Reparation
Page 68
“... you don't get to tell me what to do ...”
Sanders strode around the desk. Jameson burst out loudly in Spanish, telling him to walk away. Sanders ignored him and knelt down, groping under the desk. Jameson wheeled out of the way, looking completely bewildered. Sanders' fingers came across the power strip and he yanked it forward. Pulled every single plug out of the sockets. Jameson jumped out of his chair.
“Dije ahora,” Sanders said in a soft voice as he stood up.
“Que cono te crees que estas haciendo!?” Jameson demanded. Sanders straightened his tie.
“Vulgar words are still vulgar, in any language,” he pointed out.
“I don't give a fuck! Do you have any idea how much money you probably just cost us!?” Jameson shouted.
“You have enough money.”
“What the fuck has gotten into you!? For three weeks, you have been moping around the house, and now -,”
“No more than you.”
Jameson. Looked. Pissed.
“Mi corazon es el mismo que se ha pisado,” he growled. Sanders rolled his eyes.
“The way you behave, sir, most wouldn't know you even had a heart, let alone one to get stepped on. You have moped just as much as I have. We have both missed her. It is time,” Sanders snapped.
“Time for what?” Jameson snapped back.
“Time to go and get her.”
“I am not -,”
“I was not asking, sir.”
Jameson. Looked. Shocked.
“Where on earth did you go for lunch, Sanders?” he asked, almost laughing.
“I met with Mr. Hollingsworth.”
“Mierda.”
“He is ..., concerned. About Tatum,” Sanders started.
“Big fucking shock. Need I remind you, Sanders, that she is not concerned about us. She didn't just leave me,” he pointed out.
“No. But she did invite me to go with her.”
Jameson fell back into his seat.
“I just can't win with her. She wants to get away from me? Maybe I need to get away from her. I used to be a nice, normal, borderline sociopath. I would like to get back to that,” he groaned. Sanders moved to sit in a chair across from the desk.
“No you wouldn't. I have let you get your wind back. Now it is time to go,” Sanders said.
“I don't want to go to goddamn Arizona. I want that bitch to rot in hell, and I want to stay as far away from her as I possibly fucking can,” Jameson swore.
“Do not speak of her like that.”
“I'll speak of her anyway I want to. I'm the one who got treated like shit. I'm the one who got lied to. Walked out on. I can't just forget that, Sanders. Maybe you can, but I can't,” Jameson snapped.
“Stop being overdramatic. You are upset because you care. The sooner you accept that, the sooner we can get over your insecurities and go get her,” Sanders snapped back.
“She didn't trust me. After everything, she didn't trust me. Do you know what that fucking feels like!?” Jameson was almost shouting. Sanders nodded.
“Probably awfully similar to how she felt, when you brought Petrushka home to humiliate her,” he replied.
Jameson closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Sanders had hit a chord.
“Say we go there. Say I let you drag me all the way to fucking Arizona. What if she's with him? Did you ever think of that? What if it's too late, and she is already making a happy home with her boyfriend?” Jameson asked. Sanders shrugged.
“Then we will know, and we will leave. But we have to try,” he urged.
“You have to try. I don't have to do sh-,”
“Mr. Hollingsworth thinks she is going to marry him,” Sanders burst out. It was reaching. Most definitely stretching the truth. But Ang had definitely said all those words; just mostly at different times. Jameson's eyebrows shot up.
“Really. After three weeks. Quick operator,” he said in a soft voice. Sanders cleared his throat.
“Someday. He thinks she is convincing herself that Mr. Castille is what she wants in life. I think she wants to feel loved and wanted. Mr. Castille gives her those things,” Sanders explained.
“And I didn't?”
“No.”
“Siempre Tatum. Obligarme a hacer cosas que no quiero hacer,” Jameson mumbled, staring off into space.
“It seems to me, sir, that she never once made you do something that you didn't want to do,” Sanders countered.
“No. No, I suppose not. I'm going to be honest, Sanders. If we go there, and she can't be won over; if I find out that she really never loved me ..., I am not going to handle it too well,” Jameson warned him.
“No, I wouldn't imagine you would. But would you rather continue on, not knowing?” Sanders asked.
“Sometimes, I think I would. I don't like being scared.”
Jameson's voice was soft, almost like he was afraid to say it out loud. Sanders frowned and looked out a window. He didn't like hearing those things. It was one thing for him to assume them about Jameson, it was another for Jameson to admit them. Jameson was a powerful man. Not just in Sanders' mind, but in real life. In the world. A man not to be reckoned with – and Tatum O'Shea had managed to scare him.
“I will be right there with you, sir,” Sanders assured him. Jameson snorted.
“Sometimes I don't know whose side you're on,” he grumbled.
