Separation (6 page)

“You're so gross.”

“Hey, I can't help it if Judge Judy -,” Tate started to get off the elevator, but he grabbed her elbow, holding her in place.

“Shit. I didn't think this would happen.”

She stared at him, worried about what he was gonna say next, but then she realized he wasn't even looking at her. Nick was looking past her, out the front windows of the lobby. She turned her head to follow his gaze and gasped at what she saw.

Outside the glass doors was a sea of what looked like reporters. A crowd of men and women, some video cameras, tons of digital cameras, microphones, the works. All of them were looking in the glass, into the lobby. A line of uniformed bellmen and doormen were attempting to keep them at bay. Tate's jaw hung open and she turned back to Nick.

“What the fuck is going on!?” she demanded. Nick winced.

“A teammate of mine is in some trouble. Last night, the shit hit the fan. He was using all these crazy drugs, brought some hooker to a hotel room, and his girlfriend caught him. I guess a massive fight ensued. All three were arrested. The press here in Boston is having a field day. I guess they caught wind of this party,” he explained.

“Yeah, well, obviously they did. How do we get out of here?” Tate asked. He sighed.

“My car should just be on the other side of them. We'll plow through, just keep your head down and please, don't say anything,” Nick asked, then started walking forward, keeping her next to him with his grip on her elbow.

“Plow through them!? Nick, there's like fifty people out there!” she snapped. He laughed.

“Not that many. And look, there's hotel security out there – they'll help us through,” Nick pointed out, and at that same moment, a large guy walked in the front doors. He walked up to them and shook hands with Nick.

“I'm Barney Noughby, head of security. Very sorry about this, Mr. Castille. One of the guests at the party, I guess, called one of the papers, and now they're all here. Want me to bring your car around back?” Barney offered. Tate nodded her head yes, vigorously, but Nick just waved the suggestion away.

“We're right here, let's just get this over with,” he replied.

“Alright. Don't worry about a thing, ma'am, it'll be over before you know it,” Barney assured her. She held onto her purse strap and nodded.

Barney nodded one more time, then yanked open the doors. The sound was deafening, all the reporters and paparazzi shouting Nick's name, asking questions. Did he know about his teammate's drug use? Did Nick use drugs? Did Nick use prostitutes? Who was the woman he was with? Did
she
use drugs? Was
she
a prostitute?

Tate had to resist the urge to punch one reporter in the throat. Barney stuck by her side for the most part, and she kept her face pointed at the ground. But then a paparazzi grabbed Nick's suit jacket, yanked him into the mob of people. A scuffle started, Nick trying to pull away, more people grabbing at him. Barney leapt into the fray, pulling Nick back and shoving at the reporters. Tate fell a few steps behind, and a reporter grabbed her.

“Miss! Miss! Were you and Nick at the party last night!?” a man screamed in her face.

Flashes were going off all around her and she felt claustrophobic. Tate tried to push away, but someone had a tight grip on her coat. She yanked away again, bumped into someone behind her, then got shoved forward. She lost her footing and started to fall forward, shrieking as she went.

Well, this isn't exactly how I wanted to end this night – flat on my face in front of a million reporters.

But she didn't land on her face. There was a loud shout, commotion around her, and someone grabbed her arm. Yanked her upright. Tate stumbled forward and was pressed flat against a very solid chest. A strong arm wrapped around her shoulders. Tate looked up to see it was Nick who had saved her from complete embarrassment. He was holding her against him while he shouted angrily at the reporters behind them. She had never seen him look so mad.

So much for being like a kitten.

“Are you okay?” he asked, finally looking down at her. Everyone was shouting around them, but he was speaking softly to her.

“Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks for saving me,” she joked.

“I should've had them bring the car around back. I'm so sorry,” he told her, then brushed a hand over her hair, letting his fingers trail through the dark locks. She swallowed thickly.

Maybe falling on my face would've been better.

