“No getting drunk, you're our designated driver,” Jameson reminded him. Sanders cleared his throat.
“Of course not, I am not a 'drunk',” he replied. Tate cackled.
“Remember that time … when Jameson was out of town? And we got wasted,” she stammered in between chuckles. Sanders smiled.
“Yes. You tore down the curtains in the library,” he recalled. Jameson's eyebrows went up.
“That's how those got ripped!?”
“Tattle tale,” Tate laughed even harder.
Dinner had been late, which led her to guess that they were going to stay in a hotel for the night. So Tate was shocked when Sanders drove right through downtown and pulled up in front of a night club.
“Seriously?” she asked, glancing back at Jameson.
“Seriously. Occasionally, I like to see you smile.”
Jameson wasn't the biggest fan of dancing, and generally hated proper night clubs. Too much noise, too many people, too many rules. If he was going to be crammed into a building with dark lighting and sexy music and half naked women, he figured he should at least be allowed to have sex at some point. Most U.S. night clubs frowned on that kind of thing, so he rarely went – if Tate felt like a night out, she usually had to do it solo.
But he'd gone all out for her that night. They bypassed the huge line, of course. Mr. Kane did not wait in lines. A velvet rope was swept aside with great flourish, and then they were led into the dark club by a young man who seemed way too excited to help them.
Someone should've warned him that Jameson's a stingy tipper when it comes to guys.
Of course there was the main dance floor, and of course there were VIP tables. They walked past all of those to a back wall, in front of which stood several wrought iron, spiral staircases. Tate looked up and was surprised to see matching balconies that showed people dancing. Private rooms. Nice.
“If you need anything, anything at all,” the young man was gushing as he showed them around their room, “just pick up the phone and a waitress will be right with you. Tammy will be your server, and she'll be with you shortly.”
Jameson made himself comfortable on a velvet couch while Sanders stood by the door, looking uncomfortable (i.e., normal). When a waitress showed up to take their order for bottle service, Tate went out to bop around on the balcony, and didn't come back in until the liquor was delivered.
Scotch for Jameson. Perrier for Sanders. And of course, Jack Daniel's for Tate.
She had the best time. Jameson sat in the room and smoked cigars, chit-chatting with Sanders, but that didn't stop Tate from finding fun. It turned out that a semi-famous rap star was in the VIP room next to theirs, and while she was dancing, Tate got to talking with some girls that were on his balcony. Before long, she was stretching and crawling over the railings, tumbling into their party.
It was a good two hours before she made her way back to the balcony. She was significantly tipsier, but still having fun. She cackled and shouted into her room, leaning over the railings. Jameson finally came out.
“Jesus, I thought you were going to stay over there all night,” he snapped.
“Pfffft, you knew where I was, you could've come and gotten me,” she pointed out.
“I shouldn't have to chase you down.”
“You love chasing me down. Heellllpppp,” she whined, holding her arms out to him.
He shook his head, but Jameson was laughing as he helped lift her over the railings, back onto their side. She laughed as well, stumbling into the room and falling on the couch. Sanders stared across the room, but a smile played on his lips.
“Having a good time?” he asked.
“The best time. But my feet hurt,” she groaned, sticking her legs up in the air and shaking her feet in his face. She was wearing ridiculously high stilettos. She wondered why she'd thought they were a good idea.
“I told you not to wear these,” Jameson reminded her as he sat next to her and grabbed onto one of her ankles, removing the offending shoe.
“Shut up, they're hot looking,” she snorted, wiggling her other foot around, trying to stay out of his grasp.
“Very hot. Sanders,” he barked. “She has spare shoes in the car. Go get them.”
Sanders nodded and hustled out of the room.
“Oh, thank you, so much better. You take such good care of me,” Tate groaned, stretching her legs out once he got her other shoe off.
“Always, Liebe,” he agreed, gently massaging one of her feet.
Liebe. German for “Love”. It never stopped feeling good to hear it. She felt warmth spread across her chest.
“This was a very good time, Jameson. Thank you,” she told him.
“It was. Ready to go home?” he asked. She snorted again and sat up, pulling her legs away.
“Are you kidding!? The night's still young! You're not ending this early for me,” she warned him.
“This night is getting boring. I can only talk about Russian literature for so long before I feel like strangling Sanders,” Jameson pointed out.
“You could be having fun with me, instead of being an old man,” Tate suggested, standing up and stretching her arms over her head.
“Watch it,” he warned her. She smiled at him over her shoulder, then went and closed their door.
“Old man. How old are you now, Jameson? Thirty-three? God, that's depressing. I should trade you in for a younger model,” she teased him. He leaned back into the couch, stretching his arms out along the back of it.
