#ugh sandy you vindictive piece of shit i love you

oxfordman:

I’ve been expecting you.

That phrase alone grated on him, making him grit his teeth. Of course Sandy had been expecting him. They’d had this appointment with eachother for a while, apparently, though Ollie hadn’t known it until recently. It had taken a visit from Francesca and a lot of thinking to confirm it, but now that he was here, there was no going back.

He regarded Sandy with cool interest, not wanting to appear too bent out of shape. It wasn’t like him to show his emotions so plainly; he wasn’t doing as good a job as usual of hiding what he felt and he knew it. That fact irritated him endlessly, but there was little he could do to fix it. He needed time, mainly, and the company of people whose senses were not quite so keen as men like Sandy’s were. He had rarely sought stupidity in the past—he preferred to keep himself intellectually stimulated whenever possible—but now, in his weakened state, it was difficult for him to maintain the usually-seamless facade he’d grown so accustomed to wearing in more sophisticated company.

“Same as they ever were,” Ollie replied, lying through his teeth. He was certain Sandy could tell, but he found himself rapidly becoming less concerned with pretense. He eyed Sandy’s drink for a moment, waiting for him to make a dent in it before continuing.

“I was hopin’ we could talk, if you have a moment to spare.” He looked around, eyes scanning the faces of the men and women around the Siren. “Preferably in a place where there are fewer ears to hear what is said.”

To say that Mr. Oxford was bent out of shape would’ve been a grievous understatement. Upon their previous meetings, Sandy had always noticed that Ollie could affect a calm demeanor as easily as himself. But he was in quite a state, that veiled anger probably not quite as veiled as Ollie would’ve liked. He was upset, for reasons that he could only assume had to do with Francesca, and Sandy had to admit that he found some vague sort of amusement in it all.

When had Sandy ever given Ollie the impression that he wasted time on romance? Certainly, he had women on his arm more often than not, but that was the thing of it – you saw women, plural, never the same one. Really, his choice of date was as much an accessory as the tie he decided to wear on any given day. Why would someone like him have a need for one woman, when he could have as many as he fucking wanted?

The logic of that clearly was beyond Mr. Oxford’s comprehension in his emotionally weakened state.

It didn’t surprise him that Ollie wanted privacy for his little temper tantrum, but Sandy was loathe to give it to him. Sandy knew exactly how this would play out – he had stolen enough women from less-competent men that it was practically old hat. They would go someplace private, Ollie would give him a few harsh words about “taking his dame,” and then Sandy would carry on with his day. There was no need to tell an already-angered man what a boring fuck his wife was, or if he was pleasing his girlfriend perhaps she wouldn’t be so easily swayed into his bed. It was all but implied.

Only a man who had nothing to offer couldn’t keep control of a woman. Sandy controlled over thirty. There was nothing else to be said.

But Sandy still had some small measure of respect for Ollie, so he nodded his head in response to his request. Finishing off his scotch quickly and cleanly, Sandy rose from the bar and led the man back to his office.

He unlocked the door, allowing Mr. Oxford to step inside first, before closing the door behind them.

“So, Mr. Oxford, I’m going to make the assumption this isn’t a social call.”