*
“Tate?” Jameson called out, opening the door to the condo. He didn't see her anywhere, but he could hear music floating out from the bedroom. He opened the door wide and nodded, gesturing for the four large men behind him to enter the room. They all trailed in, carrying boxes and tape and plastic wrap. Jameson left them to it.
“Tatum,” he said her name again, walking down the hallway.
“In here!” she called back. His bedroom door was wide open, and he followed the music to the closet.
She was standing in front of her clothes, bumping her hips from side to side, following the beat. She was only wearing a lacy pair of booty shorts and a shelf bra. Her hair was a messy pile on her head. She was pouting her bottom lip out, trying to decide what to wear.
“What are you doing?” he asked, taking his gloves off as he walked towards her. She glanced at him.
“Getting dressed. What is this restaurant like? Heels? Stockings?” Tate asked, running her hand along some hangers.
“We're not going out to eat,” Jameson told her. She finally turned to face him.
“We're not? You said -,” Tate started.
“I know what I said. Plans change sometimes,” he snapped. She blinked at him in surprise, then smiled. He had been hoping to stir up a fight, but it looked like he was stirring up something else.
“Ooohhh, have a bad day?” she purred, pressing herself against him. Her body shivered when it came in contact with his cold clothing. Boston was still in the grip of winter – Jameson missed Marbella more than he would've thought possible.
“No. Actually, I had a very interesting day,” he replied, running his hands up and down her arms.
“How so?” she asked, sliding her arms around his waist. He dragged his hands up to her neck and held them there, then started walking backwards, forcing her to follow.
“I had lunch,” he replied.
“I assumed you had lunch every day. I didn't realize it was such a novel experience,” she snorted.
“I do have lunch every day. Today, I had lunch with Sanders,” Jameson continued, stopping them when he got near the bed. Her arms got stiff around him.
“Sanders? How is he? I haven't seen him in a couple days,” she asked, but he could see something in her eyes. Maybe wariness? Nervousness. What was she nervous about?
“Lunch with Sanders, and Angier,” his voice got quiet.
Tate laughed and pulled away from him, climbed up onto the bed. When she was standing, she turned towards him and began to lightly bounce on the mattress. He had trouble not staring at her breasts.
“That must have been really interesting. Did anyone get stabbed?” she asked. He shook his head.
“No. It wasn't so bad,” he replied.
“What did you guys talk about?” she questioned, a practiced air of innocence surrounding her voice. Too bad he already knew there wasn't anything innocent about Tatum O'Shea.
“You,” he replied honestly. Her eyes got wide and she stopped bouncing.
“Really? And what did you say about me?” she asked. He smiled and ran a hand up the back of her leg, then dragged his nails back down.
“Well, Angier informed me that I have been benefiting from his sexual teachings,” he told her. She snorted as he moved his hand up her leg again.
“fu-cker. I was already kinda freaky before he came along,” she said.
“'Kinda freaky'?” Jameson laughed.
“What did you say?” she pressed.
“I told him that there wouldn't have even been a you without me, so he could shut the fu-ck up,” he replied, really digging his nails in as he worked them back down her calf. She sucked air through her teeth.
“Bold statement, Mr. Kane. Doesn't sound like a very fun lunch,” she told him. He shrugged.
“Something good came out of it. I made a decision,” he started. He stopped touching her and took a step back. Out of kicking range.
“About what?” Tate asked, putting her hands on her hips.
He let his eyes wander over her body for a moment, committed it to memory. She was probably going to get angry. In the old days, when Tate got angry, it meant kinky sex. In Europe, it meant he wasn't allowed to touch her with a ten-foot-pole. Nowadays ..., he was prepared to be sleeping in a dog house for a very long time.
For someone who didn't want a relationship, this is all very relationship-like ...
“We're moving,” he informed her. Her eyebrows shot up.
“Moving? Jameson, we've only been here two weeks. Half my shit is still in suitcases,” she pointed out.
“Good, then it shouldn't take you long to pack. Which you should be doing. Right now,” he instructed.
“Huh?”
“We're moving tonight,” he explained.
“Tonight? Jesus, what, was there a fire sale on mansions somewhere around here?” she joked.
“I already own a mansion somewhere around here,” Jameson said softly. She stopped moving. Stopped blinking. It almost looked like she stopped breathing.
Ah, not a robot after all.
“You're going back to Weston?” Tate asked, her voice soft and low. He shook his head.