“Of course not, I am not a 'drunk',” he replied. Tate cackled.
“Remember that time … when Jameson was out of town? And we got wasted,” she stammered in between chuckles. Sanders smiled.
“Yes. You tore down the curtains in the library,” he recalled. Jameson's eyebrows went up.
“That's how those got ripped!?”
“Tattle tale,” Tate laughed even harder.
Dinner had been late, which led her to guess that they were going to stay in a hotel for the night. So Tate was shocked when Sanders drove right through downtown and pulled up in front of a night club.
“Seriously?” she asked, glancing back at Jameson.
“Seriously. Occasionally, I like to see you smile.”
Jameson wasn't the biggest fan of dancing, and generally hated proper night clubs. Too much noise, too many people, too many rules. If he was going to be crammed into a building with dark lighting and sexy music and half naked women, he figured he should at least be allowed to have sex at some point. Most U.S. night clubs frowned on that kind of thing, so he rarely went – if Tate felt like a night out, she usually had to do it solo.
But he'd gone all out for her that night. They bypassed the huge line, of course. Mr. Kane did not wait in lines. A velvet rope was swept aside with great flourish, and then they were led into the dark club by a young man who seemed way too excited to help them.
Someone should've warned him that Jameson's a stingy tipper when it comes to guys.
Of course there was the main dance floor, and of course there were VIP tables. They walked past all of those to a back wall, in front of which stood several wrought iron, spiral staircases. Tate looked up and was surprised to see matching balconies that showed people dancing. Private rooms. Nice.
“If you need anything, anything at all,” the young man was gushing as he showed them around their room, “just pick up the phone and a waitress will be right with you. Tammy will be your server, and she'll be with you shortly.”
Jameson made himself comfortable on a velvet couch while Sanders stood by the door, looking uncomfortable (i.e., normal). When a waitress showed up to take their order for bottle service, Tate went out to bop around on the balcony, and didn't come back in until the liquor was delivered.
Scotch for Jameson. Perrier for Sanders. And of course, Jack Daniel's for Tate.
She had the best time. Jameson sat in the room and smoked cigars, chit-chatting with Sanders, but that didn't stop Tate from finding fun. It turned out that a semi-famous rap star was in the VIP room next to theirs, and while she was dancing, Tate got to talking with some girls that were on his balcony. Before long, she was stretching and crawling over the railings, tumbling into their party.
It was a good two hours before she made her way back to the balcony. She was significantly tipsier, but still having fun. She cackled and shouted into her room, leaning over the railings. Jameson finally came out.
“Jesus, I thought you were going to stay over there all night,” he snapped.
“Pfffft, you knew where I was, you could've come and gotten me,” she pointed out.
“I shouldn't have to chase you down.”
“You love chasing me down. Heellllpppp,” she whined, holding her arms out to him.
He shook his head, but Jameson was laughing as he helped lift her over the railings, back onto their side. She laughed as well, stumbling into the room and falling on the couch. Sanders stared across the room, but a smile played on his lips.
“Having a good time?” he asked.
“The best time. But my feet hurt,” she groaned, sticking her legs up in the air and shaking her feet in his face. She was wearing ridiculously high stilettos. She wondered why she'd thought they were a good idea.
“I told you not to wear these,” Jameson reminded her as he sat next to her and grabbed onto one of her ankles, removing the offending shoe.
“Shut up, they're hot looking,” she snorted, wiggling her other foot around, trying to stay out of his grasp.
“Very hot. Sanders,” he barked. “She has spare shoes in the car. Go get them.”
Sanders nodded and hustled out of the room.
“Oh, thank you, so much better. You take such good care of me,” Tate groaned, stretching her legs out once he got her other shoe off.
“Always, Liebe,” he agreed, gently massaging one of her feet.
Liebe. German for “Love”. It never stopped feeling good to hear it. She felt warmth spread across her chest.
“This was a very good time, Jameson. Thank you,” she told him.
“It was. Ready to go home?” he asked. She snorted again and sat up, pulling her legs away.
“Are you kidding!? The night's still young! You're not ending this early for me,” she warned him.
“This night is getting boring. I can only talk about Russian literature for so long before I feel like strangling Sanders,” Jameson pointed out.
“You could be having fun with me, instead of being an old man,” Tate suggested, standing up and stretching her arms over her head.
“Watch it,” he warned her. She smiled at him over her shoulder, then went and closed their door.
“Old man. How old are you now, Jameson? Thirty-three? God, that's depressing. I should trade you in for a younger model,” she teased him. He leaned back into the couch, stretching his arms out along the back of it.
