“No, we talked about it and felt it was best if she didn't come along. But she does have something special she would like to do for you, before you go,” Jameson continued.
“And that is?”
“A surprise.”
Sanders looked away from the fire, back to Satan.
“What kind of surprise?”
“One we both think you'll enjoy.”
“Oh god.”
Jameson laughed and stood up from his chair, came around the desk. Clapped Sanders on the shoulder.
“I will miss you, Mijo. More than I can tell you,” he said softly. Sanders nodded. Cleared his throat.
“Claro, and I will miss you, too.”
There was silence for a moment, then Jameson squeezed his shoulder one last time before walking out of the room. Another moment later, and the door slowly swung shut. But Sanders wasn't alone in the room. He finally turned in his chair and took in Tatum standing in front of the door, her hands behind her back.
“How are you?” she asked, smiling at him. He frowned.
“I am well. And you?”
“Good.”
“What is going on?” Sanders demanded.
Tatum laughed and finally walked forward, taking Jameson's seat on the opposite side of the desk.
“Nothing bad, I promise,” she assured him.
“I don't believe you.”
“Not a shocker. Look. You're leaving soon. Jameson and I were trying to figure out something to do for you, something … something …” she was clearly searching for the right word.
“Something what?” he asked, looking around the room.
“Something special,” her voice went soft.
“Special how?” he pressed.
“Things are going to change a lot. You've never lived alone. You'll be surrounded by people you don't know. I worry about you,” her voice got even softer.
“Pardon me, but I lived on the streets of London for over six months – behind a dumpster, no less. I think I can handle living in the house I've rented,” Sanders assured her. She laughed.
“Not what I mean, Sandy. Look … just … hear me out, alright?” she begged.
“Oh god.”
“I want to give you a send off that will help you in your new life, help you adjust,” she kept stumbling over her words. Sanders sighed.
“Please just say it. I have heard many strange things come out of your mouth before, and I have yet to be truly disgusted or offended. So there's no need to be afraid,” he promised. She leaned across the desk and smiled, but it was decidedly dark. Almost a little evil. Satanic.
“I want to give you a present ...”
1
They went to Gloucester, Massachusetts. Sanders wasn't entirely sure why – the beach during the summer was awful. So many people and tourists. But Tate loved Good Harbor Beach, so he'd allowed himself to be dragged to the coast. He was somewhat regretting it now. He'd assumed she'd book a house for them. Money was no object for people like Jameson and Sanders, so even at the height of vacation season, they could have found something. Silly man, he'd forgotten who he was dealing with, though. She'd booked them a room at a quaint but cheap motel that was directly on the beach.
When they'd checked in, he'd kept calm and collected, but inwardly, his skin had been crawling. So many people, all around him. Being loud and rude. Flip flops clacking away, the smell of sunscreen everywhere, hairy backs as far as the eye could see.
“We could have gone to Saint-Tropez,” he'd pointed out. She'd laughed at him while she signed them into their room.
“And waste half a day getting there and then again coming back? I only have you for four more days, I'm not wasting any of them.”
The room had been small. One king sized bed with an ugly comforter. A scratched dresser against the wall, and a worn but comfortable sitting chair near the bed. Surprisingly enough, the bathroom was very large. A spacious, but dated, tub took up most of one wall, and a shower stall, vanity, and toilet were across from it. There was lots of floor space, and he assumed it was because of the beach. Giving the motel dwellers ample space to clean off all the sand.
I wonder if there is a Hilton nearby, I cannot be expected to shower here.
Though Sanders loved any time he got to spend with Tate, he couldn't quite figure out her game. Good Harbor Beach wasn't exactly anywhere special. They put their overnight bags in a corner in the room. They had a normal dinner at a plain restaurant. All things that could have been done at home.
“Will you tell me now?” he finally asked.
It was almost midnight and they were down on the beach. There were some bonfires in the distance, and once in a while a couple people sauntered by up closer to the street. But they were down in the water line, letting the ocean lap at their legs. It was also unseasonably chilly out, so that seemed to be keeping people away.
“Tell you what?” Tate asked, staring out over the black sea. The wind was whipping some loose strands of her hair around and she kept trying to tuck them behind her ears, almost absentmindely.
“Why we are here,” he said, looking down at her. She was to his side and a couple steps in front of him. Her sandals were dangling from one hand and she had her other hand up by her face, still fighting with her hair. Though it was cold, she hadn't bothered changing out of what she'd driven up in – high waisted black shorts, which were very tiny. Almost more like bathing suit bottoms. On top was a loose black crop top. Ridiculous for the weather, really, but so perfect for her.
Sanders was still in his suit. He had wanted to change before going down to the beach, but she'd insisted on walking straight down. He'd left his shoes, socks, and jacket up by the motel, then had rolled up his pant legs before going into the water with her. His tie kept flapping around in the wind, so he finally unbuttoned the middle button on his shirt and slipped the length of silk through the hole to keep it in place.
“I like the ocean,” she sighed. “And you like the beach. I knew the weather was going to be shitty, which meant it wouldn't be crazy busy. I thought it would be nice for us to spend some time alone together. I know we won't get a chance again.”
