Separation
Page 20
She never got an answer. Sanders left her outside, in front of the arrivals area, while he took off for a parking garage. She was a little surprised. She had assumed they would just take a taxi or a shuttle to get to their hotel – or yacht, now – after they landed. But after about ten minutes of waiting, a white, convertible, older model Rolls-Royce pulled up in front of her. It was in perfect condition. Tate gaped as Sanders got out of the car and came around to grab her luggage.
“You rented a Rolls-Royce!?” she exclaimed. He cleared his throat.
“It's a Corniche III. 1990,” he replied, loading up all their belongings in to the trunk.
“It's beautiful, but it's a bit much, considering I plan on spending 90% of my time on the beach,” Tate laughed. He glanced at her and then went back to the driver's side.
“Well, I don't. Let's go,” he urged.
The interior was all leather and wood paneling. It screamed old money to her, reminded her of cars her father had owned. Normally, those kinds of things made her uncomfortable, but sitting in that car, cruising down a highway in Spain, did wonders for her inner-abused-child.
Spain was having an unseasonably warm winter. Though it wasn't really considered hot out by the locals, to Tate's winter climatized-body, it felt like heaven. Temperatures in Boston had been in the thirties when they left; now she was sitting in over sixty degrees. She loved it.
“This was such a good idea!” Tate had to yell over the wind. She had begged him to take the top down.
“Good. I'm very glad you're happy. That's all I ever want,” Sanders replied. She laughed and turned to look at him. He had taken off his suit jacket and put on a pair of sunglasses. Dressed down for him. It was almost like seeing him in his pajamas, or something.
“Well, mission accomplished, sir,” she laughed, then reached out and rubbed her hand against the back of his neck.
They drove like that for a while, Tate with her fingers in his hair, scratching up and down lightly. He kept twitching his head to avoid her touch, but eventually he gave in, like he always did. By the time they were entering Marbella proper, he was actually resting the back of his head in her hand.
“Tatum,” Sanders said, sitting upright. Tate pulled her hand away and sat up as well. “I, personally, feel that I have infallible judgement. If more people would just listen to me, I think things would run a lot smoother.”
“And modest. Don't forget that you're modest,” she teased. He took off his glasses and glanced at her.
“Modesty isn't necessary. I pride myself on being logical,” Sanders replied.
“Cut to the chase, Sandy. What's up?” she asked.
“I just wanted to say that, just so you'd know,” was his explanation. She snorted.
“Alright. So you're smarter than all of us. Awesome. I can moonwalk better than anyone I know, so we're practically equals,” she pointed out. He barked out a laugh.
And now I can die happy.
Sanders pulled up in front of a large building and asked her to step out of the car. Tate waited while he went and parked in some underground garage. She had thought she would be more jet lagged, but she wasn't. She was excited. It was late morning, and there were a lot of people walking around, sight-seeing. It made her itch to get moving and looking around. Finally, Sanders joined her, pulling their luggage behind him.
“Alright, let's go,” was all he said, surging ahead of her when she tried to grab her suitcase.
“So where is this yacht? Are we gonna stay on it the whole time?” she asked while they crossed the street.
“The yacht is in the marina right in front of us. How long we stay is entirely up to you,” he replied. Tate laughed.
“What if I get sea sick and want to leave an hour after we board?” she joked. Sanders snorted.
“Then I will fetch you a sick bag and you can learn to deal with it.”
Tate knew where they were, though she didn't tell him that. They were entering Puerto Banus – nicknamed “The Millionaires Playground”, because it was the marina of choice for many celebrities and wealthy people.
She managed to keep her composure while they walked amongst the rows of mammoth boats. She didn't see any famous people, but she looked as hard as she could. Tate came from a wealthy family, but she hadn't been around much opulence. Her father was a very conservative man – yachts on the Costa Del Sol weren't really his style.
She was trying so hard to see everything, that she wasn't paying attention to what was right in front of her. Tate was vaguely aware that someone was walking down the gangplank of a yacht a couple sleeves down from them. Though it was a beautiful boat, it certainly wasn't the biggest, so she figured whoever it was couldn't have been a celebrity, and she kept looking over the other boats.
Sanders actually tipped her off. His steps got tighter, his back straighter. It was like watching someone pull a string on a marionette. One right twitch, and everything locked into place on Sanders. It was a sign of some sort of distress. Nervous, or anxious, or upset, or angry. She wondered if they were finally at their boat and something was amiss.
