*
When Jameson got home Friday night, he felt like shit. A shitty trip, shitty plane ride, and shitty traffic. Shit. He was cranky. He wanted to walk in the door, have a drink, and then sleep for the next three days. Possibly four. He walked into his home and dropped his suitcase on the floor, the thud echoing through the dark house. Not a single light was on in any of the rooms.
“Hello?” he barked out. No answer. Sanders had walked back to the guest house, after parking the car. But he had said Tatum was at home.
Jameson went upstairs, but she wasn't in the bedroom. He left his suitcase at the foot of the bed, then went back downstairs. She wasn't in the bathroom, or the kitchen. On his way back through the hall, he finally heard something. A crackling noise. There was a fire going in the library. He pushed open the door, walked into the stifling hot room.
He loved the heat.
“What the fu-ck are you doing? I've been looking for you,” he snapped, his eyes searching the room for her.
“Yeah, and I've been waiting for you,” she replied. His eyes snapped towards his desk chair. She had her back to him, and he could see her bare feet propped up on a bookshelf.
“I am not in the mood for bullshit, Tate. It was a long flight, and I -,”
“Hey, I finally found them!” she interrupted him.
“Huh?” he asked, too tired to even be annoyed.
“Your glasses! I haven't seen you wear them since that day in Spain. I found them, by the computer,” she said.
“I honestly couldn't give two fu-cks. I'm going to bed,” Jameson growled, but before he could make a move, Tate swiveled around in his chair.
“I think they look better on me,” she told him, smiling at him, his glasses sitting on the bridge of her nose. His eyes wandered over her form and he groaned.
“Baby girl, why do you do this to me? I'm tired,” he moaned, slipping his tie over his head.
“I'm not doing anything,” she replied, leaning back in his chair and stretching her legs over his desk.
“I'm sore, and I'm mad at the world, and I just want to be pissed off at everything, and you do this,” he grumbled, unbuttoning his shirt as he walked towards her. She smiled up at him.
“Well, you can be pissed off at me. Sometimes, I think it's more fun.”
She was wearing his glasses, the Cartier necklace he had bought her from her ballplayer's auction, and nothing else. Not a stitch of clothing. Her hair was piled up on her head in a messy bun, and she wore heavy eye makeup behind the glasses, but that was it. He grabbed her by the ankles and swung her legs around, spinning her in the chair so she was facing him.
“You're going to have to do most of the work, baby girl. Mr. Kane is very, very tired,” he warned her, pulling her legs apart and walking up between them.
“Don't I always?” she replied as he leaned down close to her.
“Shut the fu-ck up. I'm too tired for your lip,” he growled, gripping her hips and scooting her forward.
“Maybe you're too tired for anything fun,” she said, then squeaked as his fingers dug into her flesh. He yanked her forward, his hands going under her ass as he picked her up.
“Probably. Wake me up if I fall asleep,” he told her, carrying her out of the library. She hooked her ankles together behind his back.
“Never do.”
“I am going to fu-ck you so hard, just for this attitude.”
“Promises, promises.”
He made good on his word, not stopping till she was panting and listless underneath him. And even then, he dug deep into his reserves, and managed to get another orgasm out of her with his tongue. Then he made her go down on him; made a mess coming all over her and the bed.
While she went to take a shower, he kicked the comforter to the floor and slipped between the sheets. He didn't care about taking a shower. He wanted to slip into a coma for a couple hours. Or days. But just as he was about to, something caught his eye. A light from the closet was glinting off something silver on the nightstand. He rolled closer and turned on a light. A picture frame, one that hadn't been there before he'd left. He picked it up and looked it over.
He didn't know where she had gotten it, but it was a picture of the two of them, kissing in the rain. He couldn't remember the time, but it looked like last fall. He ran his fingers down the glass, across her face.
She's stunning.
She had said she was in love with him. He had said it was okay. He hadn't said it back. She said that was okay. He was still a little blown away by it. By his reaction as much as by hers. From the very beginning, he hadn't wanted a relationship with her. He had told her that, from the very start.
