SANDERS

Author's note: I have said it repeatedly, and I will say it again – I am not writing a full length Sanders novel. Believe me, I wish I could. I have tried, multiple times. He is still the hands-down favorite character of mine. People love him more than any of my other characters, combined. But Sanders is not an easy soul to communicate with, he only gives me tiny bits and pieces. So far, this excerpt of sorts is the only thing I've ever come up with – in over three years – that I've been satisfied with, and I know it'll be controversial. That's the other problem – writing Sanders means possibly writing something you all don't like, and I don't know if I could expose him to that. But maybe someday, when the planets align, Sanders will feel like telling me his story, and whatever it is, I will write it down. I hope he does. But until then, I only have this little piece to offer. I hope you enjoy. These events take place shortly after the end of Reparation.

 

*

 

Prologue

 

Sanders didn't know why it was different that afternoon, but it just was; something had changed. Between walking into the library and walking out of the library, so many things had changed.

He should not be allowed to touch her like that.

He had been working in the sitting room when he heard the thumping. Thump. Pause. Thump. Pause. Thump. And then her name, spoken in a deep voice. An agitated voice.

“Tatum.”

Pause. Thump.

After a couple more thumps, Sanders got up to investigate. A couple more thumps and her name was said, again, and then he was standing in front of the library door. He pushed on it, causing it to fall open a little.

He could see Jameson, sitting behind his large desk. Behind oak and gold and opulence. A very natural setting for a very powerful man. He was looking down, flipping pages on what Sanders knew was a business contract.

Thump.

Sanders lifted his eyes away from the desk. Let his gaze travel across the fireplace. She was standing in front of a bookshelf, holding a heavy, hardback book in her hand. She flicked her eyes to Jameson, then tossed the book over her shoulder. It hit the ground with a heavy thump, landing next to a pile of other books. Jameson didn't look up, so she sighed and took down another book. Flipped through a couple pages. Threw it over her shoulder. Thump. Jameson finally looked at her.

“Tate,” he snapped. She had pulled down another book and now looked up from it, her eyes wide and full of innocence.

“What?” she asked.

“I'm working,” Jameson said, gesturing to the paperwork in front of him. She nodded.

“I know. That's why I'm bored.”

But she was smiling. Sanders cocked his head to the side, trying to figure the situation out. He didn't want to interrupt before he knew for sure whether or not he was needed.

“Go be bored somewhere else,” Jameson grumbled, turning his attention back to his paperwork.

“But it's so much more fun to be bored with you,” she teased, and threw the book over her shoulder. Thump.

“Stop it,” Jameson's voice was full of warning as he looked back at her. She smiled and grabbed another book. Didn't even bother opening it, just started lifting it. “Tatum, I'm not fucking around, I don't want -”

Thump.

Jameson stood up and stalked towards her. It was a menacing move that would have caused most people to back up or scurry away. Not her. She smiled up at him as she reached out to grab another book.

“I thought you were working?” she breathed. He took the book out of her hand.

“I am. You're distracting me. Not good, Ms. O'Shea.”

“I'm not good very often.”

“You should work on that.”

Jameson was crowding close to her, forcing her to move around, forcing her down the room. He finally stopped when they were in front of the couch. She was saying something but Sanders couldn't quite make it out. Her voice was soft and breathy. Sexual. Normal.

Suddenly, Jameson lashed out. Slapped her across the face. Not necessarily hard, but enough to make her head whip to the side. Then he was grabbing her by the throat, pulling her close to him. She was still talking, still breathing silky words. Jameson chuckled, then shoved her, forcing her to fall onto the couch. She laughed, almost more of a giggle, and then he was lowering himself over her. On top of her, pressing down on her. She moaned, working the buttons open on his shirt. Pushing it off his shoulders. Jameson shrugged out of it and then used it to tie her wrists together.

But that's Dior.

