*
The next day, Tate avoided seeing Nick until dinner time. It was his last night in town, and she had already agreed to go to dinner with him. She and Sanders had stayed up very late the night before, talking. She had woken up curled around him, almost hugging him from behind. He woke up, and then they talked some more. As blunt as he was, he never once said outright that Jameson was in love with her, and he never once told her exactly what she should do. Just that it was obvious she was happiest with Jameson, to anyone with eyeballs, so why was she fighting against it?
Obviously, Sanders had never had convulsions and been admitted to a psych ward. Obviously, Sanders hadn't spent every day for the past couple months, worrying and waiting for the other shoe to drop. The other hand to strike. Nothing was ever smooth sailing with Jameson. Something was going to happen. She still couldn't say if she honestly wanted to see what it was.
Dinner with Nick was awkward. He laughed and tried to make her feel comfortable, but the kiss laid heavy between them. Words were almost easier to forget than a kiss. He assured her that he was fine, his heart wasn't broken. But before they parted ways, he hugged her tightly and made her promise that if she ever needed anything, anything, that he would be the first person she called.
Tate could've gone home, back to Weston. She had originally planned on going home the next day, because she had wanted to see Nick off at the airport, but that wasn't going to happen anymore. Still. She wasn't ready.
So she invited Ang over to the condo. Sanders protested vehemently, insisting that Ang coming over was almost as bad as Nick coming over. Tate just shushed him and told him to go back to Weston.
“You don't want me here?” he sounded shocked. She laughed and hugged him.
“I always want your around, Sandy. But I know you don't like it here. And Nick is gone, I don't need a babysitter. I'll be home, I'm not going to run away,” she promised him. He frowned.
“I think this is a bad idea,” he insisted.
“Stay, if you want. We're going to do a marathon of Ang's first ten porns. They start getting almost good after the first three. Anal was new to him, he didn't -,”
She had never seen Sanders move quite that fast.
Ang really did come over, though they opted not to watch the porn. She hadn't had sex in almost a week. After being celibate for so long over the winter, her sex drive was back with a vengeance. She didn't want to tempt fate.
Ang and Ellie had made a truce of sorts. She admitted to knowingly leading him on, and had apologized. He apologized for making out with Tatum, just to hurt her. She asked if they could still have sex once and while. He told her that she couldn't afford him.
Laughter all around.
“You know who was good?” Ang breathed, passing a joint to her. She didn't really drink anymore, and hadn't smoked any cigarettes since Jameson had tossed her in the ocean. But Tate saw no problems with marijuana. A fine, smoky haze drifted around the condo.
“Who?” she asked, taking a hit and holding the smoke in her lungs.
“Rusty,” he replied, referring to her old roommate, the one he had slept with to piss Tate off. She started coughing.
“Seriously!?” she exclaimed, patting her chest. He nodded.
“Yeah, surprisingly. That shy, virginal thing kinda does it for me,” he replied. She swatted him in the arm.
“Shut up, you loved it with me.”
“Tater tot, no one will ever be as good as you,” he told her, and she smiled. “But Rus was pretty hot. I think I was like only the fourth dude she'd ever had sex with.”
“One time, I had to listen to her and some dude, all night. Jameson was over. I thought we were gonna die, we were laughing so hard. It sounded boring,” Tate said. He shook his head.
“She's one of those chicks that just needs the right kind of man to turn her out,” he explained. She made a face.
“Such a pig. What about Ellie? Closet freak?” she asked. He picked the joint off the ashtray, put it between his lips.
“Nah. I mean, it was kind of obvious she was exploring her 'wild side' with me – she loved getting it on in public. Cracked me up. You should see peoples faces when you get caught going down on a pregnant chick in the public library,” he commented before inhaling deeply.
“Oh god, I feel sick.”
“What about you and that little sidekick? Sanders seems to have googly eyes for you,” Ang pointed out, blowing a stream of smoke away from her head. She made a face.
“Sandy? No, not like that. I think I'm like a cross between a springer spaniel and an incompetent child, to him. He doesn't look at me like that,” she replied.
“Does he look at anyone that way? Guys?” Ang asked. She smiled.
“Interested?”
“No.”
“No, he's not gay. I've caught him peeking at me when I'm changing, I've seen the way he looks at other women. It's not obvious, you have to know him really well, but you can tell. He's probably banged more women than you or Jameson put together,” she told him and he laughed.
“Very true. It's always the quiet types. So what about you and Satan. Did you tell him that you looooooooove him? Do you make love now?” Ang teased her. She snorted.
“I don't looooooooove him, and the last time we had sex, he bent me in half over a lawn chair and fu-cked me so hard, I'm pretty sure the neighbors heard me screaming – the closest house is two miles away. A postal worker came to check on us, and Jameson just waved. I don't think that's 'making love',” she told him.