“Nick, we should -,”

He was kissing her then, and she turned into a statue. Tate hadn't kissed him since the one time they'd slept together, and even then, they hadn't spent much time locking lips. It had been a purely sexual thing.

But there didn't seem to be anything sexual about this kiss. The arm around her waist squeezed harder, and one of his hands moved to the back of her head, holding her tighter against him. She had acknowledged to herself that Nick had a crush on her, but she hadn't thought it was anything more than that. His kiss was now saying otherwise. All his longing, all his desire for her; she could feel it all. And more. This was a man who desperately wanted her.

Tate pressed her hands against his shoulders, but didn't know what else to do. It seemed like thousands of flashes were going off all around them. She was frozen. She didn't want to shove him away and embarrass him further, but she couldn't kiss him back. Not in the same way he was kissing her. Her heart just wasn't in it.

Poor, poor, Nick. Never could tell a succubus when he saw one.

When Nick finally pulled away, a thousand more questions were screamed out by the reporters, but he ignored them. He stared down at her for a long moment. Tate licked her lips nervously, forcing herself not to look away. He frowned, traced his thumb down the side of her cheek, then he was turning away, leading her to the car. Tate kept her head down again, shielding her face with her hand.

Why can't I lead a nice, normal life?

Tate waited outside for Sanders the following night, trying to smoke as many cigarettes as she could before he got there. Sanders hated her new habit, so she never smoked around him. But her nerves were still a little on edge.

The car ride home the night before had been awkward, to say the least. Nick apologized for kissing her, explained that he hadn't planned on it, that it had just happened. He liked Tate,
a lot
. But he understood that she was still hung up on her past. Still hung up on Jameson. He promised he wouldn't press his attentions on her.

Thinking about it gave her a headache, so she lit up another cigarette.

She glanced at her cell phone, then looked down the street. One more minute, and he'd be late. Sanders was never late. She thought about trying to call her sister while she waited. Tate figured it was probably a good time to think about moving. Her sister had moved into a much nicer place than Tate's old apartment – Tate figured she could hole up there while she looked for a job.

What the hell do I even know how to do, besides sling drinks, walk dogs, and give good head? Though that does make for one hell of a resume ...

Her phone lit up and she pressed it to her ear.

“You're late,” she sang out, chucking her cigarette into a gutter.

“I am never late. I am coming around the corner, I wanted to make sure you were outside,” Sanders replied.

“Yes, kind sir, I am patiently awaiting your arrival,” she laughed.

Tate's laughter got caught in her throat, though, when a large, black car pulled up to the curb in front of her. She stood completely still, didn't make any move towards it. Not even when Sanders got out and came around to stand in front of her.

“Happy birthday,” he said, his voice softer than normal.

“What ..., what is this?” she asked, glancing between him and the car.

“I thought it was time.”

It was a Bentley Flying Spur. Inky black and shiny, blending in with the city. Tate had known the make and model the minute she saw it; the same way she knew the interior was all buttery leather, and that it always,
always
, had that “new car” smell. She had been in it many, many times. She had some pretty incredible memories in that car.

And some pretty fucking awful ones.

“Time for what? What does that mean?” Tate asked, starting to panic a little. If Jameson climbed out of the car ...

“It means I finally got my car back. There were a lot of problems with getting the work done on it. My name isn't the only one on the title, I ran into some issues. Please, we'll be late for dinner,” Sanders informed her, putting a hand on her back and urging her forward.

Sliding into her seat was like sliding into a panic attack. Tate had never sat in the front while Sanders was driving, only ever the back seat.
With Jameson
. And there was one time she sat behind the wheel. Almost her
last time
behind a wheel.

I hate this fucking car. It's like a goddamn hearse.

“Why didn't you just get a new one?” Tate croaked out when he got into the driver's seat.

“I didn't want a new one, I wanted mine back. Seatbelts,” Sanders reminded her, then leaned across her so he could buckle her in.

“Why are you doing this?” she whispered. He glanced at her. His eyes were large, and an interesting gray-blue color combination. Like there was always a storm brewing in them.