“Sandy, I was just kidding, you know I'd love anything you'd -,” Tate started, turning to look ahead of them, following his gaze. Her voice died in her throat.
Eight weeks. Four days. Eleven hours.
She stopped walking.
Seven years.
Stopped breathing.
Not long enough.
“You rented a Rolls-Royce!?” she exclaimed. He cleared his throat.
“It's a Corniche III. 1990,” he replied, loading up all their belongings in to the trunk.
“It's beautiful, but it's a bit much, considering I plan on spending 90% of my time on the beach,” Tate laughed. He glanced at her and then went back to the driver's side.
“Well, I don't. Let's go,” he urged.
The interior was all leather and wood paneling. It screamed old money to her, reminded her of cars her father had owned. Normally, those kinds of things made her uncomfortable, but sitting in that car, cruising down a highway in Spain, did wonders for her inner-abused-child.
Spain was having an unseasonably warm winter. Though it wasn't really considered hot out by the locals, to Tate's winter climatized-body, it felt like heaven. Temperatures in Boston had been in the thirties when they left; now she was sitting in over sixty degrees. She loved it.
“This was such a good idea!” Tate had to yell over the wind. She had begged him to take the top down.
“Good. I'm very glad you're happy. That's all I ever want,” Sanders replied. She laughed and turned to look at him. He had taken off his suit jacket and put on a pair of sunglasses. Dressed down for him. It was almost like seeing him in his pajamas, or something.
“Well, mission accomplished, sir,” she laughed, then reached out and rubbed her hand against the back of his neck.
They drove like that for a while, Tate with her fingers in his hair, scratching up and down lightly. He kept twitching his head to avoid her touch, but eventually he gave in, like he always did. By the time they were entering Marbella proper, he was actually resting the back of his head in her hand.
“Tatum,” Sanders said, sitting upright. Tate pulled her hand away and sat up as well. “I, personally, feel that I have infallible judgement. If more people would just listen to me, I think things would run a lot smoother.”
“And modest. Don't forget that you're modest,” she teased. He took off his glasses and glanced at her.
“Modesty isn't necessary. I pride myself on being logical,” Sanders replied.
“Cut to the chase, Sandy. What's up?” she asked.
“I just wanted to say that, just so you'd know,” was his explanation. She snorted.
“Alright. So you're smarter than all of us. Awesome. I can moonwalk better than anyone I know, so we're practically equals,” she pointed out. He barked out a laugh.
And now I can die happy.
Sanders pulled up in front of a large building and asked her to step out of the car. Tate waited while he went and parked in some underground garage. She had thought she would be more jet lagged, but she wasn't. She was excited. It was late morning, and there were a lot of people walking around, sight-seeing. It made her itch to get moving and looking around. Finally, Sanders joined her, pulling their luggage behind him.
“Alright, let's go,” was all he said, surging ahead of her when she tried to grab her suitcase.
“So where is this yacht? Are we gonna stay on it the whole time?” she asked while they crossed the street.
“The yacht is in the marina right in front of us. How long we stay is entirely up to you,” he replied. Tate laughed.
“What if I get sea sick and want to leave an hour after we board?” she joked. Sanders snorted.
“Then I will fetch you a sick bag and you can learn to deal with it.”
Tate knew where they were, though she didn't tell him that. They were entering Puerto Banus – nicknamed “The Millionaires Playground”, because it was the marina of choice for many celebrities and wealthy people.
She managed to keep her composure while they walked amongst the rows of mammoth boats. She didn't see any famous people, but she looked as hard as she could. Tate came from a wealthy family, but she hadn't been around much opulence. Her father was a very conservative man – yachts on the Costa Del Sol weren't really his style.
She was trying so hard to see everything, that she wasn't paying attention to what was right in front of her. Tate was vaguely aware that someone was walking down the gangplank of a yacht a couple sleeves down from them. Though it was a beautiful boat, it certainly wasn't the biggest, so she figured whoever it was couldn't have been a celebrity, and she kept looking over the other boats.
Sanders actually tipped her off. His steps got tighter, his back straighter. It was like watching someone pull a string on a marionette. One right twitch, and everything locked into place on Sanders. It was a sign of some sort of distress. Nervous, or anxious, or upset, or angry. She wondered if they were finally at their boat and something was amiss.
“Sandy, I was just kidding, you know I'd love anything you'd -,” Tate started, turning to look ahead of them, following his gaze. Her voice died in her throat.
Eight weeks. Four days. Eleven hours.
She stopped walking.
Seven years.
Stopped breathing.
Not long enough.
