Degradation(17)

"That's the worst part about you, you know. You think you're winning,  when really you're always losing," he replied, and then spun her around,  smacking her on the ass.

She stumbled to the cab and got in the backseat, waving an arm out the  window at him. He waved back and then wandered back in to the bar. She  frowned after him. He had never shown concern like that before, and he  had been present for many a pre-date-jitters drink. She hoped it wasn't  jealousy. She couldn't handle that, not from Ang.

She gave the address to the driver and they took off. It was going to be  a long drive. She tried not to think about the cost. She had been  living on the fringe for so long, that buying a vehicle was something  she didn't even think about, it wasn't even on her radar. She had kinda  assumed Jameson might send a car for her, but no offer had been made to  do that  –  maybe he was more of a liberal kind of guy.         

     



 

He lived all the way out in Weston, the wealthiest suburb in Boston. One  of the richest towns in America. Figures. She lived in an apartment in  North Dorcester, right in Boston. Kind of sketchy at times. She had been  to Weston before, but with her parents, and since then, she'd never had  a reason to go back.

When the taxi started pulling down a long, wooded driveway, Tate tried  to not to gag at the sixty dollar tab and began rooting around in her  purse. There went some rent money. She wondered if Jameson would  actually give her any money, or if it had all been play. She was just  starting to uncrumple some twenty dollars bills as the taxi parked, when  the front passenger door swung open.

"Here you are, and thank you," a crisp, cultured sounding voice said,  followed by a hand holding out two one-hundred dollar bills. Tate and  the driver stared at the cash, both a little shocked. The money was  exchanged and then her door was pulled open, a hand reaching in for her.  Tate took it and was pulled to her feet.

A slender man stood in front of her, wearing an impeccable suit. Very  expensive looking. He wasn't a very big man in general; she was around  five-foot-six, and he wasn't that much taller than her. Maybe  five-foot-ten, give or take an inch. His dark hair was gelled and  styled, brushed to the side. He looked like something out of GQ magazine   –  very handsome, with fair skin and stormy blue eyes. He gave her a  tight-lipped smile.

"Hello, Ms. O'Shea. I am Sanders, Mr. Kane's assistant," he said in a  polite voice. There was a hint of an accent there, but she couldn't  place it. Not Boston, but a distinct burr, something else East Coast-y,  or maybe even European. His fricatives were sharp, his voice soft.

He should do books on tape.

"Hi, I'm Tatum," she greeted him, holding out a hand. He clasped it  briefly, not really shaking it, just pressing his skin to hers and then  letting go.

"Welcome. Please, follow me," he instructed, and then turned to lead the way.

She hadn't gotten a good look at the house on the drive up. She gaped at  it now. It was like something from a hundred years ago. Huge, and  gorgeous. Lots of brick, with white pillars in the front. She wondered  if Jameson had bought it when he moved to Boston, or if it had been in  the family. It looked like something that would be on the National  Historical Registry.

"Were you with him at the office, today?" Tate asked as they crunched across the pebble stone driveway.

"No."

"Do you go in to Boston a lot?"

"No."

"I got the impression he travels a lot, do you go with him on those trips?"

"No."

She smirked at the assistant's back as he held open the front door for her.

"I'm going to assume that living with Kane is what has given you this  anti-social personality disorder," she said in a sweet voice. The man  didn't even blink at her statement.

"I had this disorder long before Mr. Kane. He's in the library, through that door," Sanders told her, gesturing along the wall.

She gasped, taking in the huge entry way. Vaulted ceilings, original  hard wood floors, a chandelier that probably dated back to the civil  war. A huge sitting room opened off to her right, and two large, sliding  doors were shut on the room to her left. Farther down the wall, just  past a grand staircase, was another door, standing slightly ajar. She  could see a glow, like candle light, spilling out in to the hall.

Tate had come from money, grown up in a gorgeous home, but it had been a  long time since that life. It felt strange now, to be surrounded by  such opulence. The rug she was standing on probably cost more than  everything she owned.

