Book Title: Separation
Author: Stylo Fantôme
Genre: Erotica
Release Date: September 22, 2014
Hosted by: Book Enthusiast Promotions
Can the Devil be Forgiven?
Everything is fun and games till someone
gets hurt, and what Jameson Kane did to Tatum O'Shea goes so far beyond hurt,
he is well into the realm of unforgivable. Tate says she wants him gone for
good, and he quickly learns that the old saying, “you don't know what you've
got till it's gone”, is most definitely true.
But Jameson has never been very good at
following instructions, and when Satan decides to seek redemption, he'll go to
great lengths to get it. He proposes one last game – one to end them all, if
she agrees to play. He is very confident that he can win, but Tate warns him
that's not possible; she will not lose again. Little does she know, Jameson is
prepared to do whatever it takes. Prepared to lay the entire world at her feet.
Prepared to bear his soul.
What he didn't count on, though, was
handing the damn thing over.
Now he can only pray that his evil ways
haven't rubbed off on Tate too much. Sometimes, it's very difficult to tell who
the Devil really is …
WARNING: contains a semi-reformed devil, a
woman scorned, and more Sanders than anyone has a right to witness. Also
graphic sexual situations and strong language.
~ Sanders ~
People
often thought “Sanders” was Sanders'
last name; it wasn't – his last name was Dashkevich. Sanders was the name of
some long forgotten relative. Kind of exotic, really. But he never explained
this story, he just let people think what they wanted. That always seemed to
work out best for him.
He
was thirteen when Mr. Jameson Kane found him, starving on the streets of
London. He had tried to steal from Jameson. He had been very bad at
pickpocketing, and Jameson had grabbed him by the collar, held him against a
wall. But then he'd looked at Sanders in the strangest way, and instead of
getting angry, he had offered to buy Sanders lunch.
After
the meal, Jameson informed him that if Sanders was at the same spot every day,
he would continue buying meals for him. Sanders was sure to be there, every
day. After two weeks, they finally got to talking. Jameson asked why he was
starving, living on the streets.
“I
ran away from home,” Sanders had replied. Jameson had nodded.
“I
know how you feel.”
“You
ran away, too?
“Sort
of. I did something very bad to someone back home.”
“And
you felt bad, so you ran away?”
“No,
I didn't feel bad, and that's why I ran away.”
They
kept meeting for lunch. Jameson would have him run the odd errand, then pay him
for it. Jameson would laugh - “you're my
assistant now, Sanders, so we have to work out a salary.” Rented out a
hotel room for Sanders to stay in, bought him new clothes.
Sanders
couldn't figure it out. Who was this guy? What did he want? For a long time,
Sanders thought it was sex. He kept waiting to hear his hotel room door open,
see a silhouette in the light. It's what had always happened to him, in his old
home. But it never happened with this man. It became very obvious, very
quickly, that Jameson was not attracted to him, at all. Sure, Jameson was very adventurous, and Sanders could see
that he lived by a “I'll try anything
once” kind of creedo – but he wasn't gay. Jameson loved women.
“The
perfect woman, Sanders. That's what I'm on a quest for - the perfect woman.
Don't know if I'll ever find her,” he had slurred late one night, very drunk.
“Have
you ever met a perfect woman?” Sanders asked. Jameson thought long and hard
about it.
“I
think I might have. But I didn't know it at the time. And she wasn't quite
perfect yet.”
“Was
it a long time ago?”
“Not
long enough.”
Sanders
wasn't gay either, but he didn't really have any interest in sex. He'd never
done it. Well, at least not consensually; and never with a girl. He had always
been too busy hiding his secret. Then after Jameson came along, Sanders had
been too in awe of his new world, too in shock, to think about girls.