Sanders turned and walked away. Walked past the sitting room and out the front door. Kept going till he was at the guest house – his house. Didn't stop till he was upstairs in his room. There was a cushioned chair in a corner, and Sanders sat down on it. Cleared his throat. Adjusted his tie.

Of course he had seen Jameson and her in all sorts of compromising positions. The two weren't particularly shy and had a horrible tendency to forget to lock doors. Or even shut them all the way. Sanders never knocked, because years of living alone with Jameson had conditioned him to not need to. So he had walked in on them, several times, in the middle of sex.

Even before her, Jameson hadn't been bashful. He had long ago explained his somewhat unconventional sexual preferences to Sanders. He liked rough sex, he liked dishing it out, and he liked being mean. Then after he had started sleeping with her, he'd taken Sanders aside and had gone into more detail. Explained that Sanders might see some things that could possibly cause him to worry, but that he shouldn't – she wanted these things done to her. They were her idea. She liked to be treated roughly, she liked what Jameson had to dish out, and she loved it when he was mean. The meaner, the better.

Still. Seeing Jameson hit her. Seeing him slap her. It did something to Sanders. Made him feel something. And Sanders was not a man of much feeling.

He should not be allowed to touch her like that.

Sanders spent the rest of the day trying to sort out his feelings. He left the armchair only to take off his jacket and use the restroom. His phone rang at one point, but it was her calling. He had never purposefully avoided her phone calls before, but he let that one go to voicemail. Didn't listen to her message.

The sun set. He sat in the dark, trying to figure out where his thoughts were coming from, his feelings. He had seen Jameson treat her roughly before, had seen him grab her by the throat. Had seen him push her around. One time Jameson had pinned her to the kitchen floor and cut her shirt off of her. Sanders hadn't witnessed it, but they had both told him about it. Another time, almost a year ago, while Sanders had watched from the hall, Jameson had wrapped both his hands around her neck. Shoved her up against the car.

Why was this time so different?

He should not be allowed to touch her like that.

Sanders finally changed into his pajamas and laid in bed. Stared at his ceiling. Sometimes, when Jameson was out of town, she would come over and sleep next to Sanders. It gave her comfort, so he didn't mind indulging her. Sometimes she cuddled against him, and he didn't mind that, either. He usually didn't think much about it.

But as he laid there, staring at his ceiling, he started thinking about it. She was warm, and soft, and usually smelled good. She would hum and sigh in her sleep. She would twine her legs around his, wrap her arms around him. He was an early riser, she was a late sleeper, so in the mornings he would lay as still as possible, waiting till she woke up on her own. She usually did with a stretch and sigh, laughing at her messy hair and his proper pajamas. So silly.

When did I start looking at her like that?

Sanders glanced at the clock. Two in the morning. He stared back at the ceiling. Thought about what he had seen in the library. Sanders had never been intimate with a woman before, didn't spend much time thinking about it. Now he couldn't seem to stop. Was he hitting a secondary sort of puberty? He didn't understand it. There were so many questions. She had been acting childish. Annoying. Why did that seem to spark a certain kind of reaction? And how had Jameson known that's what she'd been trying to do?

And how did Jameson know when to get up? How did he know when to touch her? How to touch her? Was there some signal? Something she said? When was it time to lower her to the couch?

So many things Sanders didn't know about, hadn't ever really thought about. It was all like an intricate dance that he didn't know the steps to – and it seemed like everyone else did know. How was he supposed to learn? Who was supposed to teach him?

“... I could show you the ropes ...”

He closed his eyes finally. He had always dreaded this moment. Knew it was going to happen someday. Knew something would bring it about eventually.

But that didn't mean he had to like it.

 

*

 

“Sir,” Sanders said, striding into the library the next day. He didn't look at the couch.

“Where have you been all day? It's almost noon,” Jameson snapped. He was standing next to his desk, holding a Chinese takeout container and using chopsticks to eat chow mein out of it.