“fu-ck, that's hot. Can I watch you two sometime?” Ang asked. She laughed.
“No. But yeah, it's pretty hot.”
“Can you record it for me?”
“I'll think about it.”
Ang passed out not long after that; weed put him to sleep like a baby, half the time. Tate left him on the couch and crawled into her bed. Thought some more about Jameson. After they had come back from Paris, she had used sex as a weapon. As a distraction. As a way to keep him from her heart. Not that she hadn't enjoyed it – of course she had – but she detached herself a little. Separated herself from the act. Sex with Jameson had always been too much, she couldn't let him get to her that way. So she had cut herself off.
Now, as she was remembering some of their more adventurous times together, it was like opening her eyes. She stretched out on the bed, bent her legs at the knees. Remembered the first time he had told her he'd slept with another woman; other women. Two. At once. Pretty hot. She walked her fingertips across her stomach, pushing her t-shirt out of the way. Let the cool air in the apartment wash over her skin.
Remembered the time at her parents' house, when she had him screw her against the wall, making sure Ellie and Robert heard everything. Remembered the time in the bathroom on his boat. God, that time. It had been quick for them, but hot. Hotter than anything had been in a long time. Her finger tips crept down to the waist of her leggings.
After Jameson had come back from vacation and found out that Ang had been in the house. Worn his clothing. Had almost slept with Tate. Jameson had been onto her, her little plan. After going down on her like it was his job, he had flipped her onto her stomach and practically pounded her through the mattress. She'd thought she'd had whiplash for the next few days. She closed her eyes as she worked her fingers under her leggings. Under her panties. She could hear his voice, like he was in the room.
“Starting without me, baby girl? Very naughty.”
Only for you, Mr. Kane. Anymore, it's only for you.
~8~
It felt like a lot longer than three days. She'd spent most of the last day with Ang. For the first time since ..., since Jameson had reentered her life, she felt like she was back to the same old friendship she'd always had with Ang, just minus the sex. It was nice. It was amazing. She actually cried a little when he left to go home. He called her a stupid cow and kissed her goodbye.
Sanders pick her up, but instead of driving her straight home, Tate convinced him to stop and have dinner with her. She apologized for making him feel like he had to leave, and explained that she had just wanted some time. Some time to pretend to be the “old her”, so she could figure out exactly who the “new her” was and what that person wanted.
“Did you figure it out?” Sanders asked. She smiled at him.
“I think I did.”
By the time they pulled up in front of the house in Weston, it was after seven o'clock at night. She had guessed that Jameson would be in a foul mood, and Sanders warned that he would be in a foul mood, but she didn't care. She was actually excited to see him. Be in his presence. The couple days apart had rejuvenated her. Made her really like him again. Sometimes, loving a person was easy, the heart went and did that all on its own. Liking a person, however, was a little more difficult. That involved the brain. And the brain was a fickle bitch.
He wasn't waiting for her at the door, as he had a tendency to do whenever she was tardy. In fact, the whole house was mostly dark. She made a face at Sanders, laughing at him as he carried her bag upstairs. Then she crept down the hallway, to the only light source in the house.
A fire was raging.
“Hello,” Tate called out softly, edging into his library. It was her first time entering the room, since he had dumped her in there, that her skin didn't crawl.
“You came back. Shocker,” Jameson commented. He was sitting in one of the wing back chairs, facing the flames. So close, she worried he'd burn his feet.
So, the same spot as always.
“Ooohhh, there's a tone. Someone is feisty already,” she teased, walking over to the couch and plopping down on it, folding her legs under herself. He didn't move.
“Just surprised. It had occured to me that this was all an elaborate ruse, a way to sneak out of my clutches,” he told her. She laughed.
“You give me too much credit. Wasn't Sandy talking to you? I was a good girl, all week,” she assured him.
“I highly doubt that, and sometimes I think Sanders is working for you, and against me. Though he did inform me of a kiss,” Jameson said.
“Such a tattle tale. Yes, there was a kiss. I hope he also told you that I put a stop to the kiss, and told Nick that I wouldn't be running away with him to his castle in Arizona,” she stressed.
“There was some mention of that. Mostly babbling. I try to ignore him when he gets to the facts.”
“Obviously.”
“Shut up.”
“Nothing happened, Jameson. I'm here,” she pointed out.
“Yes. And you could've been here last night, but you chose to spend it with Angier,” he practically spit out Ang's name. Tate laughed and began taking off her scarf and jacket.
“You know, for such an amazing man who is always going on and on about not worrying or caring or any of that bullshit, you're awfully insecure,” she told him. He finally turned his head towards her, his jaw visible below the wing of the chair. She leaned over the back of the couch, folding her arms.
“fu-ck you, Tatum. It's post-traumatic stress, from dealing with you,” he snarled. She snickered.
“Such a bitch.”
