wrong person. And the right person ..., she didn't think she could be angry at him.

  Not him. Not fair.

  “Because it would have upset him and I do not like to do that. It would have upset you, and I do not like to do that, either. I knew she was a problem between the two of you that needed to be dealt with it, so I left it to happen. Which it did. Rather nicely. I am not prone to violence, but I can honestly say, there was something enjoyable about watching you hit her,” he said, and she thought she could detect a hint of a slur in his voice. She gave a half hearted laugh.

  “Glad I could entertain you,” she whispered.

  “I found out about Mrs. Carmichael coming with Mr. Hollingsworth the day before they were to arrive, the airline sent me an updated itinerary and bill. Her name was on it, of course. That one confused me for a time. I knew if I told Jameson, he would tell you. That wouldn't have been right, it was Mr. Hollingsworth's confession to make. Obviously he was bringing Mrs. Carmichael along with him in order to do so. I did not agree with his actions or his decisions, but I was not in a place to advise him that he shouldn't do those things. So it had to happen,” he explained, and then hiccuped into his fist.

  “You weren't 'in a place' to advise him,” Tate almost laughed again.

  “So I have been having my own battle with my conscience. Watching you be angry at people for deeds that were my own fault. Realizing that almost everything that has upset you, I could have prevented in some way,” he said calmly, but he couldn't stop spinning his glass, his fingers deftly moving around the crystal. She shook her head.

  “No, Sandy, you didn't make Jameson bring Pet home, you didn't -,” she started to defend him – from himself – but he stopped her again.

  “But I knew.
And I never said anything. I am beginning to think I'm not a very good person,” he told her.

  Tate let out a moan, closing her eyes. She wanted to be mad. She had been mad at Jameson, when she thought it had all been him, so it was only fair. But she couldn't. Jameson did things on purpose and with intent, just to make them hurt. Ang did things without forethought and out of stupidity, which still hurt. Sanders ..., Sanders only ever tried to do what was right. Not what was fair, not what made her feel best, or sheltered her, or helped her. But what was right.

  And what was right didn't always feel so good.

  “Sanders,” she sighed, climbing out of her chair. “You are the best person I know. If you ever think otherwise, that will upset me.”

  “I don't understand. When you thought it was Jameson keeping these things from you, you wanted to hurt him. You wanted to leave him, leave us. But when it's me doing these things, it's alright?” he asked, a wary look in his eye as he finally sat his glass down on the coffee table. She shook her head.

  “It's not alright. I'm hurt. But I know your heart was in the right place. I can't be mad at that. Just do me a favor?” she asked, moving to sit next to him.

  “Anything.”

  “Next time something weird happens, or some bullshit gets said, or I get attacked by Jameson's Amazonian love child,” she babbled as she swung her legs across his lap, “fucking say something. You aren't protecting anyone by letting us all bumble around in the dark. Alright?” He actually laughed.

  “I will try my best.”

  “That's all I can ask.”

  “Are you sure you're not -,”

  “I love you, Sanders,” she breathed, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “There is very little you could do to make me mad at you.”

  “You were mad at me in Spain,” he reminded her as he leaned back into the couch. She snorted.

  “You practically kidnapped me and handed me over to the devil, I get to be mad when you do things like that. But see, that was pretty fucking awful, and I still love you. So we're good,” she assured him. He nodded, though he continued to fidget.

  “Are you going to leave Jameson?” he blurted out. She blinked at him.

  “Why do you ask?” she countered, propping her knees up over him.

  “Because I think you are planning on it, and I really would like you not to do that,” he answered, and there was definitely a slur to his voice. She sighed.

  “Are you going to repeat this conversation to him?” she asked.

  “If you ask me not to, than no, I won't.”

  “Don't repeat this.”

  “I won't.”

  “Sandy, I ..., what he did, with Petrushka. That's a hard thing to let go. I say I'm fine, and I mean I'm fine, and then it's like ..., like I'm back in that pool,” she whispered. “Like I'm eighteen again, and he's looking at me like I'm trash. I don't know if I want to live life this way, waiting for the next thing Jameson's gonna do to me, and I don't think he'll ever change, or ever admit anything is wrong. I'm not leaving today, or tomorrow, but ..., I can't make any promises.”

  “Then I guess that's all I can ask. But Tatum, he does not think you are trash. He has strange ways, and he doesn't know how to talk to you at all, but he cares very deeply for you. If you left him, he would be devastated, in his own way. I know this,” Sanders replied, resting a hand on her knee.

  “'In his own way' loosely translates to 'so devastated, he fucks every woman in the tri-state area',” she joked. He made a face.

  “I wouldn't have put it quite like that, but yes, pretty much like that,” he said, but she knew he was joking.

  “What about you? If I decide I'm not strong enough for Mr. Jameson Kane, are you going to disown me? Let me go? Or would you run away with me?” she asked. He thought for a long while.

  “I would never disown you, because I don't own you, and if you have to go, then I have to let you go. Sometimes, running away sounds very appealing, but in my experience, it just makes things worse. I suppose we could be penpals,” he offered, and she burst out laughing.

  “Okay, I'll take that.”

