He almost laughed. Sanders was trying to corral the women towards the front door of the suite. One woman was fine, yawning and yanking on a pair of knee high boots. But the other woman – the one who had been sleeping on his arm, if Jameson wasn't mistaken – was not taking kindly to being kicked out. She shouted and argued with Sanders, demanding to know who he was, and why she had to leave. When she shoved Sanders, though, that was going too far. Jameson tossed his toothbrush into the sink and strode through the suite.

“There you are!” the girl all but shrieked. “Tell this pip-squeak I -,”

Jameson didn't care. He grabbed her by the upper arm, yanked open the front door, and practically tossed her into the hall. She yelled and stumbled against a wall. The other girl – Jameson couldn't remember either of their names – left on her own accord. As she pulled on her jacket, she winked at him.

“Call me.”

Then she took off down the hall. He smiled and slammed the door shut.

“And that is how you deal with them,” Jameson said, turning to Sanders.

“Pardon me, but I wouldn't touch those women if you paid me to,” was the assistant's response. Jameson laughed and rumpled his hair.

“Such a princess. C'mon, pack my clothes and let's get the fuck out of here.”

By the time they got in the car, Jameson didn't feel so bad. The four extra strength Tylenol he swallowed helped, and by the time they got into Boston, four hours later, he almost felt normal. But his mood was something else. Somehow, Sanders had managed to get them lost.

“No, no, you got us lost,” Sanders countered as he turned down another street.

“How the fuck did I get us lost!? I'm in the back seat!” Jameson snapped.

“You kept telling me when and where to turn. I have repeatedly told you that I don't appreciate back seat driving,” Sanders reminded him.

“Shut up and get us the fuck out of here. Where are we? I feel like we're going to get shot,” Jameson grumbled, staring out the window.

They were in a shitty neighborhood, in a part of Boston he'd never been to; a part he'd never wanted to visit. His father was originally from the Boston area, so Jameson had actually spent a lot of time there when he'd been a child, but hadn't been back a whole lot as an adult. And certainly never to the frickin' ghetto, where he appeared to be now.

He glared out the window, watching as they passed boarded up businesses and liquor stores. He opened his mouth to snap at Sanders to drive faster, but was then caught off guard. They were passing some sort of restaurant, and slowing down for traffic. But that wasn't what caught his attention.

Two women were eating outside at a picnic bench. Or more correctly, on a picnic bench, sitting on the table top. While the car waited at a red light, Jameson watched as the girls hopped off the table. One of them stretched her arms above her head, laughing as she did so. She was wearing a large pair of mirrored aviators that hid half her face, but she had a great smile, and an even better body. She was wearing tight leather leggings, and a white tank top that left little to the imagination. He didn't recognize her at all, which made sense – he didn't really know anyone in Boston. But there was something about her that was familiar. Something …

“Sanders,” Jameson barked as the car started to roll forward. He watched as the sexy woman pulled on a jacket. “Sanders, turn the car around.”

“Sir, I think the freeway exit is just ahead, I can get -,”

“Turn the fucking car around.”

Sanders did as he was told, but it took a while to find a place, and by the time they were rolling past the restaurant again, the two women were walking down the street. The one who had caught Jameson's eye was doing some sort of silly gallop, making her friend laugh. Then both girls got into a shitty looking VW and he couldn't see her anymore.

“How strange,” he mumbled, trying to stare into their car as they drove past. He couldn't see anything.

“Did you recognize them, sir?” Sanders asked. Jameson sat back in his seat, frowning.

“No. No, not at all.”

~6~

One thing Tate had learned about Jameson was that he was obsessed with money. Almost as much as he was obsessed with sex. It wasn't even necessarily because he wanted to be rich, he just couldn't sit still when there was a profit to be made, a deal to be drawn, something to be happening. He didn't even have to be making money for himself, hence why he kept working at all. Jameson had enough money to retire for multiple lifetimes. He mostly kept working to help other people make money. It was just second-nature to him.

So of course he found a way to make money in Hong Kong.

“You promised not to leave me alone, remember?” Tate pointed out as they walked down a street.

“And I haven't, I would like it noted. I flew your best friend out here. I think I can have a day to myself to work,” Jameson told her. Tate frowned but didn't argue. She leaned into his side, wrapping her arms around him.

“Fiiiiine. I just don't get it. If you have time to be wheeling and dealing, don't you have time to be flying to Singapore to visit your lawyer?” she asked.

“Tate.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up. I'll see my lawyer when I want to see my lawyer.”

“Fiiiiine.”

“Look. I'm trying to invest in this property. How about we throw a party – you like parties,” Jameson suggested. Tate smelled a bribe and let go of him.