"You know, Sandy," she started, reaching out and grabbing onto his  shoulder. He frowned while she steadied herself and bent over, undoing  the straps on her shoes. "I think we're gonna get along, just fine."

With her shoes dangling from her hand, Tate tip toed down the entry way  and pushed through the library door. There was a roaring fire in a huge  fireplace on the far wall; it was providing the only light in the room.  Built-in bookshelves surrounded her, and there were two huge, over  stuffed, wing-backed chairs pulled up close to the fire. Off to the  right of them stood a ridiculously huge, ornate, gold-inlaid desk.  Jameson was standing behind it, holding some papers, and he looked up at  her entrance.

"You made it. Quite a cab ride," he commented as she walked towards him. She nodded.

"Forty-five minutes. I won't be doing that often," she warned him. He laughed.

"You'll do it often enough. Drink?" he asked, setting down his work and coming out from around the desk.

"God, yes. Your assistant gave me freezer burn," she laughed, watching Jameson as he walked over to a small bar.         

     



 

She stayed near his desk and stared at him, letting her eyes wander over  his form. Every time she had seen him, he had been wearing expensive  suits  –  blazers, ties, trousers, shiny shoes, and shinier watches. Now,  he was in jeans and a plain white t-shirt. No shoes. No socks.

Tate had never once seen him so dressed down, not even when he'd been  dating her sister. She was a little shocked. It gave him a whole  different look. He almost  –  though not quite  –  looked approachable. He  was too good looking to ever truly look like a mere mortal. But still.  She found herself wanting to peel his shirt off so she could lick every  inch of his skin.

"Ah, Sanders. Yes. You'll grow to love him, almost everyone does. What  would you like?" Jameson asked. When she didn't answer, he turned  towards her. "What? What are you staring at?"

"You're barefoot," she blurted out, staring down at his feet. He laughed, looking down as well.

"Yes. So are you," he replied. She wiggled her toes at him.

"Yeah, but I expect that from me. Mr. Kane doesn't walk around barefoot.  He has people to walk around for him," she teased, looking back up at  him. He snorted.

"Mr. Kane's feet hurt after a long day. You look nice," Jameson  commented, his eyes wandering over her. She had put on a fitted black  dress, for her cocktail hour with Ang  –  a little overdressed for an  evening in the country.

"Thank you. I went out for drinks with a friend, before coming here," she told him. He laughed.

"Pre-gaming? Scared of coming out here?" he asked, turning back to the bar and picking up crystal bottles.

"No. Just drinks with a friend," Tate replied, spinning in a slow circle and looking around the room.

"The redheaded roommate?" he asked. She felt something cool, and turned  to see him running a glass full of ice and liquid down the side of her  arm. She took it from him.

"No. Ang," she answered, taking a sip. She tried not to make a face. Gin and tonic.

"Ah, the half-man, half-donkey friend. How was the tripod?" Jameson asked, making himself a drink, as well. She laughed.

"Careful, almost sounds like jealousy, and I got enough of that from  him," Tate joked, heading over and falling in to one of the chairs. She  let her shoes drop to the floor and she tucked her feet up underneath  herself.

"Tripod-man is jealous? I'm flattered," he replied, taking the chair next to hers.

"Not really jealous, I guess. Just ..., cautious. On my behalf," she tried to explain.

"Understandable."

"So, how did you find this place, Kane? Daddy's will?" Tate asked. She  knew Jameson and his father hadn't had the best relationship.

"Something like that. Had it almost completely remodeled a couple years ago," he replied.

"Oh wow. Were you here for that?"

"For a little while."

"So you came to Boston a couple years ago."

"As my answer would imply."

She stayed silent, sipping at her drink. He had been in Boston a couple  years ago, but hadn't contacted her. She still thought it was strange.  If he was so in to her, so obsessed with that one time they'd been  together, why hadn't he looked her up? He would've had to assume that  she'd still be in Boston, still going to school. She let out a sigh,  tried not to think about it.