Degradation
Page 27
When the taxi started pulling down a long, wooded driveway, Tate tried to not to gag at the sixty dollar tab and began rooting around in her purse. There went some rent money. She wondered if Jameson would actually give her any money, or if it had all been play. She was just starting to uncrumple some twenty dollars bills as the taxi parked, when the front passenger door swung open.
“Here you are, and thank you,” a crisp, cultured sounding voice said, followed by a hand holding out two one-hundred dollar bills. Tate and the driver stared at the cash, both a little shocked. The money was exchanged and then her door was pulled open, a hand reaching in for her. Tate took it and was pulled to her feet.
A slender man stood in front of her, wearing an impeccable suit. Very expensive looking. He wasn't a very big man in general; she was around five-foot-six, and he wasn't that much taller than her. Maybe five-foot-ten, give or take an inch. His dark hair was gelled and styled, brushed to the side. He looked like something out of GQ magazine – very handsome, with fair skin and stormy blue eyes. He gave her a tight-lipped smile.
“Hello, Ms. O'Shea. I am Sanders, Mr. Kane's assistant,” he said in a polite voice. There was a hint of an accent there, but she couldn't place it. Not Boston, but a distinct burr, something else East Coast-y, or maybe even European. His fricatives were sharp, his voice soft.
He should do books on tape.
“Hi, I'm Tatum,” she greeted him, holding out a hand. He clasped it briefly, not really shaking it, just pressing his skin to hers and then letting go.
“Welcome. Please, follow me,” he instructed, and then turned to lead the way.
She hadn't gotten a good look at the house on the drive up. She gaped at it now. It was like something from a hundred years ago. Huge, and gorgeous. Lots of brick, with white pillars in the front. She wondered if Jameson had bought it when he moved to Boston, or if it had been in the family. It looked like something that would be on the National Historical Registry.
“Were you with him at the office, today?” Tate asked as they crunched across the pebble stone driveway.
“No.”
“Do you go in to Boston a lot?”
“No.”
“I got the impression he travels a lot, do you go with him on those trips?”
“No.”
She smirked at the assistant's back as he held open the front door for her.
“I'm going to assume that living with Kane is what has given you this anti-social personality disorder,” she said in a sweet voice. The man didn't even blink at her statement.
“I had this disorder long before Mr. Kane. He's in the library, through that door,” Sanders told her, gesturing along the wall.
She gasped, taking in the huge entry way. Vaulted ceilings, original hard wood floors, a chandelier that probably dated back to the civil war. A huge sitting room opened off to her right, and two large, sliding doors were shut on the room to her left. Farther down the wall, just past a grand staircase, was another door, standing slightly ajar. She could see a glow, like candle light, spilling out in to the hall.
Tate had come from money, grown up in a gorgeous home, but it had been a long time since that life. It felt strange now, to be surrounded by such opulence. The rug she was standing on probably cost more than everything she owned.
“You know, Sandy,” she started, reaching out and grabbing onto his shoulder. He frowned while she steadied herself and bent over, undoing the straps on her shoes. “I think we're gonna get along, just fine.”
With her shoes dangling from her hand, Tate tip toed down the entry way and pushed through the library door. There was a roaring fire in a huge fireplace on the far wall; it was providing the only light in the room. Built-in bookshelves surrounded her, and there were two huge, over stuffed, wing-backed chairs pulled up close to the fire. Off to the right of them stood a ridiculously huge, ornate, gold-inlaid desk. Jameson was standing behind it, holding some papers, and he looked up at her entrance.
“You made it. Quite a cab ride,” he commented as she walked towards him. She nodded.
“Forty-five minutes. I won't be doing that often,” she warned him. He laughed.
“You'll do it often enough. Drink?” he asked, setting down his work and coming out from around the desk.
“God, yes. Your assistant gave me freezer burn,” she laughed, watching Jameson as he walked over to a small bar.
She stayed near his desk and stared at him, letting her eyes wander over his form. Every time she had seen him, he had been wearing expensive suits – blazers, ties, trousers, shiny shoes, and shinier watches. Now, he was in jeans and a plain white t-shirt. No shoes. No socks.
Tate had never once seen him so dressed down, not even when he'd been dating her sister. She was a little shocked. It gave him a whole different look. He almost – though not quite – looked approachable. He was too good looking to ever truly look like a mere mortal. But still. She found herself wanting to peel his shirt off so she could lick every inch of his skin.
“Ah, Sanders. Yes. You'll grow to love him, almost everyone does. What would you like?” Jameson asked. When she didn't answer, he turned towards her. “What? What are you staring at?”
“You're barefoot,” she blurted out, staring down at his feet. He laughed, looking down as well.
“Yes. So are you,” he replied. She wiggled her toes at him.