“I was at home. I need to discuss something important with you. Where is she?” Sanders asked, glancing around. Still not looking at the couch.

“In the pool. Does this have to be now? We just got lunch,” Jameson replied, gesturing to the other containers which were on his desk.

“I would like for it to be now, while it's just the two of us,” Sanders said. Jameson glared, but didn't move. Shoveled some more noodles into his mouth.

“Well, make it fast. If this gets cold she's going to bitch, and then I'll have to order more, and then -”

“I am going to be moving away, sir,” Sanders interrupted.

Jameson started choking.

“Jesus,” he finally managed to hack out, dropping the container onto his desk and then pounding on his chest. “Just like that, huh!? 'Hello, good afternoon, oh by the way, I'm moving,' - what are you talking about?”

He never did handle change well.

“It's time for me to go,” Sanders said simply. Jameson looked completely bewildered.

“What the fuck are you on about?”

“I have been taking correspondence courses, this past year. I have gotten my master's degree in Russian historical literature,” Sanders confessed. Jameson went from bewildered to … a look Sanders had never seen before. Didn't know how to decipher.

“You're shitting me. Why didn't you tell me? For fuck's sake, Sanders, you got offers from MIT and Yale when you were eighteen! Correspondence courses!?” Jameson exclaimed, sitting back against his desk. Sanders cleared his throat.

“I didn't want to leave home until I absolutely had to,” he responded.

“Well, I'm very happy for you, but why do you need to leave? What are you going to do with a degree in Russian historical … literature!? Jesus, Sanders,” Jameson grumbled.

“I can teach. I can tutor. I have also saved every single paycheck you have ever given me. I don't have to work at all, if I don't want to,” he explained.

“But why? Why do you need to go? Harvard is right next door, teach there, tutor there. You don't need to leave home,” Jameson told him.

“I do.”

“You don't. Do you have any idea how much this is going to upset her? She's -” Jameson started to point out.

“She is the reason I need to go.”

The silence was heavy. She had always been a double-edged sword between them, slicing right through their bond, seamlessly and effortlessly. Sanders was her best friend. Jameson was her lover. At any given point in time, it was impossible to tell whom she would choose, if it ever came down to it. In the beginning, the answer was easy – Jameson. In the middle, there was no question – Sanders. Now? It was like Solomon's Choice, and Sanders was prepared to be the one to let go.

Jameson certainly wouldn't.

“And may I ask why she is a reason for you needing to go?” Jameson's voice was soft. Full of steel. His eyes were locked onto Sanders', and they weren't happy.

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because … things have changed. I am no longer comfortable being here,” Sanders went on, adjusting his tie. The movement wasn't lost on Jameson.

“Cut the bullshit. What the fuck is the problem? Maybe it can be fixed,” Jameson snapped.

“I think I might be in love with her.”

Jameson lurched away from the desk, away from Sanders. Paced to one end of the room, shoving his hands into his hair. Paced back. Gave an evil stare to Sanders, then paced down again. Came back.

“I'm sorry. I … wait. Are you serious? Is this a joke? Because if it is, I have to tell you, it isn't fucking funny,” Jameson hissed, getting close to him. Sanders shook his head.

“I would never joke about this, sir,” he assured him. Jameson got even closer, having to tilt his head down to stare Sanders in the eye. Like a predator. His eyes were narrowed, his anger alive in his glare.

“And when did this happen?” his voice was soft.

“I'm not sure. I'm not even sure I am. But I do know that … something is different, and I think it would be best, for all of us, if I wasn't here anymore,” Sanders said.

“I don't understand how this happened. You two are friends. You know what she means to me, what we are to each other. How did this happen?” Jameson demanded.

“I don't know. I didn't realize it was happening, and then the other day … I just realized it.”

Jameson went to say something else, but there was a sound in the hallway. A thud, then a crash, followed by laughter.

Even her laugh is bawdy. Loud. Sexual. Inappropriate. I will miss it so much.

