Reparation(29)

“Excuse me, what do -,” Jameson started to bark out, and then he saw who it was. “Oh. What are you doing?” He looked suspicious.

“Sandy and I wanted to surprise you,” she laughed, taking off her coat and throwing it in a chair.

“To clarify, I did not want to surprise you. I simply drove,” Sanders interjected.

“Surprise me with what? What's with the balloon?” Jameson demanded, still looking between both of them like they were there to assassinate him. Tate took the small brown bag from Sanders. The ribbon for the balloon was tied around the top of it.

“Happy birthday!” Tate shouted, waving her free hand around. Jameson still stared.

“My birthday was January ninth,” he replied. She dropped her hands.

“I know. I kind of ruined it, I didn't even get you a present. So I got you something now,” she explained, holding the bag out towards him. If anything, he looked more suspicious.

“What's gotten into you today?” he asked. She groaned and stomped forward, plonking the present down on his desk.

“I had the very bad idea of doing something nice for you,” she told him, folding her arms across her chest.

He narrowed his eyes, but he leaned forward and untied the balloon. It floated up to the ceiling while he opened the brown paper bag. He cocked up an eyebrow, glanced at her, and then back at the bag before pulling out a bottle.

“Very original, Tate. No one's ever gotten me one of these before,” he said in a snippy voice, holding a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey.

“Not like that, they haven't,” she replied, slipping into her seat. He flicked his eyes up, then back to the bottle. He turned it over in his hands, and finally realized she had scrawled across the label in black marker. He lifted his eyebrows.

“Sanders?” he called out, not looking up.

“Yes, sir?”

“Thank you, for the surprise.”

“It was nothing, sir.”

“Good. Now you can leave,” Jameson ordered. Sanders nodded and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

“You like it?” Tate asked, smiling as she slunk lower in the chair, her arms resting over the sides.

“It's interesting. You're right, I have never gotten a bottle quite like this,” he chuckled, looking over the label again.

“Do people buy you a lot of bottles of Jameson?” she asked. He nodded and pointed across the room. Behind her was a large bookshelf. On the top of it were all different kinds of bottles, with labels in different languages, colors, styles.

“Everyone thinks they're clever,” he replied.

“What's the most expensive one?”

“Jameson Rarest Vintage Reserve, only about $250.”

“Only.”

“Tatum. What brought this on?” he asked. She turned back towards him.

“I've been thinking, about what you said. About needing to get over it. About you bending over backwards for me. While I don't agree entirely with that last part, I still want to call a truce,” she offered.

“Oh really?” his voice was soft, and he finally set the bottle down.

“Yes. You need to not be such a dick to me. If you have a problem with me, or you think I'm lying or bullshitting or fucking around, then you need to say it – not hide in a different country and get mad about things you don't know anything about,” she told him bluntly.

“Bold words, baby girl,” his voice held a warning in it.

“And I need to deal with the fact that this is you. You are a dick. If I can promise not to freak out every ten seconds about it, then you have to promise to at least check with me before you decide to rip me in half again,” she laid out her deal.

“I don't have to check with you for shit. But maybe, if I'm feeling generous, I'll give you a heads up,” he replied, but he was smiling.

“I never want to deal with Petrushka again,” Tate warned him, and she hoped her voice conveyed just how much she meant that.

“Me, neither. I won't use her against you, ever again.”

“I have never dated Nick. We are not boyfriend and girlfriend, and we never were. I haven't slept with him, since that very first time,” she said.

“I knew he couldn't handle you,” Jameson chuckled.

“You can't even handle having me as a girlfriend,” she snorted.

“So if everything between us is all good, does that mean I get to fuck the secretary downstairs?” he asked.

“I don't think things between us ever were, or ever will be, 'all good', and no, you cannot fuck that secretary,” she replied.

“What if I fire her? Could I fuck her then?”

Tate snorted again.

“Would you like to see what you got me for your birthday?” she changed the subject. His eyebrows shot up.