“There is always Christmas,” he assured her, frowning at her back. She finally looked over at him, and even in the dark he could see her smile.
“And that is?”
“A surprise.”
Sanders looked away from the fire, back to Satan.
“What kind of surprise?”
“One we both think you'll enjoy.”
“Oh god.”
Jameson laughed and stood up from his chair, came around the desk. Clapped Sanders on the shoulder.
“I will miss you, Mijo. More than I can tell you,” he said softly. Sanders nodded. Cleared his throat.
“Claro, and I will miss you, too.”
There was silence for a moment, then Jameson squeezed his shoulder one last time before walking out of the room. Another moment later, and the door slowly swung shut. But Sanders wasn't alone in the room. He finally turned in his chair and took in Tatum standing in front of the door, her hands behind her back.
“How are you?” she asked, smiling at him. He frowned.
“I am well. And you?”
“Good.”
“What is going on?” Sanders demanded.
Tatum laughed and finally walked forward, taking Jameson's seat on the opposite side of the desk.
“Nothing bad, I promise,” she assured him.
“I don't believe you.”
“Not a shocker. Look. You're leaving soon. Jameson and I were trying to figure out something to do for you, something … something …” she was clearly searching for the right word.
“Something what?” he asked, looking around the room.
“Something special,” her voice went soft.
“Special how?” he pressed.
“Things are going to change a lot. You've never lived alone. You'll be surrounded by people you don't know. I worry about you,” her voice got even softer.
“Pardon me, but I lived on the streets of London for over six months – behind a dumpster, no less. I think I can handle living in the house I've rented,” Sanders assured her. She laughed.
“Not what I mean, Sandy. Look … just … hear me out, alright?” she begged.
“Oh god.”
“I want to give you a send off that will help you in your new life, help you adjust,” she kept stumbling over her words. Sanders sighed.
“Please just say it. I have heard many strange things come out of your mouth before, and I have yet to be truly disgusted or offended. So there's no need to be afraid,” he promised. She leaned across the desk and smiled, but it was decidedly dark. Almost a little evil. Satanic.
“I want to give you a present ...”
1
They went to Gloucester, Massachusetts. Sanders wasn't entirely sure why – the beach during the summer was awful. So many people and tourists. But Tate loved Good Harbor Beach, so he'd allowed himself to be dragged to the coast. He was somewhat regretting it now. He'd assumed she'd book a house for them. Money was no object for people like Jameson and Sanders, so even at the height of vacation season, they could have found something. Silly man, he'd forgotten who he was dealing with, though. She'd booked them a room at a quaint but cheap motel that was directly on the beach.
When they'd checked in, he'd kept calm and collected, but inwardly, his skin had been crawling. So many people, all around him. Being loud and rude. Flip flops clacking away, the smell of sunscreen everywhere, hairy backs as far as the eye could see.
“We could have gone to Saint-Tropez,” he'd pointed out. She'd laughed at him while she signed them into their room.
“And waste half a day getting there and then again coming back? I only have you for four more days, I'm not wasting any of them.”
The room had been small. One king sized bed with an ugly comforter. A scratched dresser against the wall, and a worn but comfortable sitting chair near the bed. Surprisingly enough, the bathroom was very large. A spacious, but dated, tub took up most of one wall, and a shower stall, vanity, and toilet were across from it. There was lots of floor space, and he assumed it was because of the beach. Giving the motel dwellers ample space to clean off all the sand.
I wonder if there is a Hilton nearby, I cannot be expected to shower here.
Though Sanders loved any time he got to spend with Tate, he couldn't quite figure out her game. Good Harbor Beach wasn't exactly anywhere special. They put their overnight bags in a corner in the room. They had a normal dinner at a plain restaurant. All things that could have been done at home.
“Will you tell me now?” he finally asked.
It was almost midnight and they were down on the beach. There were some bonfires in the distance, and once in a while a couple people sauntered by up closer to the street. But they were down in the water line, letting the ocean lap at their legs. It was also unseasonably chilly out, so that seemed to be keeping people away.
“Tell you what?” Tate asked, staring out over the black sea. The wind was whipping some loose strands of her hair around and she kept trying to tuck them behind her ears, almost absentmindely.
“Why we are here,” he said, looking down at her. She was to his side and a couple steps in front of him. Her sandals were dangling from one hand and she had her other hand up by her face, still fighting with her hair. Though it was cold, she hadn't bothered changing out of what she'd driven up in – high waisted black shorts, which were very tiny. Almost more like bathing suit bottoms. On top was a loose black crop top. Ridiculous for the weather, really, but so perfect for her.
Sanders was still in his suit. He had wanted to change before going down to the beach, but she'd insisted on walking straight down. He'd left his shoes, socks, and jacket up by the motel, then had rolled up his pant legs before going into the water with her. His tie kept flapping around in the wind, so he finally unbuttoned the middle button on his shirt and slipped the length of silk through the hole to keep it in place.
“I like the ocean,” she sighed. “And you like the beach. I knew the weather was going to be shitty, which meant it wouldn't be crazy busy. I thought it would be nice for us to spend some time alone together. I know we won't get a chance again.”
“There is always Christmas,” he assured her, frowning at her back. She finally looked over at him, and even in the dark he could see her smile.