“God, I just bit it so hard out there! I think I broke my ass!”

Tatum O'Shea was a very beautiful girl. Sanders had always thought so – he wasn't blind. But just because someone was beautiful didn't necessarily automatically make them attractive, at least not to Sanders. No, it had taken a while for Tatum to grow on him as a friend.

There had been a turning point, though. When she had run away the very last time and Sanders had gone with her. A hotel room. A confusing night. A heavy kiss. He had stopped it, and she wouldn't have gone through with anything more, but still. He'd never said anything about it, but it had stayed with him. Suddenly, Tatum wasn't just Tatum anymore. Wasn't a silly girl he was friends with, a girl he had to be around. No, suddenly she was a woman, with curves, and skin, and lips, and a tongue. A tongue he'd experienced firsthand.

Not good.

She walked into the room, rubbing at her backside as she laughed. She had obviously slipped and fallen, most likely because she was soaking wet. Jameson had mentioned that she'd been in the pool – she had probably come straight from it. She was wearing a bikini, holding a towel in her free hand.

Sanders and Jameson exchanged glances.

“Tate, maybe you should -” Jameson started.

“Sandy!” she exclaimed, finally spotting him. He cleared his throat. Looked away. “Where have you been? I called you like a hundred times yesterday! We made pizza.”

As she babbled, Tatum suddenly bent at the waist, rubbing the towel over her wet hair. Sanders was no lech, she probably could've walked into the room naked and he would have maintained his cool. But having just confessed his feelings to Jameson, and having Jameson standing right next to him, and her bent over, in a bikini …

This is very awkward.

“I had a lot of things going on, I'm sorry,” Sanders managed. Tatum stood up, whipping her hair back.

“Well, you should be, you missed out on awesome pizza,” she laughed, starting to march towards him, her arms out for a hug. Jameson smoothly stepped in between them.

“Hey, go get changed so we can have lunch,” he said, running his hands up and down her arms.

“I didn't realize it was a formal occasion,” she snorted.

“Why do you have to make everything an argument, baby girl? Just go put on some clothes, I'll get plates,” Jameson instructed.

“I still don't -,”

“I wasn't asking, Tate.”

There was some huffing and grumbling, but she finally left the room, throwing the towel at them as she went. They listened to her stomp up the stairs, then Sanders turned to stare at the back of Jameson's head. At his guardian. His best friend.

At my father ...

“I'm very sorry,” Sanders said in a soft voice.

Jameson turned around and Sanders halfway expected anger, but the other man just sighed and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him into a hug. Jameson was a lot bigger than Sanders, taller. Broader. They were only ten years apart in age, but he always felt like so much more to Sanders. Stature, size, age. Everything. Sanders felt like he could fit inside him.

It's where I've been living all these years.

“I'm sorry,” Jameson whispered, his arms tight around Sanders. “I should've … I should've been more careful. I'm not mad. Never think I'm mad. And you don't have to go. We can work something out, we can try.”

Sanders shook his head.

“No. It wouldn't be right. I am the problem, I am the one in the way. I am twenty-one years old. It is time I do something for myself,” Sanders replied, wrapping his arms around Jameson's middle.

“You can do that from here. She'll miss you, you know,” Jameson pointed out.

“I know. But it's necessary,” Sanders stressed.

“I'll miss you.”

“And I can guarantee I will miss you more. But I am not dying. I will come home for Christmas,” Sanders promised.

Jameson barked out a laugh and pulled away. Held Sanders at arms-length and looked him over. They had been in each others lives for almost nine years, and for seven of them, it had only been the two of them. Always the two of them. Sanders had missed those times, he was startled to realize.

“She's going to be very upset. Would you like me to break the news?” Jameson asked. Sanders shrugged.

“Eventually. I still have some preparations to make, things to set up, before I leave. We can continue as normal until then. I would never try to …” Sanders' voice trailed off, not sure how to end that sentence.