The first time around, when Tate had admitted to having feelings for him, he had freaked the fu-ck out. Jameson could admit that now. She couldn't just like him – she would want something, in return. Something he might not ever be able to give. Too much. He would give her anything else; sex, money, diamonds, gold, whatever else. But he couldn't make a promise if he didn't know whether or not he could keep it.
This time around was different. He had worked to get her back, fought for her. That in itself was its own kind of promise. In Paris, when she'd had her breakdown over the pearls, that's when he had realized. Any kind of game they had been playing, he had long since won. She wasn't over him. She had never been over him. In fact, she was so much farther down the rabbit hole than either of them had guessed, she probably couldn't make it back out. Somewhere along the line, she had fallen in love with the devil. And being the devil, of course, Jameson had known.
He rolled onto his back, holding the picture above him. It was a good photo, it kind of encapsulated their relationship. Tatum doing something stupid, like standing in the rain, getting soaking wet, when she could've gone inside. Jameson holding an umbrella over her, trying to shield her from the damage she had experienced while waiting for him, but a moment too late. Them meeting in the middle. Kissing. Touching. Not asking for anything, not demanding anything. Just being themselves.
“I thought you'd be unconscious by now, the way you were complaining,” Tate laughed, rubbing a towel over her hair as she walked out of the bathroom. He glanced at her.
“Where did you get this?” he asked, holding up the frame. She sat down on her side of the bed and looked at it.
“Oh, Sandy did that. I printed it out, and he saw it, asked to put it in something. I didn't realize he'd left it in here,” she said.
“Where is it from?” Jameson asked, looking at it again.
“Like last September, I think. Maybe the end of August. We're outside of your work,” Tate told him.
“Who took the picture?”
“I don't know. It was online.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. You're an 'international playboy', paparazzi loooove you,” she teased him. He grunted.
“fu-ck off.”
“It's true,” she pressed. He frowned.
“I don't like people taking pictures of us,” he grumbled. She stretched out on her stomach next to him, a large towel still wrapped around her middle.
“Why? Embarrassed to have me as your 'play thing'?” she asked with a laugh. He didn't quite know what she meant by that, or really care.
“Don't be fu-cking stupid. You're part of my life, I like to keep that private. Other people aren't fit to witness us,” he snapped. She smiled big at him, and his satanic heart skipped a beat.
“You are so sweet sometimes,” she said softly.
“Shut the fu-ck up.”
“Alright, fine then. Don't look at it,” she snapped, reaching for the frame. He held it out of her reach.
“No, I like it,” he said. She stretched across his chest, clawing at his arm.
“Apparently not, all you've done is bitch about it,” she grumbled, her towel falling loose.
“You have gotten way too lippy lately. Don't think I haven't noticed. Refer to me, or anything I do, as 'bitch' again, and I'll teach you who the bitch around here really is,” he warned her, but he smiled as he switched the frame to his other hand. She laughed as well, swinging her body the other way, till she was almost completely on top of him, still reaching for the picture.
“I'm not scared of a little bitch like you, bitch, so quit bitching and just -,”
“Dammit, Tate,” he started, rolling over on top of her. “Always making me do things I don't want to do.”
“Dammit, Jameson, always bitching about things I don't want to hear about,” she teased back.
“Shut the fu-ck up. If you want pictures, I would be happy to take some of you,” he groaned, pulling her towel away from her body.
“Really?”
“Sure. Just let me grab a camera,” he started to get up, but she clung to his arms.
“Clothed, Jameson,” she told him. He pushed her hands away, rolled her onto her stomach.
“I don't want pictures like that,” he said, his voice low as he ran his hands down her back. Dug his fingers into her skin. She groaned and stretched underneath him.
“What kind of pictures would you like?” she whispered. He pulled her hips into the air, ran his hand up between her legs.
“This is a particularly nice angle for you,” he commented. She wiggled against his touch.
“God, you're like a machine,” she groaned as his fingers worked their way inside of her.
“A robot,” he chuckled.
“I won't argue with that.”
He slapped her on the ass.
“You argue with me even when I agree with you,” he snapped, taking his fingers away. He held onto her hip with one hand and stroked his cock with the other.
“What are you waiting for?” she breathed, stretching her arms out on the mattress.
“For you to beg,” he replied.
“Please,” she whispered.
“Please what?”