“If I may be blunt, I am tired of pussy-footing around you. This is my car. I like my car. I want to drive my car. You do not own a car, so if you need me to take you somewhere, then it will have to be in
this
car,” Sanders replied.

She was so shocked, she started laughing.

“This is going to be one hell of a birthday, isn't it?” Tate laughed. He snorted and pulled the car into traffic.

“It's just dinner. How was your party last night? I saw The Globe today,” he told her.

“God, don't remind me, I've been getting a million texts about it. Rusty is already planning my wedding,” she groaned, trying to sit as straight as possible so she wouldn't touch the leather any more than was necessary.

Remember the time
he
took the car without telling Sanders and drove you all the way to Provincetown, then when you got there, you didn't even get out, he just took off your – SHUT UP! SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!

“Care to explain?” Sanders asked.

“It was an accident. The party was boring, and Ang and I had kind of a fight, but then a breakthrough thing, I don't know. Then Nick and I went to leave, and there were all these reporters, and I got knocked down, and he saved me, but then he kissed me, and …, and I didn't know what to do! I couldn't shove him away, not in front of all those cameras,” Tate explained quickly. Sanders nodded.

“I see. Did you want to shove him away?” he asked for clarification.

She paused for a moment, really thinking about it.

“Yes. I mean, kissing is great and all, I just ..., don't want ...
that
, right now. From anyone,” Tate replied.

“So it wasn't because it was him?”

She glanced across the car.

“Sandy, are you jealous?” she teased. The back of his neck turned pink and she laughed.

“No, I am not jealous. Your relationship with Mr. Castille has never made sense to me, I am just trying to figure it out,” Sanders replied while pulling the car up in front of a swanky restaurant.

“Why doesn't it make sense? We're friends. Or I mean, I thought we were friends,” she told him before getting out of the car. A valet ushered them to the front doors.

“Exactly. Clearly, Mr. Castille sees it another way. And I know Mr. Hollingsworth doesn't care for the relationship,” Sanders pointed out.

“Oh, Ang is just worried about me. Hey! Did you know he has a girlfriend?” Tate changed the subject while a maître d' led them to a table. They had barely been seated before a bottle of champagne was brought out to them with great flourish. After Sanders approved of the taste, the waitstaff scurried away and they were left alone.

“Yes, I know he has been seeing someone,” Sanders answered her question. She was surprised. While not exactly friends, Ang and Sanders had met, and got along on a basic level. Neither asked the other a lot of questions, and that seemed to appeal to both of them.

“Who is she?” Tate pressed. Sanders raised his eyebrows.

“He hasn't told you?”

“No, I just found out last night, and he wouldn't say her name.”

“He hasn't said anything to me, I just know that he has been seeing someone.”

“Sandy, you're so good at getting people to talk, maybe you could just -,”

“
No.
”

“But I'm dying to know!”

“No, I am not asking him.”

“
Sandyyyyyyyy!
”

“Not this again.”

“Sandy, please! Please! Please!” she whined in a high pitched voice. He pressed his lips together.

“No. It's none of our business,” he reminded her.

“
Fiiiiiiiiine,
” Tate groaned.

“Besides. I thought maybe
I
could ask some questions tonight,” Sanders said.

She was blown away,
again
. He just kept shocking her. Sanders talking in whole paragraphs was monumental enough, but asking questions? Being
engaging?
She almost felt dizzy. She
definitely
felt nervous.

“Of course, of course, go right ahead,” she offered.

“I want you to know,” he started, his eyes staring straight down while his posture remained as straight as an arrow. “I admire you a great deal, for how you've handled this whole situation, this last month.”

She instantly teared up.

“Sanders, I -,”

“And I wanted you to know that I understand how you feel, about
him
.
I understand
why you feel that way. I know that things cannot be taken back, once they have been said and done,” Sanders continued.

Always about Jameson.

“Thank you,” Tate responded, waving a hand in front of her eyes to keep the tears from spilling.