  She pulled him close and hugged him, wrapping her arms tightly around his shoulders. For once, there was no tensing up, no hesitation, he just hugged her right back. Sighed into the side of her hair.

  “I used to hate it when you touched me,” he said softly. She laughed.

  “I know, I think that's why I liked doing it so much,” she replied, scratching his back.

  “Now I almost think I like it. Sometimes. Thank you, Tatum.”

  “You're very welcome, Sanders.”

  She squeezed him tight, and he finally pushed her away when she tried to leave a hickey on his neck. He walked her to the door after that, though she hesitated to leave him. He waved her away, assuring her that he would be perfectly fine, that he would just go to bed. They said goodbye and she made her way back around to the main house, using the path he had pointed out. She shoved her hands in her jacket, guarding against the cold as she made her way home.

  Home.

  Her universe had, once again, shifted a little. So many things she had been holding against Jameson, poof. Gone. So angry at Jameson, all because Sanders was loyal to a fault and because she was a crazy bitch.

  She was telling the truth, though; the incident with Petrushka would probably never sit right with her. Jameson had done that to hurt, had no regard for her feelings. He still had never officially declared how he felt, probably because he didn't feel any certain way towards her. Sure, he wanted her, wanted to own her, wanted to be the only person to own her. But that didn't equal feelings, or caring.

  Or love.

  As Tate stomped up the porch, she decided she needed just a little more time. She had learned a lot of new things – from Ang, from Sanders, from herself. She felt like one more blow, and she would be thrown irrevocably into crazy-fucking-bitch land. Then no one would want to be her friend.

  As she pushed in the front door, she took a deep breath. Tomorrow. Or the day after. Then she would have a nice, long, chat with Mr. Kane and he would definitely -,

  “Where the fuck have you been!?” his voice snapped from behind her. But before she could turn fully around, she was being grabbed around the waist. Thrown over his shoulder. Carried down the hall.

  “Out to dinner! What the fuck are you doing!?” she demanded.

  “It's almost midnight. Who the fuck has dinner from eleven o'clock in the morning until midnight?” Jameson demanded.

  “Apparenly I fucking do! What is your problem!? Wait, stop. What are you doing!?” she all but shrieked as she heard a door get kicked open.

  “It is most definitely time to rip off the band aid,” he growled, and then he was walking through the door he had just opened.

  I just needed a couple more days, then I would've done anything you wanted.

  She threw her hands out and gripped onto the doorframe, wiggling her hips against his head. He had one arm wrapped around her thighs, and he dug his fingers in painfully. His other hand went up and grabbed one of her arms, yanking it free. She shrieked and tried to pull away, but it was too late. A couple strides, and she was in the library.

  “What the fuck, Jameson!? You can't just grab people and make them do -,” she started to yell, but it ended in a shriek as she was tossed onto a couch. She bounced around and gripped onto the back of it.

  “Apparently, I fucking can. I have been waiting all day for you. Do you not answer your phone anymore?” he asked, leaning over her. He looked pissed. She felt a shiver run over her skin.

  “It's in my purse! I was busy,” she told him.

  “Too busy to answer your phone. I see. So what were you and Angier up to for so long?” he asked.

  “Humping our way across Boston,” she snapped back.

  “Goddamn, took you long enough.”

  “Not everyone can be as quick as you.”

  His hand was at her throat in an instant.

  This is not qu
ite how I imagined this evening ending.

  “Watch what you fucking say to me,” Jameson growled. “I have babied you. I have been nice to you. I have bent over fucking backwards for you. I have done things for you that I have never done for anyone else. The least you can do in return is answer your goddamn phone when I call.”

  “Someone missed me,” she said softy.

  “Fuck you, Tate,” he spat out, his fingers digging in harder. He wasn't pressing down on her, though, so she slowly sat up.

  “Is that what you've been sitting at home doing? Worrying all night? About what Ang and I have been up to?” she asked.

  “Don't flatter yourself,” he replied.

  “You flatter me, by being this upset. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you actually cared,” she laughed lightly, holding onto his wrist with one hand.

  “You'd think wrong.”

  She stared up at him for a second. Really looked at him. For the past month, she had been working very hard to blind herself to him. Always tried to glance at him, past him, through him. Never directly at him. He was too much. Looking at him, he would invade her. Possess her. It was too easy. It had happened last fall. It had happened in Spain. So she had avoided it.

  But if it was true, if Sanders was telling the truth – which he must have been, because Sanders didn't lie – then everything Jameson had done for the past month, had been for her. Everything he had said in Spain, had been the truth. That moment in Paris, it had been real. Those pearls ...

  She felt her eyes tear up, and Jameson looked shocked. He let go of her throat and lowered himself, so they were eye to eye. She looked away. Around the room. At all the furniture. Everywhere, but at him.

  “You rearranged,” she sniffled, realizing for the first time that she was in the middle of the room. He nodded.

  “Yes.”

  “I like it,” she said, her voice getting even more watery.

  “Tate.”

  “Oh my god, is that the Rothko from your office?” she asked, sitting up straighter. The couch had its back to the fireplace and Jameson's desk, and was facing the far wall. The bookshelves had all been rearranged, and the large painting was hanging in the middle of the wall.