Reparation (The Kane Trilogy, #3)(26)

“Oh really. How were things when you got home last night? I know before I left, he was not happy about your absence,” Sanders told her, not moving from the closet doorway.

“He's never happy about much, is he,” she laughed, digging through her makeup bag.

“He is. Sometimes.”

“We talked a little bit. He told me some things. Things I need to understand, if we're gonna do this,” she explained, leaning over the counter as she carefully drew eyeliner around her eyes.

“And may I ask what it is you're going to do?” Sanders' voice floated to her. She was quiet while she finished her eye makeup, making it all smudgy and dark. Dirty. She looked over her handiwork, then moved onto powder and lip gloss.

“This. What you want. I'm going to try – try – to get the fu-ck over my hang ups, his hang ups, everybody's hang ups, and just ..., see. See what happens, see where this goes. Pick up where we left off last fall,” she said, examining her face in the mirror. Done. She finger combed her hair, swung her head up and down a couple times to give it volume, then called it good.

“You're sure this is what you want?” he asked as she walked back into the bedroom.

“I think so. Isn't this what you want?” she asked in return.

“Of course. I am just making sure. I don't want to see either of you hurt because of rash decisions,” he replied. She rolled her eyes.

“Stop confusing me. How do I look?” she asked, holding her arms out wide and smiling broadly at him. He took his time, his eyes sweeping over her whole form. When he got back to her face, he cleared his throat.

“You look exactly like the woman I first met back in August,” he replied. She sighed happily.

“Good. We haven't seen her in a long time.”

The drive to Boston took roughly half an hour, depending on traffic. She offered to drive, because of Sanders' condition, but he refused. If he was going to be in a car, then he was going to be the one driving it.

She had him stop at a store first, told him to wait outside. Then they stopped at a little shop right downtown, and Sanders insisted on coming into that place. Then they stopped at a party shop and she got a “Who's The Birthday Boy!?” balloon. Satisfied with her purchases, she had him take her to Jameson's offices.

“Should I call him to tell him we're headed up?” Sanders asked as they walked towards the front doors. She shook her head.

“It's a surprise party,” she laughed.

Jameson hadn't been lying, the secretary in the main lobby was a knockout. A chesty brunette with a blunt bob and bangs, she looked like Bettie Paige. She smiled sweetly at them as they headed into the elevators. The secretary in front of Jameson's office wasn't as polite, however, and made a racket when Tate burst into the anteroom that connected to his office. She didn't shut up till Sanders strode into the room, staring at her. She closed her mouth pretty quick and Tate walked through Jameson's door, sticking her tongue out at the lady.

“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.