“Please, fu-ck me again.”
“Why?”
“Because I need it.”
“You don't deserve it.”
“No, but I need it. I want it. Please.”
“Hmmm, let me think about it.”
She chuckled, and one of her hands slid down the mattress. Disappeared beneath her body.
“Not like I really need you, for what I want,” she whispered, and he could see the tips of her fingers between her legs.
“fu-ck you,” he growled, and then shoved her fingers away. He pressed himself to her entrance, pushed his dick inside. She gave a full body shudder.
“Yes,” she hissed.
“Shut up,” he snapped, slapping her on the ass again. She squealed.
“God, so much for being tired. You should go out of town more often, if this is how you're going to be when you get back,” she told him. He held onto her with both hands, closed his eyes.
“I am tired. You wouldn't be so fu-cking chatty if I was myself,” he warned her.
“Big talk.”
“Shut the fu-ck up, whore. Why do you want me gone so bad, Tate? What did you get up to while I was gone?” he demanded.
“What didn't I get up to would narrow it down,” she laughed.
He smacked her ass until she begged him to stop. Until she was coming.
“You're too easy, baby girl,” he groaned, rolling her onto her back, then nailing her to the mattress.
“I know. Why did I bother taking a shower?” she panted, her fingers working their way into her own hair. He wrapped a hand around her throat, cut his fingernails into her skin. She moaned.
“Tatum,” he breathed, his hips picking up speed. He was very close.
“What?” she gasped, pulling her hair. He squeezed her throat tighter.
“This time, when I come on your tits, you're going to sleep in it.”
“God, you're filthy.”
“You love it.”
“I know.”
~10~
“Spring training officially starts in a couple days.”
“I know, Nick,” Tate replied. “You tell me that every time we talk.”
From across the room, Jameson made a sound in the back of his throat. It had been a little over a week since his trip to Berlin. She was back to living in paradise. Living in orgasm-city, as Ang liked to call it. Things almost felt the way they had last fall. Almost ..., perfect, she hesitated to say.
Everything was awesome. She and Ang were great, saw each other every couple days. Sanders seemed happier than ever, though a person couldn't really tell with him. Jameson even seemed lighter, easier. So when she sat down in the library to check in with Nick, it was with a feeling that all was right in the world.
Which is usually when things go wrong.
“Do you have to talk to your boyfriend in here? I'm working,” Jameson snapped in a loud tone. She laughed and grabbed a remote, turning on his TV.
“I'm sorry, what was that?” she asked, turning it to a random channel and turning up the volume.
“What's going on?” Nick's voice could barely be heard over the television. There was the sound of drawers being opened, and then the TV was put on mute. She glanced over the couch. Jameson was sitting behind his desk, and he waved a remote at her. She crossed her eyes at him.
“Jameson's being a bitch,” she said loudly. Jameson glared at her for a second, then looked back at his work.
“Oh my, those are fighting words,” Nick laughed. She laughed along with him.
“I'm counting on it.”
“Anyway,” he steered her back to their earlier conversation. “I'm just saying, I assume you're not coming out here. It'll be hard after training starts.”
“I just don't think so. Things here are ..., don't count on it. I don't wanna say sure, and then something happens, and we don't come,” Tate tried to explained, sitting back against the armrest and stretching her legs out.
“I notice you say 'we' more often now,” Nick pointed out, his voice soft. She curled her toes.
“Jameson would have to pay for my ticket, I couldn't not invite him,” she chuckled. There was another snort from behind her.
“I'm never fu-cking going to Arizona,” his voice warned.
She laughed and glanced at the TV screen. Some under-dressed, bleached blonde woman was sitting behind a sort of news desk, the large E! Entertainment logo next to her. When Jameson had put the TV on mute, the closed captioning for the program had immediately started working. The blonde bobblehead was talking about Leonardo DiCaprio vacationing in Brazil.
“What if I bought your ticket?” Nick suggested. Tate snickered, her eyes following the lettering. She swore she had ADD, sometimes.
“Good lord. A year ago, if anyone had asked me if I thought several devastatingly handsome men would ever be trying to pay for everything for me, I would tell them they were cut off and I'd kick them out of the bar,” she joked.
