Separation (8 page)

“I think he's fine. He's not my husband, just a good friend,” Tate explained. The attendant laughed.

“Oh, madam, he is much too handsome to be just a friend,” she laughed, then winked at Tate before moving on down the aisle.

Tate took another look at Sanders. He was a very good looking man. He had a slender frame and wasn't particularly tall, but his face had that
Look
– like a Louis Vuitton runway model. Fair skin, full lips, defined jaw.
Almost
androgynous, but not quite. Pretty was a word that often came to her mind when thinking of him. Sanders was a very pretty man. She had never been physically attracted to him herself, but she thought it was funny when she was with him, watching other women do double takes. It was the same thing with Ang. Apparently Tate only surrounded herself with good looking men, because Satan was the best looking of them all, and Nick was no slouch, either.

Nick. She sighed and glanced at her phone. He had texted her, during their brief stop in Paris. He had not been happy about her leaving. After their highly publicized little lip-lock, he had gone back to Iowa to spend Christmas with his family. He had invited her, but Tate had figured that was a bad idea on a cosmic scale.

Apparently saying he wasn't going to press his attentions on her
really meant
he wouldn't bother her about it unless she was out of his sight. Now Nick was making his feelings known, very vehemently. He cared about Tate. He thought they made a great team, a great couple. They already knew they were physically compatible. What was the problem? Was it him?

The problem was ..., she didn't know what her problem was, Tate just knew she couldn't be with him. Not that way. She hadn't told Sanders any of it, because she knew he would just tell her to end the friendship. And she didn't want to do that. She opened her text messages.

Please tell me you have spent at least half as much time thinking about me as I have about you.

Tate hadn't texted him back, because she hadn't been thinking about him. God, she was an awful person. A horrible, awful person. She cared about Nick a lot, but just as a friend. She had no desire for it to be anything more.

She looked around at the other men sitting in first class. She wondered if she would
ever
want “
anything more
” with someone else. She hadn't slept with anyone in almost three months. Her longest dry spell since she had run away to Boston, seven years ago. Men and sex were so far off her radar, she was practically a nun.

She actually laughed out loud at that thought.

When they got off the plane in Malaga, Tate teased Sanders about falling asleep. He was such a highly strung person, imagining him nodding off in front of people was hard, but he'd been out like a light for the whole ride. He wouldn't meet her eyes as they picked up their luggage.

“I have been under a lot of stress lately,” he replied. She stopped smiling.

“Really? Is it because of the trip?” she worried out loud. He shook his head.

“No. Just some ..., work issues,” was all he said, then he started heading out of the baggage area.

It wasn't until they were through customs and actually walking outside that she was able to question him about his “
work issues
” – as far as she knew, Sanders didn't have a job. He had worked as Jameson's personal assistant, but the title was more for him than out of necessity. Jameson paid for everything. The Bentley, Sanders' clothes, his living situation,
everything
. And after Jameson had kicked Tate out of the house, Sanders had quit. Moved out. The two had made up, but Tate knew Sanders had refused to work for him again. So what was he talking about?

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.

“It took a lot of trouble to get you here. The least you could do is smile, baby girl.”

Before Jameson even left the hospital, he'd had a plan. She had said she wanted him to go away. To leave. To be gone.

But she never once said anything about not seeing him again. He considered that a loophole.

Sanders was waiting outside, as Jameson had expected. He would have known that it wouldn't end well. Jameson strode past him, heading straight for the parking lot. Sanders followed behind.

“Are you alright?” he asked. Jameson nodded.

“Of course. She asked me to leave. I left,” he replied.

“That's it?”

“There were a few more curse words, some screaming, but yes, that's pretty much it.”

“And you're just going to go?”

“What other choice do I have?” Jameson asked, glancing down at the other man.

“You could fight for her,” Sanders pointed out. Jameson laughed.

“Let's not get radical. Besides, you and I both know that wouldn't work. She wants me gone, so I'm going to go. I'm going to head back to Europe,” he said. Sanders narrowed his eyes.

“With
her
?” he practically hissed. Jameson shook his head.

“No, Pet's already gone, I kicked her out that night. I'm not going to Berlin. I was thinking Spain. We haven't done Spain in a long time. Sunshine is good for the soul,” Jameson explained.

“I am not going to Spain with you,” Sanders said quickly. Jameson laughed.

“Of course not. I need you here,” he replied.

“I won't work for you.”

“I'm not hiring you. But I will need you to do me some favors,” he told him. Sanders stopped walking.

“Last time you asked me to do something for you, someone very close to us almost died,” he reminded him. Jameson's smile vanished and he turned to face him.

