“Just come home, Tater tot. Come home.”
*
Sanders strode through the Kraven Brokerage office building. On his own, he knew he was not an intimidating man. But with the weight of Jameson's name and wealth carrying behind him, people respected Sanders. Made way for him. He knew this, and took advantage of it. He had picked up some tricks from Jameson along the way, and was very good at pretending like he was confident and in charge.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Sanders,” a security guard tipped his hat.
“How are you, Mr. Sanders?” the new secretary downstairs breathed, looking up at him with big eyes. He glanced at her. She was very attractive. Blonde. Icy. Tatum's words rang through his head, “... I hate to tell you this, Sanders, but you're kinda hot ...”. He usually brushed her words aside. Maybe it was time to stop. He nodded at the secretary and continued to the elevators. Went straight up to the top floor.
“Mr. Dashkevich,” Jameson's secretary leapt out of her chair. “He wasn't expecting you. He's on a conference call.”
“It's fine,” Sanders said, walking across the outer room. She hurried around her desk.
“But you can't, it's with -,” she started, and Sanders turned towards her. Stared at her.
“Is there a problem?” he asked, his voice frosty. She shook her head.
“N-no, Mr. Dashkevich. Would you like me to bring in any coffee?” she asked. He shook his head.
“No.”
She calls me 'Mr. Dashkevich'. I am going to inform Jameson that she needs a raise.
He walked into the main office. Jameson was sitting at his desk, two computer screens set up in front of him. He raised his eyes at Sanders' entrance, but he didn't say anything to him. He was talking in German, running over some long term investment plans for a client. Sanders marched up to the desk.
“I need to speak to you,” he said. Jameson's eyebrows went up, but he shook his head. “Jetzt. Es ist wichtig,” Sanders continued in German. Jameson shook his head again, glaring now. Sanders sighed and switched tactics. “Soy muy serio.”
Spanish was actually Jameson's first language – he hadn't started speaking English till he was five. Sanders wasn't quite fluent in it, but sometimes when he had something very important he wanted to say to Jameson, he used Spanish. German for business. English for everything else.
“Estoy trabajando en este momento, esto tiene que esperar,” Jameson whispered, covering the computer mic with his hand. He was working. Sanders had to wait. Once again, Tatum's voice drifted through Sanders' head.
“... Fuck this ...”
“Ahora,” Sanders said loudly. Now. Jameson's glare got worse.
“Me estas avergonzando en mi lugar de trabajo. Salte ya,” he hissed. Oh, so Sanders was embarrassing him; Sanders needed to leave? Somewere, in his mind, Tatum was laughing.
“... you don't get to tell me what to do ...”
Sanders strode around the desk. Jameson burst out loudly in Spanish, telling him to walk away. Sanders ignored him and knelt down, groping under the desk. Jameson wheeled out of the way, looking completely bewildered. Sanders' fingers came across the power strip and he yanked it forward. Pulled every single plug out of the sockets. Jameson jumped out of his chair.
“Dije ahora,” Sanders said in a soft voice as he stood up.
“Que cono te crees que estas haciendo!?” Jameson demanded. Sanders straightened his tie.
“Vulgar words are still vulgar, in any language,” he pointed out.
“I don't give a fuck! Do you have any idea how much money you probably just cost us!?” Jameson shouted.
“You have enough money.”
“What the fuck has gotten into you!? For three weeks, you have been moping around the house, and now -,”
“No more than you.”
Jameson. Looked. Pissed.
“Mi corazon es el mismo que se ha pisado,” he growled. Sanders rolled his eyes.
“The way you behave, sir, most wouldn't know you even had a heart, let alone one to get stepped on. You have moped just as much as I have. We have both missed her. It is time,” Sanders snapped.
“Time for what?” Jameson snapped back.
“Time to go and get her.”
“I am not -,”
“I was not asking, sir.”
Jameson. Looked. Shocked.
“Where on earth did you go for lunch, Sanders?” he asked, almost laughing.
“I met with Mr. Hollingsworth.”
“Mierda.”
“He is ..., concerned. About Tatum,” Sanders started.
“Big fucking shock. Need I remind you, Sanders, that she is not concerned about us. She didn't just leave me,” he pointed out.
“No. But she did invite me to go with her.”