“We're going back to Weston,” he corrected her. She shook her head.
“No. I'm not going back there,” she said.
“Oh, yes, you are.”
“No, I'm not.”
“I'm sorry, did you think this was a debate? I didn't ask you if you were going, I told you that you were going,” he said calmly. She glared down at him.
“I'm not going into that fu-cking house, and that is fu-cking final,” she snapped.
“You are going into that house, and that is final. I don't care if I have to fu-cking carry you,” he replied.
“Why? What's wrong with this place? I like this place. You must like it, you bought it,” she pointed out. He shrugged.
“I like the Weston house better. Sanders misses it, he's already started opening it up,” Jameson explained.
“No. No, I'm not going there. You can't make me,” her voice was getting louder.
“Oh, yes I can.”
“Why can't I just stay here?” she asked.
“Because I want you there.”
“You don't get to tell me what to do, Kane.”
“Oh, yes I do.”
“Stop it! Why? Why do I have to be there, in that house?” she demanded. He decided to risk it, and he stepped closer to her.
“Because,” he started, his voice soft. Gentling the blow. “It's our home, baby girl. And it's time to go.”
Houston, we have ignition. Prepare for blast off.
“That is not our home!” Tate yelled, a blush creeping across her chest. “That is your torture chamber! So fu-ck off, and go back to your fu-cking mansion in the country!”
“It's not much of a torture chamber without someone to torture,” Jameson pointed out. She looked shocked.
“fu-ck you, then you shouldn't have let Pet get away from it,” she hissed.
Always about Petrushka. This is why I hate having girlfriends – it's the “ex” part that's a bitch.
“She didn't 'get away', I kicked her out.”
“That's your version of what happened.”
“It's the only version of what happened.”
“I am not about to go and sleep in the same bed you fu-cked her in, I am not some -,”
Play time is over.
Jameson grabbed her ankles and yanked her legs out from underneath her. Tate shrieked as she went down flat on her back. She had barely made contact with the mattress before he was jerking her forward, still holding her ankles, dragging her to him. He leaned over her, forcing her legs to part around him.
“We have been over this, so I am never going to say this again, understand? I did not fu-ck her,” he growled. Tate glared up at him.
“I'm still not going into that house,” she growled right back.
“Oh, you'll go. You'll go if I have to drag you there by your fu-cking hair,” he warned her.
“You'd probably love that,” she snapped.
“So would you.”
She sighed and some of the tension went out of her body. She rolled her head to the side and looked out the open doors. The moving men were visible at the end of the hall, boxing up odds and ends. Jameson stared down at her. Detachment. That's what was wrong with her. Tate had a way of detaching herself. Like she was present, could say all the right things, but she wasn't really there – she was somewhere he couldn't reach.
He hated that.
“I don't want to go there,” she whispered.
“Why?” he demanded.
“I don't like it there,” she answered.
“You used to love it there,” he reminded her.
“'Used to' being the operative term,” she pointed out.
“So what's changed? You keep claiming that everything is fine. Apparently, it's not fine at all. Apparently it's all completely fu-cked,” he called her out. She turned back towards him.
“That was a really interesting lunch you had, wasn't it,” she breathed.
Busted.
“They're concerned about you,” Jameson said softly.
“But you're not,” Tate finished his statement. He shooks his head.
“Don't be fu-cking stupid. I'm here. I'm doing this, for you. Stop asking questions you know the answers to. Now get the fu-ck up, and get dressed,” he ordered.
She sat up abruptly and he had to lean away. He had barely stood up when she pushed herself up as well, sliding against almost every inch of him. He stared down at her, waiting for her to argue, to whine, to try to bribe. The last one was fairly effective – he wasn't as immune to her charms as he liked to pretend.
“Fine. Fine, I'll go to that fu-cking hell house,” she said in a quiet voice.
“Good. We're leaving, now,” he snapped. She raised an eyebrow.
“So impatient,” she clucked her tongue at him.
“You should know that by now,” he replied. She sighed and stepped around him, slowly made her way towards the door.
“When they pack my clothes,” she started, “make sure they don't steal any of the expensive underwear.”
Then she disappeared down the hall. From where he was standing, Jameson couldn't see to the end of it, but he heard one moving man wolf-whistle. Another cat-called. Then the front door slowly creaked open, before slamming shut. Jameson chuckled to himself.
So feisty.