“Don't be stupid, I wouldn't ever think you would. Are you going to just avoid her till you go? You know she won't take that, she'll just come find you,” Jameson warned him. Sanders nodded.

“I know. I won't avoid her. But I think it would be best if I didn't spend as much time in the main house,” he suggested.

“Fair enough. If there's anything you need me to do. Or … not do ...” Jameson was obviously struggling with words, as well. Sanders waved the suggestion away.

“Of course not, I would never ask that of you. Do as you have always done,” he instructed. Jameson sighed, dropping his arms.

“God, this is awkward as fuck. Why can't things ever be normal for us?” he grumbled, rubbing a hand over his face.

He didn't get an answer. Tatum pranced back into the room, wearing a pair of shorts and a tank top over her bikini. She had yanked her hair up into a sloppy ponytail and hadn't bothered with any makeup or shoes. She skipped across the room, to Sanders' side, and kissed him on the cheek. He managed a tight lipped smile as she made her way to Jameson's desk. Both men stared at each other.

“Did you remember to get my veggie spring rolls?” Tatum asked, picking through the food boxes.

“Of course,” Jameson replied. She smiled and grabbed a styrofoam container before turning towards him.

“You take such good care of me,” she sighed in a sappy voice, before standing on tiptoe and kissing his cheek, too.

“Always, Liebe. Go wait in the kitchen, we'll bring the food,” Jameson said in a soft voice, kissing her quickly. She headed off into the kitchen, but not before stealing another kiss.

Liebe. German for love. His love. The only woman he's ever loved.

“I don't want things to be awkward. I would be very uncomfortable,” Sanders said quickly. Jameson rolled his eyes.

“I think it's a little fuckin' late for that. C'mon, Cassanova, carry some boxes. We'll figure this shit out eventually,” Jameson grumbled, then picked up some of the food cartons.

 

*

 

A week later, Sanders told Tatum his decision. She did not take it well, as predicted. There was crying and begging and cajoling. Then pouting. Then the silent treatment. She didn't want him to go, and she was willing to go to great lengths to convince him to stay, even if it meant guilt tripping him. Sanders, however, had unshakable reserve.

She cracked after another week, and Sanders woke up in the middle of the night to her crawling into bed with him. He was a little shocked; she had never stayed over at the guest house while Jameson was in town. But she snuggled up against him, cried into his shoulder, and wished him well. Made him promise that she could visit him, wherever he ended up.

Maybe not such a good thing.

It took him an additional month, but Sanders finally figured out what he was going to do. If he was going to “leave the nest”, as it were, then he decided he might as well make it meaningful. He would go back to his roots. He would go to Russia. He knew that his grandparents were originally from Moscow, and though he had no desire to look up his family in Belarus, he lined up a tutoring job with Lomonosov Moscow State University – it wasn't hard, with his ability to speak multiple languages and his grades.

So six weeks after his confession to Jameson, Sanders Dashkevich was ready to leave everything he had known for the last nine years and move halfway across the world.

All because a woman with dark eyes and a teasing smile had dared to kiss him.

“Sanders,” Jameson's voice called out. Sanders had been walking out of the kitchen and turned back around. Walked into the library. It was late at night and all the lights were off. Just the fire was raging, as it always was when Jameson was at home.

“Yes?” Sanders asked, taking a seat in front of the desk. Jameson sat behind it, shadows flickering across his face. Tatum often teased that he looked like Satan. At that moment, Sanders couldn't argue with the description.

“You leave in three days.”

It was said as a statement. Sanders nodded in agreement.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to do anything special?”

“No, not really. I think that will just make it worse.”

“Alright. I'll take you to the airport on Sunday.”

“Just you?”

“Just me.”

“Is she …” Sanders let his voice trail off, his gaze fixed on the flames. It hurt him to see her hurt – she was his friend. A kindred spirit. A soulmate. He didn't want to hurt her.

“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 ...”