“I am very aware of what I have done, I don't need you reminding me. Listen. I am going to Spain. I am going to be gone for a while. But when I call – and I
will
call – you have to promise me that you will do everything in your power to fulfill my wishes,” Jameson said. Sanders shook his head.

“No, I won't risk her -,” he started to argue, when Jameson held up his hand.

“Just trust me, Sanders. Surely one mistake won't erase a lifetime of you trusting me,” Jameson snapped.

“Seven years is hardly a lifetime.”

Jameson felt as if he had been slapped. He stepped up close to Sanders. So close, he had to tilt his head straight down to look at him.

“There is nothing in this world you could do that would make me stop trusting you. After everything we've been through, I thought the feeling was mutual,” Jameson growled.

Sanders stared at him for a moment and then sighed, his eyes sliding to the ground. Jameson let out a breath he had been holding and stepped away. That had actually made him nervous for a moment.

“I can only promise to do what you want
if
I deem it appropriate,” Sanders amended the promise. Jameson nodded.

“I can live with that,” he agreed. He started to walk away, then turned around. “Oh! I need one more favor.”

“Oh god. What is it?”

“I was wondering if you could call ahead and see to having the boat put in the water and prepped to sail,” Jameson told him. Sanders' eyebrows shot up.

“The boat, sir?”

“The boat.”

“
The
boat?” he clarified. Jameson smiled.

“
The
boat.”

*

He had never been pale, but Jameson Kane normally had fair skin. Tate had always liked it because it set off his intense blue eyes and thick black hair. Made him look sharp, like his edges would cut when put to skin. When not at home, he was always immaculately dressed, whether they were going out to eat, or shop, or take in a movie. Always clean shaven – five o'clock shadow was only seen in the wee hours of the morning, before it was scraped away.

Seeing him again, but now with a deep tan, dressed casually wearing shorts and a light t-shirt, his jaw covered in at least a few days worth of stubble, was too much. Seeing him,
period
,
was too much.

He was always too much.

Tate felt like she was going to faint, so she sat down heavily on the cement dock. Sanders dropped the bags and immediately knelt down next to her. He was saying something, but she couldn't hear anything. She had her hands pressed against either side of her face and she was trying to remember how to breathe. A pair of feet came in to her vision.

He owns a pair of sandals!?

A short argument broke out over her.

“Go inside.”

“No, I'm not going to -,”

“
Go inside
. Take her bags.”

“What if -,”

“You promised. Remember?”

There was some grumbling, but Sanders stood up. Grabbed the bag that she had dropped and their suitcases. He rolled away, and she watched his feet disappear onto the gangplank. Tate still couldn't look up. Not even when she realized that Jameson was slowly squatting down, directly in front of her. She was sitting lotus-style, and his hands came to rest gently on her knees.

Her body temperature immediately shot up past 100 degrees.

“Is this real?” she whispered.

“Yes. Are you alright?” he asked. She shuddered.

“You planned this? You and Sanders?” she asked.

“
I
planned this, a long time ago. Sanders just helped me execute it,” Jameson explained.

She felt betrayed. She felt confused. Obviously, over the past two months, Tate had wondered what it would be like to run in to Jameson again. She had never thought it would go the way it had; she felt like she was on the verge of a heart attack. Or a psychotic break. A little of both.

“Why? Why are you doing this?” Tate asked.

A finger under her chin. Like flames. Her whole body was igniting.

“Because I wanted to talk to you. You wouldn't let me in the hospital. So I gave you time. Time is up, baby girl,” Jameson informed her, slowly tilting her head up to face him.

When they locked eyes, it was like an explosion in her chest. She gasped on a sob, and a tear streamed down her face. He smiled sadly at her, but she refused to believe it. The last time she had seen him,
really
looked at him, he had been angry at her. Staring down at her. Throwing money at her.

I'm in hell. I died in that pool, and I'm in hell. That's why I'm so hot. That's why I'm sitting in front of Satan.

“What if I don't want to talk you?” Tate whispered. Jameson chuckled, smoothing his hand over her hair.

“Now when have you ever known me to care about a silly thing like that?” he whispered back.

She surged to her feet. He couldn't talk to her like that, not anymore. No boyfriend-voice allowed. Not after all the time that had passed, all the damage that had been done. His voice was like silk, smooth and strong. Flowing over her. Covering her. Strangling her. She had to get out of there.

“You can't just do this!” she shouted.

Jameson slowly stood up as well. Tate couldn't look at him. It split her in half. Her brain knew one thing. Her heart recognized another. And good god, her body was
completely
mutinous.

Why does he have to be so tan!?

“Do what?” Jameson asked.

