Reparation(77)

Jameson fell back into his seat.

“I just can't win with her. She wants to get away from me? Maybe I need to get away from her. I used to be a nice, normal, borderline sociopath. I would like to get back to that,” he groaned. Sanders moved to sit in a chair across from the desk.

“No you wouldn't. I have let you get your wind back. Now it is time to go,” Sanders said.

“I don't want to go to goddamn Arizona. I want that bitch to rot in hell, and I want to stay as far away from her as I possibly fucking can,” Jameson swore.

“Do not speak of her like that.”

“I'll speak of her anyway I want to. I'm the one who got treated like shit. I'm the one who got lied to. Walked out on. I can't just forget that, Sanders. Maybe you can, but I can't,” Jameson snapped.

“Stop being overdramatic. You are upset because you care. The sooner you accept that, the sooner we can get over your insecurities and go get her,” Sanders snapped back.

“She didn't trust me. After everything, she didn't trust me. Do you know what that fucking feels like!?” Jameson was almost shouting. Sanders nodded.

“Probably awfully similar to how she felt, when you brought Petrushka home to humiliate her,” he replied.

Jameson closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Sanders had hit a chord.

“Say we go there. Say I let you drag me all the way to fucking Arizona. What if she's with him? Did you ever think of that? What if it's too late, and she is already making a happy home with her boyfriend?” Jameson asked. Sanders shrugged.

“Then we will know, and we will leave. But we have to try,” he urged.

“You have to try. I don't have to do sh-,”

“Mr. Hollingsworth thinks she is going to marry him,” Sanders burst out. It was reaching. Most definitely stretching the truth. But Ang had definitely said all those words; just mostly at different times. Jameson's eyebrows shot up.

“Really. After three weeks. Quick operator,” he said in a soft voice. Sanders cleared his throat.

“Someday. He thinks she is convincing herself that Mr. Castille is what she wants in life. I think she wants to feel loved and wanted. Mr. Castille gives her those things,” Sanders explained.

“And I didn't?”

“No.”

“Siempre Tatum. Obligarme a hacer cosas que no quiero hacer,” Jameson mumbled, staring off into space.

“It seems to me, sir, that she never once made you do something that you didn't want to do,” Sanders countered.

“No. No, I suppose not. I'm going to be honest, Sanders. If we go there, and she can't be won over; if I find out that she really never loved me ..., I am not going to handle it too well,” Jameson warned him.

“No, I wouldn't imagine you would. But would you rather continue on, not knowing?” Sanders asked.

“Sometimes, I think I would. I don't like being scared.”

Jameson's voice was soft, almost like he was afraid to say it out loud. Sanders frowned and looked out a window. He didn't like hearing those things. It was one thing for him to assume them about Jameson, it was another for Jameson to admit them. Jameson was a powerful man. Not just in Sanders' mind, but in real life. In the world. A man not to be reckoned with – and Tatum O'Shea had managed to scare him.

“I will be right there with you, sir,” Sanders assured him. Jameson snorted.

“Sometimes I don't know whose side you're on,” he grumbled.

“When are we leaving?” Sanders asked.

“Do you really think she would stay with this man?”

“Yes.”

“Do you really think I have a chance?”

“... um ...,”

“Por que perder el tiempo con usted?” Jameson groaned. Sanders stood up.

“If you are going to complain about me, I prefer it in German. I understand the subtleties better,” he said.

“Du mein Leben zur Holle zu machen, sollte ich dich verlassen habe, wo ich dich gefunden,” Jameson spat out, but he stood up as well.

“A vast majority of the time, I make you're life better, so saying I make it hell is a gross overstatement. And yes, you could have left me on that street – but then you really would be the devil,” Sanders said, heading towards the door. Jameson caught up with him. Wrapped his arm around the smaller man's shoulders.

“Mein Sohn,” Jameson kissed the top of Sanders' head.

“Ja. Jetzt, um unsere Familie zu beheben wollen wir,” Sanders told him. Jameson nodded.

“We can try, Sanders. How often have you known her to be compliant? Hard to fix what she won't admit is broken,” Jameson warned him as they walked out of the room. The secretary glanced at them, then went back to her paperwork.

“We won't know if we don't try.”