She was provoking him on purpose, so she didn't move when he got out of his chair and stalked towards her. She had missed him all week. She wanted him, now. She was ready to let go, to give in to him. He had won, after all. She was finally ready to admit that.
“Care to say that again?” he growled, coming around the couch to face her. She turned around, settling back onto her heels.
“Bitch. I called you one. As in, you're acting like a little bitch. You won, Mr. Kane. I'm here. He's in Arizona. Ang is at home. But I'm here, with you. So stop being a bitch.”
His fingers were around her throat instantly, forcing her back into the couch at first. She sighed, her hand gripping his wrist, fingernails digging into his skin. The harder she dug, the harder he squeezed. She gripped as hard as she could.
“Someday, you will learn to watch your fu-cking mouth around me,” he hissed.
“Probably not, Kane,” she wheezed out. “You should probably just get used to it.”
“I don't have to get used to shit. So was he any good? Still boring? How about Angier? I know he was always a fave,” Jameson said. She managed a laugh, though it sounded more like snorting, and she trailed her free hand across his chest, gripped onto his shirt.
“If I didn't know any better, I'd say you missed me,” she whispered. He glared at her, but the pressure on her neck loosened a little. She was able to sit up.
“No shit.”
“Aw, poor baby. Sexy secretary not hot in bed?” Tate cooed at him.
“I wouldn't know.”
“Please. I don't believe for an instant that you spent all week alone, especially after firing her,” Tate snorted. He rolled his eyes.
“I fired her because she couldn't file for shit, Tatum,” he snapped. “I'm not entirely sure she even knew how to read. And while usually stupid women tend to be good fu-cks, no one is as good as you.”
She yanked on his shirt and pulled him close, kissing him. Electro-shock therapy, all over her body. Something she hadn't allowed herself to feel, in a long time. She gasped into his mouth, struggling to climb to her knees on the couch. She wanted to be closer; much, much, much closer to him. As close as she could possibly get.
He let go of her throat and quickly pulled his shirt off. He had barely tugged it free of his head before her hands were on his chest, scoring his skin hard enough to leave red dashes on their way down. He grabbed her wrists and yanked her forward, his tongue invading her mouth as he pressed his body against hers, forcing her back into the couch.
“Please,” she realized she was whispering as she fought to kick off her shoes. “Please, Jameson. Please.”
“Apparently little Nick wasn't very good, if you're already begging for it from me,” he chuckled, yanking her shirt over her head.
“Why do you always want to talk about other men when we're fu-cking? If you want to fu-ck men, Jameson, it's okay. Can I watch?” she asked while he tried to pull her pants and underwear down. When she lifted her hips, he smacked her on the ass.
“I wouldn't even let you watch me fu-ck myself, you stupid bitch. You don't deserve a treat like that. Where the fu-ck were you all day?” he demanded, yanking her clothing free and throwing it over the couch.
“Downtown, with Ang. Then dinner, with Sanders,” she told him, chucking her bra across the room while he slipped out of his own pants.
“I don't like waiting.”
“See? Such a whiny bitch.”
“Watch your fu-cking mouth,” he hissed, slapping his hand down between her legs. She gasped, and then his fingers were soothing the sting. Slicing through her, like butter. She moaned, letting her legs fall open to him. “Jesus, Tate. I was expecting a battle when you came in here, not an easy fu-ck.”
“Kind of one and the same with us,” she panted. He slapped her again between the legs and she shrieked, almost coming right then.
“Something's got you all riled up. Did your day with Angier get you all excited?” he asked, burying his middle finger in her. She squirmed around.
“No.”
“You're awfully wet.”
“I usually am.”
“Not without reason. What set you off, hmmm?”
“You. Just you.”
“Good answer.”
His hand was on her breast bone then, pressing her down into the couch. Forcing her down. He propped one of her legs along the back of the couch, and then he was slamming into her. No hesitation, just hips meeting hips in an instant. She shrieked, her hands flying to her breasts, squeezing.
“Oh my ... fu-ck,” she groaned as he immediately began pounding into her.
“fu-cking slut. Spent all day with him. Tried to fu-ck him in our bed. Probably tried to fu-ck him in my condo. Who the fu-ck do you think you are!?” Jameson demanded. She had her other foot touching the floor and he grabbed that leg, held it out away from her body by the knee, forcing himself so deep inside of her, it felt like he was interfering with the rhythm of her heart.
Like that's anything new. Remember the first time you saw him? Heart attack.
“Originally, I wanted to fu-ck him in here,” she taunted, and the hand on her chest moved to her throat. He wasn't playing around, no butterfly kisses with this hand – he practically squeezed her neck in half.
“You wouldn't fu-cking dare,” he hissed.
“Didn't have enough time.”
“Stupid whore, didn't have enough balls. fu-ck. fu-ck you, Tate. fu-cking always making me do things I don't want to do,” Jameson growled, his grip on her neck loosening.
