Degradation
Page 90
“We were worried that her husband might come here and try to seek revenge. We both feel it would be best if you went to stay in a hotel,” Sanders told her. She laughed even louder.
“How would Robert even know where I lived? He thinks Ellie and I hate each other; she had to steal my address from my mom's contact book. I'm not leaving my home,” Tate informed him.
“We would feel much more comfortable if -,” he started, but she held up a hand.
“We? Let's tell the truth, Sandy. It's you, isn't it. Just you. Did you even talk to him?” she demanded. He nodded.
“Yes, I did. He was very upset,” Sanders assured her.
“But did he really say that? That he wanted me to go to a hotel?” she pressed. Sanders was silent for a while.
“If he'd had a chance, I know he would have. I know him very well, I know what he would say in these situations. He was very busy when I called,” he explained. Tate started to get a little ticked off.
“Busy, huh. Too busy to talk to you about my 'situation'. Too busy to talk to me. Has he said when he's coming home?” she asked, folding her arms over her chest.
“Yes. The end of this week.”
Tate was shocked.
“Wow. Were you planning on telling me?” she asked. Sanders looked away from her.
Uh oh.
“Yes. He wanted me to let you know, there is going to be a party at the house. Sunday. All the partners will be there, people from his offices in New York and Los Angeles and Berlin; everywhere. Black tie. He gets in to town that same day,” Sanders said quickly.
“Shit, that's cutting it a little close, isn't it?” she asked. He shrugged.
“He has me taking care of everything. If his flight can't make it, the party will just go on without him. He told me to ask you to buy a dress,” Sanders told her. She laughed.
“Of course he did. A fancy dress, for a fancy party. Is there something you're not telling me?” Tate demanded. Sanders usually had the best poker face of anyone she knew. But now, there was something off. He was back to not quite meeting her eyes.
“Ms. O'Shea, I ..., I've enjoyed our time together here in Boston. You are a good friend to me. I am going back to the house tomorrow and will be staying there. Would you like to join me?” he said quickly, his voice almost shy sounding. She was touched.
“Why Sandy, are you inviting me to move in with you?” she teased. He blanched.
“No. But your company would be greatly appreciated, as always,” he told her. She laughed and pulled him in for a hug.
“Of course I'll come with you. Help me calm Ellie down, and I'll go anywhere with you,” she whispered.
And then shockingly, his arms came around her and Sanders hugged her back.
*
Something wasn't right. Something most definitely, positively, wasn't right.
Tate could feel it in the air. Jameson's house felt like home to her, and she loved Sanders, but she could just tell; something was not right. Sanders wouldn't tell her anything, and she'd had no communication from Jameson. She even figured out the time difference and called him once – the first time she had ever called him, in the entire time they'd known each other.
He didn't answer.
By Saturday afternoon, she was a wreck. The house had been turned upside down by event planners. Sanders was running around, helping to get everything ready. Tate hovered in the background. Helped where she was needed, asked Sanders if there was anything she could do, but he had practically become a mime. He wouldn't speak, not if he didn't have to. Finally, she cracked and texted Jameson.
Is this a game?
It was hours before he replied. She was laying in his bed, ready to go to sleep, when her phone dinged.
Yes.
She sat up, turned on a light.
What are the rules?
No more rules.
That sounds dangerous.
I thought you liked danger.
She chewed on her bottom lip, glanced around the room.
What is going on?
But he ignored her question and asked one of his own.
Where are you, right now?
Your room.
In my bed?
Yes.
Good.
What is going on?
See you soon, baby girl.
He wouldn't respond to anymore of her texts. She stayed awake for the rest of the night.
*
The next evening, some of Jameson's colleagues showed up early for the party, made themselves at home in his library. Tate got ready, wandered around the house. She was coming out of the kitchen, struggling to open a jar of peanut butter, when laughter burst out of the library. She stopped by the door.
“Clever man. Keeping girls on two continents,” one was guffawing.
Tate's breathing doubled.
“Which one do you think he likes better?” another voice.
“Well, the girl here seems wilder, more his tastes. I bet she's an animal in the sack.”
She nodded to herself. Sounded like her.
“But Pet's more polished, more refined. You can take Pet to parties; you take the other girl to bed.”
Tate pressed herself against the library door. Fuck being subtle.
“Yes, but what do you do with both of them at once?”
“Sounds like a hell of a party!”
Bawdy laughter.
“I guess we'll find out, they'll be here tonight.”
“What's-her-name is already here.”