“Yeah, but I expect that from me. Mr. Kane doesn't walk around barefoot. He has people to walk around for him,” she teased, looking back up at him. He snorted.
“Here you are, and thank you,” a crisp, cultured sounding voice said, followed by a hand holding out two one-hundred dollar bills. Tate and the driver stared at the cash, both a little shocked. The money was exchanged and then her door was pulled open, a hand reaching in for her. Tate took it and was pulled to her feet.
A slender man stood in front of her, wearing an impeccable suit. Very expensive looking. He wasn't a very big man in general; she was around five-foot-six, and he wasn't that much taller than her. Maybe five-foot-ten, give or take an inch. His dark hair was gelled and styled, brushed to the side. He looked like something out of GQ magazine – very handsome, with fair skin and stormy blue eyes. He gave her a tight-lipped smile.
“Hello, Ms. O'Shea. I am Sanders, Mr. Kane's assistant,” he said in a polite voice. There was a hint of an accent there, but she couldn't place it. Not Boston, but a distinct burr, something else East Coast-y, or maybe even European. His fricatives were sharp, his voice soft.
He should do books on tape.
“Hi, I'm Tatum,” she greeted him, holding out a hand. He clasped it briefly, not really shaking it, just pressing his skin to hers and then letting go.
“Welcome. Please, follow me,” he instructed, and then turned to lead the way.
She hadn't gotten a good look at the house on the drive up. She gaped at it now. It was like something from a hundred years ago. Huge, and gorgeous. Lots of brick, with white pillars in the front. She wondered if Jameson had bought it when he moved to Boston, or if it had been in the family. It looked like something that would be on the National Historical Registry.
“Were you with him at the office, today?” Tate asked as they crunched across the pebble stone driveway.
“No.”
“Do you go in to Boston a lot?”
“No.”
“I got the impression he travels a lot, do you go with him on those trips?”
“No.”
She smirked at the assistant's back as he held open the front door for her.
“I'm going to assume that living with Kane is what has given you this anti-social personality disorder,” she said in a sweet voice. The man didn't even blink at her statement.
“I had this disorder long before Mr. Kane. He's in the library, through that door,” Sanders told her, gesturing along the wall.
She gasped, taking in the huge entry way. Vaulted ceilings, original hard wood floors, a chandelier that probably dated back to the civil war. A huge sitting room opened off to her right, and two large, sliding doors were shut on the room to her left. Farther down the wall, just past a grand staircase, was another door, standing slightly ajar. She could see a glow, like candle light, spilling out in to the hall.
Tate had come from money, grown up in a gorgeous home, but it had been a long time since that life. It felt strange now, to be surrounded by such opulence. The rug she was standing on probably cost more than everything she owned.
“You know, Sandy,” she started, reaching out and grabbing onto his shoulder. He frowned while she steadied herself and bent over, undoing the straps on her shoes. “I think we're gonna get along, just fine.”
With her shoes dangling from her hand, Tate tip toed down the entry way and pushed through the library door. There was a roaring fire in a huge fireplace on the far wall; it was providing the only light in the room. Built-in bookshelves surrounded her, and there were two huge, over stuffed, wing-backed chairs pulled up close to the fire. Off to the right of them stood a ridiculously huge, ornate, gold-inlaid desk. Jameson was standing behind it, holding some papers, and he looked up at her entrance.
“You made it. Quite a cab ride,” he commented as she walked towards him. She nodded.
“Forty-five minutes. I won't be doing that often,” she warned him. He laughed.
“You'll do it often enough. Drink?” he asked, setting down his work and coming out from around the desk.
“God, yes. Your assistant gave me freezer burn,” she laughed, watching Jameson as he walked over to a small bar.
She stayed near his desk and stared at him, letting her eyes wander over his form. Every time she had seen him, he had been wearing expensive suits – blazers, ties, trousers, shiny shoes, and shinier watches. Now, he was in jeans and a plain white t-shirt. No shoes. No socks.
Tate had never once seen him so dressed down, not even when he'd been dating her sister. She was a little shocked. It gave him a whole different look. He almost – though not quite – looked approachable. He was too good looking to ever truly look like a mere mortal. But still. She found herself wanting to peel his shirt off so she could lick every inch of his skin.
“Ah, Sanders. Yes. You'll grow to love him, almost everyone does. What would you like?” Jameson asked. When she didn't answer, he turned towards her. “What? What are you staring at?”
“You're barefoot,” she blurted out, staring down at his feet. He laughed, looking down as well.
“Yes. So are you,” he replied. She wiggled her toes at him.
“Yeah, but I expect that from me. Mr. Kane doesn't walk around barefoot. He has people to walk around for him,” she teased, looking back up at him. He snorted.