“I think you always want to do these things,” she cried out.
“Always,” he moaned.
“I couldn't do it, though,” she whispered.
Why is it that sex always makes an honest girl out of you? Why can't you just fake it, like everyone else?
“Of course you fu-cking couldn't. I own this pu-ssy, you stupid cunt. You thought you could use it without my permission? Wrong,” he informed her.
“I know, I know,” she breathed. The hand on her throat finally released her, and she gasped in air, only to moan again when his fingers moved to her nipple, pinching it hard.
“I made this pu-ssy. It has belonged to me for the last seven years,” he whispered, letting go of her leg and leaning down on top of her.
“Yes, yes,” she whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut tight. She felt him press his forehead against her temple, his teeth bared against her cheek.
“Mine,” he growled.
“Yours,” she agreed.
“Stupid fu-cking whore, doesn't even know who she belongs to. Slut. Cunt. You said you wished I didn't exist. fu-ck you,” he swore, and she gasped as his hand let go of her breast and slithered between their bodies.
He was talking about when she had screamed at him in the hospital. She was shocked he even remembered the things she'd said. That he ever remembered anything she said. It must have hurt, to have stuck with him for so long.
“I didn't mean it,” she told him, then gasped again as she felt one of his fingers sliding inside of her, right on top of his dick. He was not a small man.
So. fu-cking. Full.
“Of course you didn't fu-cking mean it. I created you, you came from me. If I didn't exist, you wouldn't fu-cking exist,” he snapped. Realization suddenly dawned behind her eyelids.
Not Satan. Not Lillith. Eve was created from Adam's rib. We're part of each other. That's why I can't get away. That's why he can't get away. I'm not his subject, he's not my lord and master. We're the same.
Getting philosophical during sex usually wasn't her thing, but apparently it worked for her, because Tate came so hard that when she bit down on his earlobe, she drew blood. He roared and pulled back, his fingernails biting into her throat as he grabbed it, forcing her down onto the couch. He held her there while she shook and cried, her whole body ripping apart around him. He finally stilled, but she didn't stop coming for another solid twenty seconds.
“No,” she breathed when she finally felt like she could again. “No, I wouldn't.”
Without a word, he picked her up from the couch. She squealed, clinging to his shoulders as he walked them across the room. She wasn't sure what his intentions were, until she saw that he was walking around the desk. Back to where it all began. He practically dropped her onto it, forced her back down hard against the wood, and began thrusting into her again.
“Why do I always have to fu-ck you, to get you to agree with me?” he demanded, raking his claws down her chest. She managed a laugh.
“The question is, why do you like it so much?” she replied as he gripped onto her hips.
“Are you kidding?”
“Harder,” she moaned, and he complied. The desk began to rattle and shake, edge forward.
Just like old times.
“The question is, why do you make me do it?” he sighed, his head leaning back. She rubbed her hands across his chest.
“Because no man has ever made me come the way you do,” she purred.
“No shit. You don't deserve it. I should make you work harder for it,” he groaned, his hands moving to her knees. Forcing them wider apart.
“You make me work too hard for it,” she countered.
“fu-ck you, I should make you pray to my dick. That fu-cking mouth. fu-ck. Are you this mouthy with Angier?” he growled.
“It's always about Ang,” she sighed.
“You're the one always talking about fu-cking him, and every time I see him, he's bragging about fu-cking you. fu-cker. fu-cking bragging. Couldn't have been that fu-cking good. He should have at least taught you how to shut the fu-ck up,” he snarled, his thrusts getting brutal. She felt another orgasm approaching like a freight train.
“He was a good enough teacher,” she moaned.
“Excuse me!?” Jameson's head snapped down to look at her.
“You should know – you benefit from him every day.”
It hadn't happened since last fall. Not since that very last time they slept together, before the shit hit the fan and hurricane Jameson ripped her heart in two. And hadn't even happened once when he had been busy putting the same heart back together in Spain.
He slapped her across the face and she screamed, coming so hard, her vision went black around the edges.
“You goddamn cunt, don't you ever fu-cking say shit like that to me again,” he snapped at her.
“Yes! Yes! Oh my god, please,” she moaned, not even aware of what planet she was on, let alone what she was saying. He grabbed her by the neck and roughly yanked her forward so she was sitting up. She tried to gasp, still caught in multiple orgasms. His other hand grabbed onto her ass, forcing her closer to him, as close as another human being could get, and he jackhammered his hips against hers, his forehead resting against her own.
“You fu-cking bitch. fu-ck you. fu-ck you. I goddamn hate you,” he growled, and then he was coming.
It seemed to go on forever. He would shudder, pump, release, and it would trigger another wave of pleasure through her own body. She was practically sobbing by the end, her arms wrapped around his waist. When he finally let go of her throat, she fell back onto the desk, and he fell with her. Pressed his head to her breasts while he tried to catch his breath.