He
told Jameson about the family he'd grown up with – his aunt's family, in South
London. Sanders was originally from Belarus, but his parents moved to England
when he was five. His family got deported, but they managed to leave him at his
mother's sister's house. He never heard from his mother or father again. His
aunt's husband was an Englishman, and not a very nice one. Sanders didn't want
to tell Jameson that whole story.
So
how could Jameson have known?
He
had wanted to surprise Sanders. Wanted Sanders' family to see how well their
nephew was doing, the kind of life he was now leading. Let Sanders show off a
little. His family owned a small bed and breakfast, and Jameson surprised him
by getting them rooms there for a night.
Something
snapped in Sanders. When his uncle came to his room, tried to hold him down,
tried to tell him that he would never be more than what he was in that moment,
Sanders fought back – the first time he had ever done so. He wasn't a large
man, but rage completely overtook him. It wasn't until Jameson was standing
over him, pulling him away, that Sanders even realized he had completely beaten
his uncle's head in against a radiator.
His
life would be over. He would at best be deported back to Belarus. At worst, and
most likely, spend the rest of his life in prison. Sanders sat in the middle of
the blood and gore, and just sobbed. Jameson knelt down and grabbed onto him,
held him still against his chest. Told him everything would be okay, that he
didn't have to worry, that Jameson would take care of everything. And when
Sanders finally calmed down, Jameson kept his promise. He magically managed to
have the body disposed of; cleaned up the room. Left a large sum of money with
Sanders' aunt, who never even seemed to question her husband going missing.
Apparently he wasn't a nice man to anyone else, either.
They
never spoke of that night again. Jameson didn't even ask, just arranged for
Sanders to come back to America. Paid for him to attend the best private
schools. Sanders was very smart, it
turned out. He spoke fluent English, Russian, Belarusian, Polish, and German;
as well as conversational French and Spanish. He could play the piano, and got
as high as a Master level in competitive chess, before he gave it up. Took
classes in sharp shooting. Learned how to rebuild automobile engines.
While
in school, Sanders was also diagnosed with a mild form of Asperger's syndrome.
It explained some of his intense focus, why he never really wanted to talk, and
his minimal OCD. He hadn't thought much of it, and Jameson had just laughed,
said it would give him a leg up in the world.
Because
of Jameson, Sanders was able to do anything he wanted; was allowed to do anything he wanted. Jameson never questioned his
choices. When Sanders turned eighteen, Jameson offered to pay for him to go to
college, but he declined. He wanted to stay with Jameson. He wanted a real job
with him. He wanted to be wherever Jameson was, and the best way was to take a
real position as his assistant.
They'd
never had an entirely normal relationship, anyway. Jameson was more
comfortable, in general, treating everyone like they worked for him. That
appealed to Sanders' meticulous and cold nature. Their relationship worked for
them. They didn't speak a whole lot, and even when they did, they weren't prone
to long conversations. But there was a bond that no one could possibly
understand. Sanders loved him. Hadn't known it was possible to love a person as
much as he loved Jameson Kane.
That's
why it killed him to see Jameson so unhappy. Jameson didn't realize he was
unhappy, but Sanders could tell. All the women, all the sleeping around, all
the debauchery. Something was missing in Jameson's life, that much was clear.
Girls
came and went. Some stayed a little longer than others. Most ignored Sanders.
He ignored all of them. There was an opera singer from Rio that he had almost
considered liking, but before he could make up his mind, she was let go. She
hadn't been up to Jameson's speed, anyway. None of them were, when push came to
shove.
Then
Petrushka Ivanovic entered the picture. How Sanders had hated her. She was the
only one who ever truly got under his skin. They would have arguments in
Russian – so Jameson couldn't understand what they were saying. She called
Sanders a useless, dirty, immigrant who was just leeching off of Jameson. He
called her a tasteless, fake, bitch who was just another notch on Jameson's
very well marked bedpost. It took a lot longer, but eventually she went away,
too. He was very glad.