“You're spoiled, that's your problem.”
“I know.”
Nick rambled a little after that, talking about his adventures with his teammates. She laughed at his funny quips, but she was halfway distracted by the TV. Madonna said something else inappropriate on Twitter. Naomi Campbell threw her cell phone at another assistant. Kanye West had offended somebody. Petrushka Ivanovic was pregnant.
Tate sat up so fast, she almost got dizzy. Her eyeballs ate up the words. Paparazzis had caught the Ukranian-Danish model while she had been walking out of a clinic. She was wearing skin tight leggings and a tank top, so it was easy to see her tiny baby bump. E! Entertainment had gotten the official release from Petrushka's publicist. The supermodel was almost three months pregnant. The phone dropped from Tate's hand, clattered to the floor.
Almost three months. November. She got pregnant at the end of November.
She was vaguely aware of Jameson asking her what was wrong. Of Nick's voice squeaking up from the floor. She couldn't say anything, she just kept staring at the screen. Ms. Ivanovic had gotten pregnant in Spain. Yes, she knew who the father was; of course she did. It was her on-again-off-again boyfriend, financial tycoon Jameson Kane.
“Holy shit,” Jameson's voice said from behind her, and the television's sound came on, loudly.
“... Ms. Ivanovic is said to be thrilled, excited to have her first child. It's too early to know the sex, but it has been reported that she is hoping for a boy. We can only hope the little tyke will have his father's striking blue eyes and his mother's stunning good looks ...”
And of course a picture of Jameson was splashed across the screen.
The picture of him beside my bed is better. Our bed. fu-ck. I am so fu-cking stupid.
“Stop fu-cking listening to it, right now!” Jameson demanded, hurrying across the room and opening the door. He hollered for Sanders.
“How can I not?” Tate whispered.
“... Ivanovic and Kane were vacationing in the South of Spain in late November. Reports were flying about an American visiting him on his yacht, the same American he has been spotted with around Boston – Tatum O'Shea, the daughter of Mathias O'Shea, former CEO for Koch Industries. When asked about Ms. O'Shea, Ms. Ivanovic said she was aware of the American, but didn't 'waste much thought' on her ...”
“Tatum, listen to me,” Jameson came around the couch, squatting down in front of her. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the television screen. “She is lying. If she's pregnant – if – it's not mine.”
Aaaaaand cue the ugly truth ...
“... it would be the first child for both twenty-seven year old Ivanovic and thirty-one year old Kane. There were reports of their break up last year, but they have been spotted together several times since then, in New York, and they spent most of October together, in Berlin. Several people report seeing them together in Spain ...”
And there it was, a picture of him and Pet together. In Spain. It was taken from a distance, probably with some huge telescopic lens. They were standing in a parking space, in front of the marina where his boat was docked. They were facing each, obviously in some sort of conversation.
So much for not having contact with her. You got one wrong, Sandy.
“Stop thinking whatever it is you're fu-cking thinking!” Jameson shouted. Sanders walked in the room and Jameson leapt to his feet.
If he would have just said it in the beginning, that he wanted to sleep with her, couldn't not sleep with her, we could've been cool. One conversation. One sentence. There would have been no us. No hurt. No burning. No scars. God, why does this hurt so much? You knew it was coming.
“What's going on?” Sanders demanded.
“I don't know,” Tate managed to say. “He's freaking out.”
They both stared at her like she was insane.
“Tate, stop it. I have never -,” Jameson started, when she barked out a laugh.
“I'm not mad. Why would I be mad? It's not a big deal,” she assured him.
“Shut up, Tate. You're freaking out about something that I -,”
“I'm not freaking out!” she insisted, holding up her hands. “Do I look like I'm freaking out? Why would I freak out? I mean, it's fine. We're allowed to -,”
“Shut her up. Just shut her the fu-ck up, I have to call my lawyers!” Jameson barked, striding back towards his desk. Sanders knelt in front of her. She was still babbling.
“Honestly, I don't care. I mean, it's not like we were together right? We're not together now. We weren't together then. I have no right to ...,” she continued, talking at light speed. Sanders put his hand on her knee.
“Tatum. It's not true,” he insisted. She shook her head.