“Jameson and Pet got in on the six o'clock flight. They should be here any time now.”
“How would Robert even know where I lived? He thinks Ellie and I hate each other; she had to steal my address from my mom's contact book. I'm not leaving my home,” Tate informed him.
“We would feel much more comfortable if -,” he started, but she held up a hand.
“We? Let's tell the truth, Sandy. It's you, isn't it. Just you. Did you even talk to him?” she demanded. He nodded.
“Yes, I did. He was very upset,” Sanders assured her.
“But did he really say that? That he wanted me to go to a hotel?” she pressed. Sanders was silent for a while.
“If he'd had a chance, I know he would have. I know him very well, I know what he would say in these situations. He was very busy when I called,” he explained. Tate started to get a little ticked off.
“Busy, huh. Too busy to talk to you about my 'situation'. Too busy to talk to me. Has he said when he's coming home?” she asked, folding her arms over her chest.
“Yes. The end of this week.”
Tate was shocked.
“Wow. Were you planning on telling me?” she asked. Sanders looked away from her.
Uh oh.
“Yes. He wanted me to let you know, there is going to be a party at the house. Sunday. All the partners will be there, people from his offices in New York and Los Angeles and Berlin; everywhere. Black tie. He gets in to town that same day,” Sanders said quickly.
“Shit, that's cutting it a little close, isn't it?” she asked. He shrugged.
“He has me taking care of everything. If his flight can't make it, the party will just go on without him. He told me to ask you to buy a dress,” Sanders told her. She laughed.
“Of course he did. A fancy dress, for a fancy party. Is there something you're not telling me?” Tate demanded. Sanders usually had the best poker face of anyone she knew. But now, there was something off. He was back to not quite meeting her eyes.
“Ms. O'Shea, I ..., I've enjoyed our time together here in Boston. You are a good friend to me. I am going back to the house tomorrow and will be staying there. Would you like to join me?” he said quickly, his voice almost shy sounding. She was touched.
“Why Sandy, are you inviting me to move in with you?” she teased. He blanched.
“No. But your company would be greatly appreciated, as always,” he told her. She laughed and pulled him in for a hug.
“Of course I'll come with you. Help me calm Ellie down, and I'll go anywhere with you,” she whispered.
And then shockingly, his arms came around her and Sanders hugged her back.
*
Something wasn't right. Something most definitely, positively, wasn't right.
Tate could feel it in the air. Jameson's house felt like home to her, and she loved Sanders, but she could just tell; something was not right. Sanders wouldn't tell her anything, and she'd had no communication from Jameson. She even figured out the time difference and called him once – the first time she had ever called him, in the entire time they'd known each other.
He didn't answer.
By Saturday afternoon, she was a wreck. The house had been turned upside down by event planners. Sanders was running around, helping to get everything ready. Tate hovered in the background. Helped where she was needed, asked Sanders if there was anything she could do, but he had practically become a mime. He wouldn't speak, not if he didn't have to. Finally, she cracked and texted Jameson.
Is this a game?
It was hours before he replied. She was laying in his bed, ready to go to sleep, when her phone dinged.
Yes.
She sat up, turned on a light.
What are the rules?
No more rules.
That sounds dangerous.
I thought you liked danger.
She chewed on her bottom lip, glanced around the room.
What is going on?
But he ignored her question and asked one of his own.
Where are you, right now?
Your room.
In my bed?
Yes.
Good.
What is going on?
See you soon, baby girl.
He wouldn't respond to anymore of her texts. She stayed awake for the rest of the night.
*
The next evening, some of Jameson's colleagues showed up early for the party, made themselves at home in his library. Tate got ready, wandered around the house. She was coming out of the kitchen, struggling to open a jar of peanut butter, when laughter burst out of the library. She stopped by the door.
“Clever man. Keeping girls on two continents,” one was guffawing.
Tate's breathing doubled.
“Which one do you think he likes better?” another voice.
“Well, the girl here seems wilder, more his tastes. I bet she's an animal in the sack.”
She nodded to herself. Sounded like her.
“But Pet's more polished, more refined. You can take Pet to parties; you take the other girl to bed.”
Tate pressed herself against the library door. Fuck being subtle.
“Yes, but what do you do with both of them at once?”
“Sounds like a hell of a party!”
Bawdy laughter.
“I guess we'll find out, they'll be here tonight.”
“What's-her-name is already here.”
“Jameson and Pet got in on the six o'clock flight. They should be here any time now.”