It
wasn't too much longer before Tatum O'Shea came along. Jameson had mentioned
her a couple times, usually after many late night drinks. It was obvious that
she had been the reason he had run away so many years ago, that she was that “not quite perfect yet” woman. It was
also obvious they hadn't known each other well – they hadn't seen each other in
over seven years. It was a while before Jameson explained the history to him.
Sanders
wasn't sure what to make of Tatum, at first. He had expected just another silly
girl. Another woman who thought she could keep up with Jameson, but ultimately
wouldn't be able to keep up at all. Or one of those types of women who only
wanted Jameson for his status and money.
Not
Tatum. She took everything Jameson threw at her and rolled with it. Asked for
it. Wanted more of it. And she seemed oblivious to, and uncaring of, the fact
that he had more money than God. For a short while, and by mutual agreement,
the relationship was purely physical, and she actually seemed to like it that
way.
Unusual
girl.
She
also completely ignored Sanders' weird, awkward, social habits. He didn't like
to talk very much. Tatum liked to talk a
lot, and just talked to him anyway. She paid attention to him, asked him
how he was doing, what he was doing. Seemed to look right into him sometimes.
She
also touched him – no one ever did that. Sanders usually hated to be touched,
and it had bothered him a lot, at first. But Tate was very persistent. She held
his hand, hugged him, tried to tickle him. It almost seemed as if she touched
him more just because she knew he didn't like it. She was so comfortable with
him, right off the bat. The same way Jameson had been. One day, she even kissed
Sanders. It was a joke, a ruse, but something snapped in him. Sanders was
twenty years old and had never kissed a girl, and here was a girl, laying one
on him. He took the opportunity and kissed her back.
But
Sanders wasn't attracted to Tatum, not like that. He could recognize that she
was a very, very sexy woman. She was
not shy about her body or her sexuality, and she flirted shamelessly with just
about anything that moved. He wasn't entirely immune to her charms; he was
heterosexual, after all. But for the most part he didn't view her that way. She
was something different to him. Something special.
On
top of that, it was clear from day one that she was different to Jameson, too.
Also something special. No one else would have been able to tell, but Sanders
could tell. She made Jameson happy. She made Sanders happy. He grew very attached to her.
When the
relationship between Tatum and Jameson started to become strained, she would
seek Sanders out. Their bond grew stronger. She would come into his room late
at night, play chess with him, talk with him. She never rushed him to talk,
just waited for the words to come out. Eventually, they did. She never asked
questions, never judged anything he had to say. He fell a little in love with
her. Not romantically, not sexually. He didn't know how to explain it. He just
loved her.
If
necessary, he would probably kill for Jameson Kane.
If
asked, he would probably die for Tatum O'Shea.
When
the relationship between Jameson and Tatum ended – and it ended badly – Sanders had mourned it. Jameson
had been in the wrong. It was the first time he had ever asked Sanders to do
things that made him uncomfortable. Things that he found repugnant. He didn't
like lying. It all went to hell. He thought Jameson would admit his fault,
admit he'd been wrong, then apologize. But Jameson wouldn't. It had shocked
Sanders. He held Jameson to a very high standard. It was like hearing his
father damn himself to hell. Sanders would have to save him.
Sometimes,
Sanders felt like he had to fix everything.
Crazy woman living in an undisclosed
location in Alaska (where the need for a creative mind is a necessity!), I have
been writing since ..., forever? Yeah, that sounds about right. I have been
told that I remind people of Lucille Ball - I also see shades of Jennifer
Saunders, and Denis Leary. So basically, I laugh a lot, I'm clumsy a lot, and I
say the F-word A LOT.
I like dogs more than I like most people,
and I don't trust anyone who doesn't drink. No, I do not live in an igloo, and
no, the sun does not set for six months out of the year, there's your Alaska
lesson for the day. I have mermaid hair - both a curse and a blessing - and
most of the time I talk so fast, even I can't understand me.
Yeah. I think that about sums me up.
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