It felt like they had run a marathon. She and Jameson had wild, roadrunner sex all the time, but this time ..., she felt like she would never be able to walk again. Talk again. Do anything, ever again.
Except maybe have sex. She would definitely do that again.
“Oh my god. Holy shit. Holy fu-ck,” she panted, pressing her wrist to her forehead.
“Yes,” Jameson breathed in agreement, not moving.
She was very aware that they were in an almost identical position to the first time they'd had sex in his library. Spread out on his desk, him on top of her, both of them gasping for air. Except this time, there was slightly less clothing. A lot bigger orgasms. Definitely a lot scarier feelings. Tate cleared her throat. Tried to talk. Had to clear her throat again. Felt her eyes well up with tears.
“That was ...,” her voice was barely above a breath. He chuckled.
“A week is too long, baby girl. See what happens when you make me wait?” he told her, still out of breath, as well. She cleared her throat again.
“So,” she managed to choke out loudly enough to hear, her voice raspy.
“Hmmm?” Jameson mumbled, his hands gliding up and down the backs of her thighs. Her legs were still wrapped around his waist.
“You hate me, huh?” she asked, managing to laugh. A tear slid down the side of her head. He chuckled.
“Tatum, what have I told you about listening to the shit that comes out of my mouth during sex? It's all rubbish,” he replied, the gliding turning to scratching.
“You've said you hate me before, one time. Before you went to Berlin,” she pointed out. He paused for a second, then his hands continued their path.
“That was different. Sometimes ..., sometimes I feel like I do hate you. I didn't want this, I wasn't looking for this, this isn't what I asked for. I wanted someone to play with, not someone for keeps. You changed the game on me,” he said quietly.
“I did?” she replied, another tear escaping. He nodded his head against her.
“Yes, and I don't know this game. I'm not good at this game. I'm learning as I go, and you don't make it easy, when you fight me at every turn. When you change the rules. You change your mind. You make me slip up. I hate that. Sometimes it all makes me wish for the old days. Sometimes, it all makes me hate you a little,” he confessed. She laughed. The tears were free falling now. No turning back.
Not that there ever was.
“Pity,” she whispered.
“Why?”
“Because it all makes me love you a little.”
~9~
“What are the rules?”
“No rules.”
“Shut up.”
“Fiiiiiine.”
“What are the rules?”
“No Angiers in the house.”
“Yes. And?”
“No plotting your imminent demise.”
“And?”
“No corrupting Sanders.”
“Good girl. I'll be back in four days.”
Jameson leaned down and kissed her. Went to leave, made it a couple steps, then came back.
“What!? I haven't corrupted him yet,” Tate held up her hands defensively. Sanders shifted from foot to foot, tried to blend in with the door frame.
“Any rules for me, baby girl?” he asked, glancing in a large mirror and fiddling with his tie. She batted his hands away and worked at the knot.
“You are shit at doing this,” she grumbled, pulling the whole thing free and starting over.
“Watch it. Why are you so good at it?” he asked, watching in the mirror as she deftly tied a knot.
“fu-cked a lot of professors,” she replied. He shoved her hands away.
“You're not fit to touch me,” he informed her.
“That's not what you said last night.”
“Last night was a completely different story. Any last words?” he asked. She thought for a second.
“Don't do anything I wouldn't do,” she replied with a smile.
“What a horrible thought. Be good,” Jameson kissed her again, then sailed out the door, Sanders carrying his luggage behind him.
It was Monday. He would be back Friday. She had told him she loved him Saturday night. Things hadn't exploded. The earth hadn't swallowed her whole, Satan hadn't carried her off to his temple of doom. Though he did carry her off to his bedroom.
“I know you do, baby girl.”
“When did you know?”
“Paris.”
“How? I didn't even know.”
“You're not very subtle.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Never be sorry, Tate. I never am.”
“Does this change things?”
“No. Not a thing.”
“Please, don't hurt me.”
“I'll do my best.”
“That's all I can ask.”
He had kissed every inch of her skin, practically worshiped her with his mouth. She had felt like dying on top of his desk, but fifteen minutes later, and he had her so super charged, she felt like her fingertips could jump start a jet engine. Just when she was ready to beg for it, he had slipped inside of her, and eased the tension.
And things really hadn't changed. They fu-cked all weekend, making up for lost time. Sanders was scarred on more than one occasion, by walking into the wrong room at the wrong time. Jameson still called her filthy names, and she still loved it. Still treated her to heavy hands, and she loved that even more. But best of all, when he did say something nice, it didn't hurt. It didn't scar. It just folded in with the rest.
Finally.
“I bought something,” he said Sunday afternoon, striding into his library.
