What's this?
“Tate loves that 'big house', and I can assure you, it's a welcome break. She owns a thriving business and is in the process of opening a second one. This break is her choice, and she doesn't need you to entertain her,” Jameson stated.
“Well, she doesn't need me, of course I just thought it would be fun, you know, for her to have someone her own age to talk to.”
Jameson should've been boiling mad. He'd been insulted, several times over. He should've fired the other man, right on the spot. Should've ended his future career, that afternoon. A couple phone calls, and Jameson could make it so Richard Klimas would be working in fast food for the rest of his life.
But where was the fun in that?
“Yes, she does deserve some 'fun', doesn't she?” Jameson asked in a soft voice, eyeing Rich up and down.
“Yes …” the younger man replied slowly, looking nervous for the first time.
“Tell you what. I'll organize a party this weekend. Just for her, tell her it was your idea. We'll invite the other junior brokers, have a pool party. A barbecue,” Jameson prattled off.
“I … wait, a party? At your house?” Rich sounded flabbergasted.
“Yes. They don't happen very often, so I recommend you accept the invitation.”
“Of course, I -”
“See you this weekend!” Jameson called out, continuing into the anteroom before his office. He slammed the door behind him, startling his secretary.
“Is everything alright, Mr. Kane?” she asked, standing up.
“No. Call Sanders, patch it through to my office,” he snapped, moving into his private office.
“Is Mr. Dashkevich in the country?” she called out behind him.
“Yes, call my house phone. And whatever you do, don't talk to Tate.”
“But what if Mrs. Kane -”
“Just get a hold of Sanders!”
*
Jameson went home early that day. He walked in the door and immediately heard a familiar thumping noise. He followed it towards the back of the house, where there was a small gym. Tate was running away on a treadmill, pumping her arms in time. She nodded her head at his entrance and turned down the volume on the music she had playing, but she didn't stop running.
“What's up? You're home early,” she panted, glancing at her watch.
“I know. How many miles?” he asked, sliding his jacket off as he walked towards her.
“Almost three. Only a quarter mile to go, then I'll be done,” she assured him.
“Only three? Pussy.”
“Hey, Mr. Five Miles, not all of us want to experience shin splints,” she point out.
“I eat five miles before breakfast every day, and I've never had shin splints,” he replied.
“If you only came home to make fun of my work out routine, then you can just go right back to work,” she suggested.
“I didn't,” he assured her, standing next to her machine.
“Then why are you here? Go be useful, or productive. Stop staring at me,” she laughed, waving her hand at him, trying to shoo him away.
“I like staring at you.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes you uncomfortable.”
She crossed her eyes at him.
“No it doesn't.”
Jameson let his eyes wander over her face. She wasn't wearing any makeup, but she didn't really need to – her eyes were very sharp and dark on their own, her skin smooth and clear. She had on a sports bra and a pair of skin tight leggings. Disappearing under the fabric of the bra was a large, fading bruise, low on her right breast. There were light red marks around the base of her neck, and he knew without looking that there were scratch marks down her back.
It had been a fun welcome home party, just between the two of them.
She is so perfect.
“Liebe,” he started, and she looked back at him. “We're going to have a party this weekend.”
She stumbled on the belt, almost losing her footing.
“I'm sorry, what did you just say?”
“Party. This weekend.”
“Here?”
“Yes. A barbecue.”
She nearly flew backwards off the treadmill and had to grab the arms to hold herself up. Jameson reached over and pulled the emergency stop chord while she braced her feet on either side of the belt.
“I'm sorry, a … what?” she tried to catch her breath.
“Barbecue.”
“I didn't even know you knew that word.”
“Shut up,” he chuckled, pulling on her ponytail. She got down off the machine and grabbed a towel, blotting at the sheen of sweat that was all over her.
“Why?” she asked.
“Why not? It's been a beautiful summer, and our backyard was designed for entertaining,” he suggested.
“Which you never do. The only time you throw a party is when you want to prove a point. Or piss someone off,” she reminded him.
“Exactly.”
“Oh god. Who are we trying to piss off and prove a point to?” she groaned, pushing past him and walking out of the gym.
“Baby girl, would you please just be thankful that for one afternoon, we'll get to do something you actually like to do?” he asked, following her upstairs.
“This is true, we do usually only do your stuff,” she agreed.
“Yes, but that's because my stuff is better.”
“That's a matter of opinion.”
“I feel like I'm experiencing deja vu, only this is much, much stupider …” he sighed. She threw the towel in his face.
“Remind me why I bother talking to you?” she asked, disappearing into their closet.
“Because I pay for everything,” he stated.
“Everything, ha! You never bought me a pony!” her voice called out. He chuckled and rubbed his hand down his face.
“Tate. You haven't ridden since you were seventeen – why the fuck would you want a pony?” he asked. There was a pause, then she leaned out the doorway.
“Alright then – you never got me a miniature donkey.”
“A miniature … what?”
“Jack ass.”
“I'm regretting coming home,” he sighed. She laughed and finally walked over to him, coiling her arms around his neck.
“A party sounds fun, I don't even care who you're trying to piss off. Want me to organize it?” she asked, scratching her fingernails against the back of his neck.
“No, Sanders is taking care of everything.”
“That's nice. How long is he staying for this time?”
“Only through the weekend – and don't ask, I already tried to get him to stay longer.”
“He's no fun in his old age.”
“Tatum, he's only twenty-three.”
“Okay,” she pulled back. “So what exact day are we having this?”
“Sunday.”
“That's good, gives us today and Saturday to prep. What time?”
“Late, around five.”
“Weird time for a barbecue,” she told him.
“Dinner time, sunset, people won't stay too long,” he listed off his reasons.