“... he can sleep with whoever he wants, I'm not the boss of him. I'm not even his girlfriend. It's just fun right, Sandy? Fun, fun, fun. Though it can't call me Auntie. The baby. That would just be weird ...”
“Shut up!” Jameson roared from behind her.
“Tatum, please,” Sanders whispered.
“... but I hope it does have his eyes. God, he has amazing eyes. And her bone structure. It would rule the world with those kind of looks. But it can't call me Auntie. Probably best if I'm not here when it comes over for visitation rights. That would be double weird. I'm not mad, Sandy. Do I sound mad? I'm fine. I'm fine.”
Sanders actually picked her up. Scooped her up off the couch, like she was a baby. Jameson was yelling into his phone while she was carried away. He had his back to the room, slicing an arm angrily through the air.
“No! No! I want this stopped, now! Any kind of lawsuit you can think of, just shut this bullshit up! I want a paternity test. I don't care, she can't claim it's mine without pro-,” he was ranting, but then Sanders whisked Tate through the door.
“You're awfully strong, Sandy. Do you work out?” she asked, resting her head against his chest, trying to catch her breath.
“Pilates. I also run every morning. Weight training in the evenings.”
“Pilates, huh. I wish I would've known. I love pilates.”
“I would be very glad to work out with you sometime.”
“Can we stop talking now?”
“Of course.”
Tate closed her eyes while he carried her up the stairs. Clung tighter to his shoulders. When they got to the bedroom, he tried to sit her down, but she wouldn't let go. He wound up sitting on the side of the bed, resting her against his chest.
“He has never lied to you,” Sanders whispered.
“Except one very important time.”
“Technically, he -,”
“A lie by omission is still a lie, Sanders,” she snapped. He took a deep breath, and his arms around her got tight.
“He is not lying,” he insisted. She took a deep breath.
“I know. I know, I'm just ..., upset. I'll be fine,” she whispered.
“Please. Please, just talk to him,” Sanders urged. She nodded, not lifting her head from his chest.
“Of course. Of course I will,” she replied.
“You need to trust him. You said you loved him,” he reminded her.
“I know what I said.”
That's what makes it so much worse. Why did I have to say it out loud?
By the time Jameson stormed up the stairs, she had gotten off Sanders' lap. Though she was holding his hand. Jameson burst into the room, glanced at them, and continued on into his closet. Sanders and Tate glanced at each other.
“We're going to New York!” he shouted.
“Excuse me?” Tate asked.
“You fu-cking heard me. Pack a goddamn bag,” he growled. She let go of Sanders and stood up. Took a deep breath. Walked into the closet.
“What's in New York?” she asked.
“My lawyers.”
“I don't need to be there for that, I can just -,” she started in a calm voice. He whirled around and he was so angry, she was actually startled. As he stalked towards her, she quickly backed away, bumping into shelving.
“Pack. A fu-cking. Bag,” he hissed. “I don't have time for this, for any of your crazy shit. I will deal with us later, but for right now, this moment, I have to stop this fu-cking publicity train. Got it!?”
He was leaning over her. Looming. She stared right up at him. Licked her lips, then pressed her hand against his chest. Jameson had always been a little psychic, so she knew she really had to sell it. She let her eyes wander over his features, cementing them in her memory. She always loved him best when he looked angry.
Always loved him, always.
“Jameson, I'm fine. I'll just slow you down. I'll be here when you get back,” she insisted in a soft voice, gently rubbing her hand over his chest. He narrowed his eyes.
“No, you won't. You always run away,” he said. She shook her head.
“I will be here, I promise. I'm fine. Go, do what you need to do. Like you said, we'll deal with us later,” she assured him, pressing herself against him.
“I don't believe you.”
“I don't really care. You're wasting time right now, arguing with me. Go,” she urged.
He suddenly leaned down and kissed her, and it was all she could do not to cry. She had always loved his kisses. This one was soft, his lips pressing against hers, his tongue gentle against her own. His hands came up to cup her jaw, molding her to him. She sighed into his mouth, wrapping her arms around his waist.
“Promise me you'll be here when I come back,” he breathed against her, resting his forehead to hers.
“I promise.”
Note he never said anything about later ...