She was back to laying on the floor, stretched on her stomach. There had been an “incident” with the couch. It had gotten flipped over and a leg broke off. It was being repaired. Jameson told her she had to be more careful in the future – his shit wasn't cheap. She told him that maybe he shouldn't go around fu-cking people so hard. He told her to shut her mouth. It just went uphill from there, and then they broke his desk chair.
She had laughed a lot.
“What is it?” she asked warily, sitting up and taking a box he held out towards her.
She recognized it instantly. A vintage Cartier necklace, mostly pearls and diamonds. Purchased by an anonymous buyer over a phone.
“Got it at some stupid auction,” he commented, sitting in his wing back chair. “Don't know why. Waste of money. For some charity function.”
She wanted to cry, but she was trying to make it a habit not to do that anymore. So she game him a blowjob instead. Was practically of equal value, she was sure.
But Sunday evening, he got a phone call. They were still in the library, so she was there when he got it. Something about his offices in Germany. She heard everything, he tried to get out of going. Had even offered to send Sanders in his place. But he was needed. He had to go – it was easy to forget, but he did have obligations. He had to go to Berlin.
Of course, a panic attack was the first thing on her mind. But then she calmed down. Saying “hey, I'm kinda sorta in love with you, you sadistic bastard” was kind of like making a deal. She had to trust him, to a certain extent. So she just smiled and told him to come home soon. He tried to talk her into going with him, but she told him she wouldn't go for all the tea in China. fu-ck that. Letting him go was baby steps. He would have to wait for the giant leaps.
She requested that Sanders stay behind, though, which made everyone happier. Sanders didn't like going to Germany. Jameson didn't like leaving Tate alone. Tate didn't particularly like being alone. So it all worked out.
It really wasn't so bad. That's what she kept telling herself. She tried to ignore the fact that the last time she had confessed her feelings to him, he had run away to Berlin. Awfully big coincidence. But it was just that, it had to be – she would have to trust that it was, trust him. So she did her best.
“What should we do without him?” she asked when Sanders finally came home.
“Same thing we usually do when he is not at home,” he replied, walking into the kitchen.
“I'm not making brownies. You called me fat a couple weeks ago,” she reminded him.
“You made me angry. I was provoked into saying that.”
“I didn't provoke shit. You were being a brat.”
“Though technically, you are a couple pounds overweight for your height.”
“Shut up! I am not!”
“Well, a couple more pounds, and you will be.”
“I WILL NOT!”
She laughed and threw flour all over him. A small baking fight ensued. Something about Sanders being messy just did her in. Perfect, pristine Sanders, coated in baking soda and canola oil, made her laugh endlessly. Even when she slipped in the oil and fell onto her back. Even when he dumped an entire ten pound bag of sugar on her. She couldn't stop. He finally pulled her up and dragged her to the bathroom, where he pushed her – fully clothed – into the shower. She shrieked when the cold water hit her.
“I am not amused,” was all he said before he stomped out of the room.
But he came back, clean and showered. He changed into pajamas and they enjoyed brownies while they watched a movie in the sitting room. She lamented about cleaning the kitchen, but he told her he would have a cleaning service come take care of it in the morning.
“Sandy, does Jameson know you have spooned with me? Multiple times?” she asked, shoving almost a whole brownie into her mouth.
“Yes. I tell him everything.”
“He doesn't mind?”
“No. Why should he?” Sanders asked, not taking his eyes off the television screen.
“He hates it when I so much as smile at Ang,” she pointed out.
“Mr. Hollingsworth is a threat. I am not,” Sanders pointed out. She nodded.
“Fair enough.”
They woke up the next morning, still on the couch. She was stretched across his chest, drooling. Attractive. He hid his disgust well when they got up, but she still laughed. Then he cooked them breakfast and they ate it outside, shivering in their pajamas. She found herself thinking that some of her happiest moments in life had been spent doing absolutely nothing with Sanders.
“Should I call him?” Tate asked, jumping up and down in the middle of Jameson's bed. Sanders stood in the doorway.
“If you want to,” he replied.
“Of course I want to. But I've never really called him before,” she told him.
“I know.”
“So, I kinda wanted it to be special, the first time I call him,” she tried to explain, jumping high and doing a toe touch.
“You are going to hurt yourself,” Sanders warned.
“Pffffft, no I won't.”
“Why would a phone call be special? Are you going to wait for his birthday?” Sanders asked.
“Don't be silly, it's because -, ACK!” she hit the mattress wrong and took off at an angle, almost bouncing clear into the closet. She hit the floor with a thud.
“I told you,” Sanders' voice called out to her.
She didn't have to worry about whether or not to call Jameson, though, because he called her.
“Have you been good, baby girl?” he asked. She was in the library and she looked across the hall, watching as people swept and cleaned in the kitchen.
“Uh ..., sure. You could say that.”
“Oh god.”
“Sanders is still in one piece,” she assured him.
“I don't want to talk about Sanders,” Jameson replied.
“What would you like to talk about?” she asked.
“How wet you are.”