“
But
– he is a large part of my life. I don't want to have to choose between the two of you. I have avoided talking about him or anything to do with him up until now, just for your sake. This cannot always be, I owe my life to him. I am not proud of what he did, I am not making excuses for it, but his home is my home. He is the only family I have,” Sanders reminded her. She nodded her head.

“I know that. I would never make you choose, Sandy, he's your family, I'm just -,” she tried to assure him.

“You are very important, too,” Sanders assured her first. She laughed and wiped at her eyes.

“Thank you. Thank you for telling me all this, but I've gotta say, it makes me nervous. He's not gonna pop out of a cake or something, is he?” she joked.

“I shall notify the kitchen to cancel dessert.”

Tate didn't stop laughing until a waiter came to pat her on the back.

“I'm not gonna lie, it's not easy. I don't like ..., thinking about him, or those days. I don't talk about him. But I don't want you to feel like you can't be around me just because you also need to be around him. I wouldn't do that to you,” she told him again.

“Thank you.”

She thought he was going to continue on, maybe tell hilarious anecdotes about his and Jameson's life in the country as bachelors, now that Tate was out of the picture. Oh, the shenanigans they probably got into together! To get through it, she would probably have to stab herself in the thigh with a fork, but she would suffer through it. For Sanders.

But he didn't. Their appetizers were brought out, and they chatted over normal things. Sanders was an avid horse rider, and Tate had ridden all through school, so they talked about horses and stables, the best places to ride. He complimented her hair and she complimented his suit. He promised that after dinner he would take her to McDonald's, so she could get a Happy Meal with a toy – she should have something to unwrap on her birthday, after all, and she could never resist a milkshake. She hugged him from across the table.

“This was awesome, Sandy, thank you so much for taking me out,” Tate said as she scraped the last little bit of cake off her dessert plate. It was promptly whisked away, and two tiny glasses of port appeared in front of them.

“Of course. I always enjoy our dinners. Which leads me to ask, I was wondering something. You can say no, I won't get mad. It was just an idea I had,” he started, sipping at the dark wine. Her defenses immediately went up. Apparently the conversation from earlier wasn't over.

“Alright. What is it?” she asked slowly.

“I am a fairly accomplished cook. I thought it would be nice to make you dinner one of these nights,” Sanders told her. She raised her eyebrows.

“Of course! Just tell me when, and I'll come over to your place -,”

“I moved out of the hotel,” he said quickly. Her breath caught in her throat. There was only one other place he would go.

“Sandy,
I know
, I know he's your family, but I can't. I just can't go sit and have dinner with him. I'm not making you choose, really, I just can't be in that house, with him. I can't,
I can't,
” Tate was speaking at supersonic speeds. Sanders reached out and rested his hand on her arm, and she was instantly soothed. He
never
touched anybody, so any display of affection from him was a massive one.

“He's not there. He left the country. He hasn't been home for almost six weeks,” Sanders explained.

Six weeks. Tate had been out of the hospital for almost exactly six weeks. Apparently when she had said she wanted him gone, Jameson had taken her very literally. She was such a stupid girl, her stupid heart had believed him again. So much for seeing her around. Kind of hard to do from 3,000 miles away. Or was Berlin 4,000 miles away? She wasn't sure.

Goddamn fucking stupid Danish beauty FUCK. FUCKER.

“Oh. I just ..., I don't know. Let me think about it? It's hard, Sandy. It's ..., hard,” Tate's voice fell in to a whisper.

Jameson's house had become home to Tate, in the short period of time she had stayed there. It was where she had met Sanders, a soulmate. It's where she had met her match, in Satan. More than her match, it turned out. She had left a piece of herself in that house, imbedded in the structure, buried in the foundation. She wasn't ready to get it back yet.

“Of course, no pressure,” Sanders assured her. She smiled.

“You could always come cook at our place. Nick has a really nice, commercial grade stove,” she told him. His lips quirked to the side.

“May I ask you one more question?” Sanders ignored her suggestion.

“Yes.”