What the hell do I even know how to do, besides sling drinks, walk dogs, and give good head? Though that does make for one hell of a resume ...
Her phone lit up and she pressed it to her ear.
“You're late,” she sang out, chucking her cigarette into a gutter.
“I am never late. I am coming around the corner, I wanted to make sure you were outside,” Sanders replied.
“Yes, kind sir, I am patiently awaiting your arrival,” she laughed.
Tate's laughter got caught in her throat, though, when a large, black car pulled up to the curb in front of her. She stood completely still, didn't make any move towards it. Not even when Sanders got out and came around to stand in front of her.
“Happy birthday,” he said, his voice softer than normal.
“What ..., what is this?” she asked, glancing between him and the car.
“I thought it was time.”
It was a Bentley Flying Spur. Inky black and shiny, blending in with the city. Tate had known the make and model the minute she saw it; the same way she knew the interior was all buttery leather, and that it always, always, had that “new car” smell. She had been in it many, many times. She had some pretty incredible memories in that car.
And some pretty fucking awful ones.
“Time for what? What does that mean?” Tate asked, starting to panic a little. If Jameson climbed out of the car ...
“It means I finally got my car back. There were a lot of problems with getting the work done on it. My name isn't the only one on the title, I ran into some issues. Please, we'll be late for dinner,” Sanders informed her, putting a hand on her back and urging her forward.
Sliding into her seat was like sliding into a panic attack. Tate had never sat in the front while Sanders was driving, only ever the back seat. With Jameson. And there was one time she sat behind the wheel. Almost her last time behind a wheel.
I hate this fucking car. It's like a goddamn hearse.
“Why didn't you just get a new one?” Tate croaked out when he got into the driver's seat.
“I didn't want a new one, I wanted mine back. Seatbelts,” Sanders reminded her, then leaned across her so he could buckle her in.
“Why are you doing this?” she whispered. He glanced at her. His eyes were large, and an interesting gray-blue color combination. Like there was always a storm brewing in them.
“If I may be blunt, I am tired of pussy-footing around you. This is my car. I like my car. I want to drive my car. You do not own a car, so if you need me to take you somewhere, then it will have to be in this car,” Sanders replied.
She was so shocked, she started laughing.
“This is going to be one hell of a birthday, isn't it?” Tate laughed. He snorted and pulled the car into traffic.
“It's just dinner. How was your party last night? I saw The Globe today,” he told her.
“God, don't remind me, I've been getting a million texts about it. Rusty is already planning my wedding,” she groaned, trying to sit as straight as possible so she wouldn't touch the leather any more than was necessary.
Remember the time he took the car without telling Sanders and drove you all the way to Provincetown, then when you got there, you didn't even get out, he just took off your – SHUT UP! SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!
“Care to explain?” Sanders asked.
“It was an accident. The party was boring, and Ang and I had kind of a fight, but then a breakthrough thing, I don't know. Then Nick and I went to leave, and there were all these reporters, and I got knocked down, and he saved me, but then he kissed me, and …, and I didn't know what to do! I couldn't shove him away, not in front of all those cameras,” Tate explained quickly. Sanders nodded.
“I see. Did you want to shove him away?” he asked for clarification.
She paused for a moment, really thinking about it.
“Yes. I mean, kissing is great and all, I just ..., don't want ... that, right now. From anyone,” Tate replied.
“So it wasn't because it was him?”
She glanced across the car.
“Sandy, are you jealous?” she teased. The back of his neck turned pink and she laughed.
“No, I am not jealous. Your relationship with Mr. Castille has never made sense to me, I am just trying to figure it out,” Sanders replied while pulling the car up in front of a swanky restaurant.
“Why doesn't it make sense? We're friends. Or I mean, I thought we were friends,” she told him before getting out of the car. A valet ushered them to the front doors.
“Exactly. Clearly, Mr. Castille sees it another way. And I know Mr. Hollingsworth doesn't care for the relationship,” Sanders pointed out.
“Oh, Ang is just worried about me. Hey! Did you know he has a girlfriend?” Tate changed the subject while a maître d' led them to a table. They had barely been seated before a bottle of champagne was brought out to them with great flourish. After Sanders approved of the taste, the waitstaff scurried away and they were left alone.
“Yes, I know he has been seeing someone,” Sanders answered her question. She was surprised. While not exactly friends, Ang and Sanders had met, and got along on a basic level. Neither asked the other a lot of questions, and that seemed to appeal to both of them.
“Who is she?” Tate pressed. Sanders raised his eyebrows.
“He hasn't told you?”
“No, I just found out last night, and he wouldn't say her name.”