“Oh my.”
“I'm waiting for an answer.”
By the time they got off the phone, she was laying on the floor behind the desk, her pants around her ankles. Breathing hard. The phone resting on her chest. She probably should've shut the library door, but she didn't really care.
Not when she was sitting on cloud nine.
The next day she and Sanders hit the town. She didn't want to go shopping, but she did want look into job options. She didn't tell Sanders until they were sitting on a bench, her perusing the want ads in a newspaper. He frowned when he realized what section she was reading.
“I don't think Jameson would like this idea,” he warned her. She shrugged.
“I have to do something, Sandy. I can't just sit in that house all the time, hanging on Jameson's every word. I need something,” she stressed, shivering and scooting closer to him.
“Jameson once mentioned that you were accepted to Harvard. That must mean you are smart,” he said. She snorted.
“Thanks, Sandy.”
“Why don't you go back to school? Surely, there is something you are interested in,” he suggested.
“Harvard costs an awful lot of money, Sandy. You gonna float me fifty grand?” she asked.
“If you were serious about going, yes, I would.”
She was shocked.
“I'm not gonna let you pay for me to go to school,” she grumbled, concentrating on the paper.
She hadn't really ever thought of going back to school. Before Jameson, she had been too busy hustling. Too busy having a good time. During Jameson, she couldn't think of anything but him, and after Jameson ..., well, really more of the same. School had never been something on her radar.
But Sanders had a good point. She was smart, or at least she used to be – it couldn't be that hard to get back into the swing of things. She had originally gone to school for political science. Daddy's requirement. She hadn't ever taken the time to think of what she would go back for, if she ever went back.
“Would you let Jameson?” Sanders asked in a soft voice.
“Hmmm. And what should I go to school for?” she asked, letting the paper fold down.
“You are very good with people. You could be a social worker,” he suggested.
“Or a stripper.”
“Sometimes, I'm not sure why I talk to you.”
They walked around after that, and Tate stopped in at a couple bars which were hiring, grabbed applications. But she didn't stop thinking about what he had said. Going to school. Pretty amazing. Something to think about, for the future. She was just taking baby steps towards Jameson. She wasn't about to run and leap into his arms, asking for a hand out that would bind her to him for years.
Later that night, Sanders had to take part in a video conference with Jameson and some suits, around two in the morning. Eight in the morning, Berlin time. Tate laid upstairs in bed, staring at the ceiling. Sanders' voice was a distant murmur in the otherwise empty house.
She couldn't sleep, so she got up and wandered into the sun room. She hadn't spent much time in there, not after she and Ang had been in there. She scooted in behind the computer and stared at the big screen. It was dark. She shook the mouse, and everything turned on, lit up. She chewed on her bottom lip and glanced around.
Tate hadn't looked up anything about Jameson since that night. The night. At first, she hadn't wanted to, and now ..., she was scared to, she realized. Scared of what she might learn, might see. She should trust him. She should give him his privacy. She should not care. He didn't waste his time investigating her. Why should she waste her time on him?
She had already typed his name into the Google search bar before she even realized what she was doing. She figured she was halfway there already, so might as well jump all the way into it. She hit enter, and watched the pages come up.
There was a lot of news about his trip to Los Angeles, him selling his part in a film company. A big film company. Tate wondered why he had gotten out of it, but then another article talked about him turning around and investing a god-awful amount of money in an oil company, so she figured it was a trade of sorts. She never asked him about his money, or what he did with it. She didn't really care, and it wasn't her business.
She hesitated with the mouse over the tab for a while, but then she clicked it. Images. Pictures immediately filled the screen, and she sighed. He still had the ability to turn her into a giggly, stupid girl, no matter how many times she saw him. No matter how much time they spent together naked. He was just so handsome. She sighed, scrolling through the photos.
Tate was relieved to see none of him and Pet, not since the old ones. There were pictures of him in Marbella, from a Spanish tabloid. One of him and Tate, standing on the bow of his yacht, talking to each other. Or arguing, she couldn't tell. Neither of them looked happy.
She moved on, found more pictures of them. One of them at a cafe in Marbella, another of them leaving a shop. Tate would never get used to seeing pictures of herself online. There was even one of them leaving the restaurant, after her run in with Pet. It was at night, and it was grainy, but it still made her smile. Him mid-stride, walking confidently ahead of her. Her laughing, holding onto the hem of his jacket, bent over a little as she struggled to keep up with him. He almost looked happy as well, a small smile playing at the edges of his lips.
She printed the picture out, and while she looked at it, she realized she had no pictures of them together. She subjected Sanders to selfies all the time, and of course she had tons of pictures with Ang. Even Nick, with the amount of team events she went to with him. But no real pictures of her and Jameson together. At least, none that were taken on purpose with their express permission.
