*
“What are you doing?” Sanders asked as he walked into the library. Jameson didn't look away from his task.
“Trying to find the best place for this,” he replied.
Several people were standing in his library, all wearing white gloves. They were from a museum – Jameson had hired them to move and hang his original Mark Rothko painting. He had inherited it from his father, and for a long time, it had stayed at the house in Pennsylvania. When Jameson sold the house, he had the painting moved to the lobby of his offices in New York. He had never thought much about it, other than it was a good investment. But when he opened his firm in Boston, on a whim, he had the painting brought there and placed in his own personal office.
Tatum loved the piece, though she had only ever been in his office that one time, when he had basically propositioned her. She had commented once that she was a fan of Rothko's work, and was impressed that he had one. Very little truly impressed Tatum O'Shea.
She wouldn't go in his library. Too many memories associated with it. He didn't understand women, understand their stupid brains – all the memories were good memories, nothing bad had happened to her in there. It wasn't like he was trying to force her into Sanders' old room. No one went into that room. He was going to have the whole thing gutted and ripped apart. Have it turned into a fu-cking yoga studio for her.
Jameson liked his library, and he liked spending time in it. He didn't, however, like sitting in there and having to listen to her and Sanders galavanting around the house all day. Laughing in the conservatory, whispering in the kitchen, tumbling down the stairs. Well, really, that last one was just Tate. Still. He was ready to strangle somebody. She was there to entertain him, not Sanders, and she couldn't do that if she wasn't in the room.
So. He was going to bribe her, with her favorite piece of art.
I wonder if Angier has this much trouble with her.
“If I may – move the couch to the center of the room, move those bookshelves, hang the painting there. It will be a focal point,” Sanders said quickly, gesturing to the wall opposite the fireplace. Jameson blinked and looked around the room.
“The couch will cut the room in half,” he replied, turning around. The library was long, narrow. There was a lot of open space between the two walls. In the old days, Tate's preferred spot was stretched out on the floor. She had never used the couch and it had never occured to him to move it.
“Yes. You will need to buy a coffee table. Why are you bringing the painting here?” Sanders asked. Jameson nodded at the museum people and they began rearranging his furniture.
“Because it's one of her favorites. I thought it would entice her to come in here,” Jameson explained, walking out of the room and heading into the kitchen.
“You could just ask her,” Sanders suggested. Jameson laughed.
“Don't you think I've tried?”
“No, I don't. I think you've told her. I think you've commanded. But I highly doubt you've ever asked,” Sanders said.
Well then.
“Sometimes, I think you two are working against me,” Jameson grumbled.
“I would never, I assure you,” Sanders responded.
“She seems to be lightening up, doesn't she?” Jameson asked.
It had been two weeks since they had gone to lunch together. Since he had admitted he hated the idea of another man touching her. After she made him come down her throat, she had pulled him into the backseat. Went into graphic detail, again, about all the things she was willing to let other men do to her. It drove him insane. He had wanted to commit murder and fu-ck her as hard as he could. He settled for the latter.
There had been a lot of talk of them fu-cking other people. A lot of cursing, and biting, and scratching. Plenty of choking. The Jag was not big; he was pretty sure he still had a charley horse from their exertions. But for all that, she seemed ..., mellower. Like it had calmed something in her. Like some of her anxiety had been abated, though he couldn't figure out how. Had she really been concerned about him having sex with someone else? Or was it something else, something she hadn't ever told him? Something that maybe still bothered her?
It made him nervous. And Jameson Kane didn't get nervous very often.
Why so nervous? Afraid you'll lose her? You'd have to admit you want to keep her, first.
There had been some light talk in Spain. Heavier in Paris. He wasn't a man of much feeling or emotion, but once in a great while, it bubbled to the surface. Tate had a knack for bringing it out of him. At any given time, if someone asked him how he would feel if Tate walked out the door and never looked back, he would probably say “fine”; but if they happened to catch him at a truly honest moment, the answer would be “fu-cking terrified”. He didn't want her to go away, ever. They fit together and that was that. He didn't delve into it, he didn't question it. He just went with it.
God, if she would just do the fu-cking same.
“Maybe. Slightly. Some of her anger is gone. But there is still no trust. She is waiting for you to strike,” Sanders answered, his eyes sliding away to look out the kitchen door.
“She told you this?” Jameson was surprised. Sanders shook his head.
“No, I just know it,” he said.
“How?”
“Because I listen. I pay attention. I know her,” Sanders replied.
Ouch.
“Maybe we just know her in different ways. You fulfill her emotionally and I fulfill her sexually. Maybe this is just how it works for us. Maybe we've been in a threesome this whole time,” Jameson suggested.
“Sometimes, sir, you make me ill,” Sanders almost snapped, not keeping the disgust out of his voice. Jameson smiled.
“Glad to know I've still got the touch. I listen to her, Sanders. I pay attention. But I can only go so far – she's knows what I am. What else can I do?” Jameson asked. Sanders finally turned to look at him again.
“You could try asking her what's wrong,” he stressed. Jameson groaned and put his head into his hands.
“All I wanted was sex. Just a little freaky sex, every now and then. When the fu-ck did it get so complicated?” he grumbled.
“When you met your match, sir.”
“Sanders?”
“Yes?”
“Shut up.”
“Of course.”
They stood in silence for a minute. One of the things Jameson loved about Sanders, they could be in complete silence. For long periods of time, sometimes for a whole day. And Sanders never minded Jameson's blunt, crass nature. It was heaven. If only he could train Tatum to be the same way.
“Where is she?” Jameson asked, lifting his head. She had left that morning, but he hadn't bothered to ask her what she was doing; she had left him half dead in the shower, completely weak in the knees. The woman could probably suck a golf ball through fifty feet of garden hose. It was outstanding.
“I believe she went to see Mr. Hollingsworth,” Sanders answered.
“Fuuuuuuuck.”
“I advised her not to do anything rash,” Sanders offered. Jameson snorted.
“And how did she respond?” he asked. Sanders was quiet for a while, and Jameson looked at him pointedly.
“She ..., she blew a raspberry. All over my face,” he replied. Jameson laughed.
“Poor Sanders. Still in love with her?” he chuckled. The other man turned slightly pink.
“I have lots of purell,” was all he said before walking out of the kitchen.