“Kidnap somebody! Use Sanders! Use
me!
I'm not some puppet you get to jerk around!” she snapped at him.

“Buying you a ticket to Spain for your birthday is hardly kidnapping,” he pointed out. She let out a frustrated yell.

“
Why!?
Why did you bring me here?” she demanded.

“Because I've missed you.”

“Bullshit,” Tate snorted. “Mr. Kane doesn't ever care about anyone enough to miss them.”

“He missed
you
. I wanted to see you, talk to you, maybe -,”

“You made it
very clear
that you wanted nothing to do with me. I have obeyed those wishes. Why can't you respect mine? What do you want?” she asked.

“I'm trying to explain, I want to -,”

“You know what? I don't care. I really don't. And I don't have to stand here and listen to you. Our transaction is done, over with; you paid for my '
services
'. I am no longer required to be in your presence,” Tate's voice was dripping with venom by the end, and she went to brush past him. He grabbed her upper arm, holding her in place. Her eyes snapped to his.

“
I
say when it's over,” he replied.

She was shocked into a stand still. Jameson touching her, talking to her like that, it was like getting knocked back in time. Back to when she knew her place in the scheme of things, back to when life was simple enough to revolve around being with him. A shiver ran down her spine, and Tate forced herself back to the present. Forced herself to remember what having her stomach pumped felt like, forced herself to remember what it felt like to be so cold, she couldn't feel her entire body.

“
Do not touch me,
” she hissed at him, and he let go of her.

“I'm not trying to hurt you,” he assured her.

“You
always
try to hurt me,” she snapped back. He frowned.

“I never tried to hurt you, not until the end. Can we please go inside and discuss this?” Jameson asked. She laughed, a loud, abrasive sound.

“I wouldn't get on that boat if you paid me to! Do you have any idea what it's like for me? Being here, seeing you like this!?” Tate demanded.

“I can imagine.”

“You probably can't. Seeing you, is like ..., like somebody taking off a piece of my skin with a potato peeler. Seeing you is just a big, neon sign. A reminder of ..., of how low I got. How horrible I became, of how awful I was, of ..., a reminder of how much I hated myself. Which is really unfair, because I should've hated
you,
” she told him, turning away.

“But you don't,” Jameson pointed out. She sighed, struggling to hold in the tears.

“I want to. It's what you deserve. You hated me. I should at least get to hate you back.”

“I
never
hated you. I was angry, and I was stupid, yes, but I didn't hate you,” Jameson assured her. Tate laughed.

“If that's how you treat someone you like, then I'm scared to see how you treat people you actually do hate. You wanna know what the worst part is? I don't blame you. You didn't pour the alcohol down my throat. You didn't make me get in that car. Worst thing that ever fucking happened to me, and I can't even blame you. Just me. All my fault. Always my fault,” her voice was a whisper and she kept looking away from him. Out to the ocean. To the water. The cold, cold water.

“You can blame me, Tate.
I
blame me,” he told her. She managed another laugh.

“Just so you can feel better about yourself? No. I could've died that night and you wouldn't have even noticed,” she guessed. He stepped up close to her, but she refused to turn and look at him.

“I would have noticed, Tatum. I would have
felt it
. When the police came to my house, and I found out what had happened, I -,” Jameson started to explain, but she held up a hand.

“It's already bad enough that I had to live it, I don't need you making me feel worse about it.”

“I wasn't going to make you feel bad about it,” he told her. Tate laughed and finally glanced up at him.

“You love to make me feel bad,” she replied. He took a step closer, so he was almost touching her. Flames almost burning her.

“And you used to love it when I made you feel bad, but this isn't one of those times.”

Tate couldn't handle it. Just couldn't take it anymore. She choked on a sob and turned around, walking away from him. He didn't follow, but that didn't surprise her. Jameson Kane never did anything he didn't want to do.

*

It took her a couple hours of milling around, but eventually Tate calmed down. She sat in a little cafe, wondering what she should do with herself. She felt kind of silly. It was pretty hard to run away, when all a person had was the shirt on her back. Sanders had taken all of her stuff onto the boat, including her purse. Her wallet, passport, cash,
everything
,
was on Jameson's goddamn yacht. All she had was the little bit of money in her pocket, which wasn't much, after the coffee and sandwich she had bought herself.

But even if she'd had her stuff, it wasn't like Tate could just fly home. He was very clever, Mr. Kane. This wasn't like his party, she couldn't just drive off in a drunken rage. She was stuck in another country. Her Spanish wasn't very good, and even if she could make it to the airport, she was pretty positive she couldn't afford a last minute, one-way ticket to Boston.