She frowned and moved back to the search bar, typed in their names together. She was astounded at the amount of photos that popped up. Them everywhere together, all over Boston. Pictures of them in the Bentley, in restaurants, coming out of his building, going into his building. In front of his building. Lots and lots around his office building.
Her favorite was an old one, one from before their brief split, where they were caught in the rain. She was soaking wet, because she had been standing outside waiting for him. When he had come out to meet her, he had taken one look at her and gone back inside. He came back with an umbrella and held it over her. She laughed, and he had kissed her. The photographer caught that moment. She was still smiling through the kiss, and Jameson had one hand against the side of her neck. They looked ..., they looked almost normal.
She printed that picture out as well.
“What are you doing?”
Tate screamed so loud, she was pretty sure the police would be showing up. Sanders jumped a little, took a step back from her. She bent over the keyboard, trying to catch her breath. He had just shaved about ten years off her life.
“DON'T EVER fu-ckING DO THAT!” she yelled.
“I'm sorry. I assumed you heard me come in, my apologies. What are you doing?” he asked, glancing between her and the screen.
“Looking up pictures,” she replied, leaning back in the chair, still trying to breathe.
“Last time you did that, things did not end so well. He hasn't seen her, since he's been there,” Sanders assured her. She nodded.
“I believe you. I was looking up pictures of us, together. I don't have any. Look! Here's one of me and you!” she pointed out, making the picture larger. Sanders squinted at it.
Jameson was in the foreground of the photo, talking on his phone. They were in the background, Sanders standing very straight, with Tate leaning on him, her arms around his shoulders, smiling up at him as she held her face close to his own. Probably teasing him about something. Tate looked at the title of the article and burst out laughing.
“What?” Sanders asked. She pulled up the webpage, pointed out the headline.
Trouble In Paradise: Is Jameson Kane's Current Play-Thing Cheating With His Guy-Friday?
“We're an item, Sandy,” she told him. He snorted.
“This is why I don't look these things up. They are full of lies and a waste of time.”
“At least you got a sorta-title. I'm just a 'play thing',” she pointed out.
“Please, turn it off,” he asked. She obliged, closing the windows. She held up the two photos she had printed out.
“I just wanted these, I wasn't trying to dig up dirt,” she promised him. Sanders took the photos and examined them under the desk lamp.
“They're nice. May I take them?” he asked. She raised her eyebrows.
“Uh, yeah. I mean, sure, I guess,” she replied, a little caught off guard.
“I will find them frames,” he explained.
“Good. I thought maybe they were for your secret shrine,” she teased.
“No. I only use solo pictures of you for that.”
She laughed until he cleared his throat.
“I'm sorry, yes?” she gasped for air.
“Jameson would like to speak to you, that's why I'm up here,” he told her. She jumped out of the chair.
“God, has he been on hold this whole time?” she asked, hurrying down the hall. Sanders nodded.
“Yes.”
When Tate picked up the phone in the library, she could hear the sound of Jameson drumming his fingers against whatever kind of desk it was he was sitting behind.
“Sorry,” she breathed. “I didn't know you were on the phone.”
“Sanders failed to mention it?” he asked.
“He was ..., distracted,” she explained.
“How are you?” Jameson asked.
“Good. We've been having fun,” she told him.
“Mmm hmmm. And how much do you miss me?” he pressed.
“On a scale of one to ten? Maybe a two,” she mocked him.
“Liar.”
“How is your trip?” she asked.
“Tiring. Frustrating. I could very much use some of your relaxation methods,” he told her. She laughed and glanced at Sanders, who was sitting in Jameson's wing back chair.
“Might be kind of awkward, Sandy is sitting in front of me. Or kinda hot. I think I may be an exhibitionist,” Tate wondered out loud.
“I know you're one. But no, it's probably not a good idea. I was just checking to make sure you weren't doing anything you shouldn't be doing,” he told her.
“Oh? Like what?” she asked.
“Running away.”
“I'm not going to do that,” she replied in a soft voice.
“Yet.”
Ooohhh, he's in a mood.
“Tell you what,” she started, leaning back in his chair and putting her feet on his desk. “I promise not to run away until you fu-ck things up again.”
“fu-cking bitch.”
“Feel better?” she asked, smiling. He chuckled.
“Yes, yes I do. I'll be home soon.”
“I know.”
“Be ready.”
“I will.”
Then the line went dead.
Falling in love with him had been easy, much easier than she would've thought. That first time, when she had been a silly, stupid, eighteen year old girl, she had fallen a little in love with him. And then last fall, he had walked away with most of her heart.
Jameson Kane wasn't scared of much, but apparently feelings terrified him. Saying she loved him, saying it out loud, had been so much scarier because of that; but knowing that it scared him, and now knowing that he wasn't running away, made it all that much better.
“Sanders,” she said softly, staring off into space.
“Yes?” he asked, turning towards her.
“I need you to get something out of the safe for me.”