“When are we leaving?” Sanders asked.
Sanders strode around the desk. Jameson burst out loudly in Spanish, telling him to walk away. Sanders ignored him and knelt down, groping under the desk. Jameson wheeled out of the way, looking completely bewildered. Sanders' fingers came across the power strip and he yanked it forward. Pulled every single plug out of the sockets. Jameson jumped out of his chair.
“Dije ahora,” Sanders said in a soft voice as he stood up.
“Que cono te crees que estas haciendo!?” Jameson demanded. Sanders straightened his tie.
“Vulgar words are still vulgar, in any language,” he pointed out.
“I don't give a fuck! Do you have any idea how much money you probably just cost us!?” Jameson shouted.
“You have enough money.”
“What the fuck has gotten into you!? For three weeks, you have been moping around the house, and now -,”
“No more than you.”
Jameson. Looked. Pissed.
“Mi corazon es el mismo que se ha pisado,” he growled. Sanders rolled his eyes.
“The way you behave, sir, most wouldn't know you even had a heart, let alone one to get stepped on. You have moped just as much as I have. We have both missed her. It is time,” Sanders snapped.
“Time for what?” Jameson snapped back.
“Time to go and get her.”
“I am not -,”
“I was not asking, sir.”
Jameson. Looked. Shocked.
“Where on earth did you go for lunch, Sanders?” he asked, almost laughing.
“I met with Mr. Hollingsworth.”
“Mierda.”
“He is ..., concerned. About Tatum,” Sanders started.
“Big fucking shock. Need I remind you, Sanders, that she is not concerned about us. She didn't just leave me,” he pointed out.
“No. But she did invite me to go with her.”
Jameson fell back into his seat.
“I just can't win with her. She wants to get away from me? Maybe I need to get away from her. I used to be a nice, normal, borderline sociopath. I would like to get back to that,” he groaned. Sanders moved to sit in a chair across from the desk.
“No you wouldn't. I have let you get your wind back. Now it is time to go,” Sanders said.
“I don't want to go to goddamn Arizona. I want that bitch to rot in hell, and I want to stay as far away from her as I possibly fucking can,” Jameson swore.
“Do not speak of her like that.”
“I'll speak of her anyway I want to. I'm the one who got treated like shit. I'm the one who got lied to. Walked out on. I can't just forget that, Sanders. Maybe you can, but I can't,” Jameson snapped.
“Stop being overdramatic. You are upset because you care. The sooner you accept that, the sooner we can get over your insecurities and go get her,” Sanders snapped back.
“She didn't trust me. After everything, she didn't trust me. Do you know what that fucking feels like!?” Jameson was almost shouting. Sanders nodded.
“Probably awfully similar to how she felt, when you brought Petrushka home to humiliate her,” he replied.
Jameson closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Sanders had hit a chord.
“Say we go there. Say I let you drag me all the way to fucking Arizona. What if she's with him? Did you ever think of that? What if it's too late, and she is already making a happy home with her boyfriend?” Jameson asked. Sanders shrugged.
“Then we will know, and we will leave. But we have to try,” he urged.
“You have to try. I don't have to do sh-,”
“Mr. Hollingsworth thinks she is going to marry him,” Sanders burst out. It was reaching. Most definitely stretching the truth. But Ang had definitely said all those words; just mostly at different times. Jameson's eyebrows shot up.
“Really. After three weeks. Quick operator,” he said in a soft voice. Sanders cleared his throat.
“Someday. He thinks she is convincing herself that Mr. Castille is what she wants in life. I think she wants to feel loved and wanted. Mr. Castille gives her those things,” Sanders explained.
“And I didn't?”
“No.”
“Siempre Tatum. Obligarme a hacer cosas que no quiero hacer,” Jameson mumbled, staring off into space.
“It seems to me, sir, that she never once made you do something that you didn't want to do,” Sanders countered.
“No. No, I suppose not. I'm going to be honest, Sanders. If we go there, and she can't be won over; if I find out that she really never loved me ..., I am not going to handle it too well,” Jameson warned him.
“No, I wouldn't imagine you would. But would you rather continue on, not knowing?” Sanders asked.
“Sometimes, I think I would. I don't like being scared.”
Jameson's voice was soft, almost like he was afraid to say it out loud. Sanders frowned and looked out a window. He didn't like hearing those things. It was one thing for him to assume them about Jameson, it was another for Jameson to admit them. Jameson was a powerful man. Not just in Sanders' mind, but in real life. In the world. A man not to be reckoned with – and Tatum O'Shea had managed to scare him.
“I will be right there with you, sir,” Sanders assured him. Jameson snorted.
“Sometimes I don't know whose side you're on,” he grumbled.
“When are we leaving?” Sanders asked.
