*
Tate sat outside, bundled up in an old sweater that used to belong to Sanders. It was a bright, shiny day out – and totally freezing. She wore a thick pair of wool socks over her knee socks and had tucked herself into a lounge chair. She sat next to the pool, which had been covered, and took out her cell phone.
“I was just thinking about you,” Nick said when he answered.
“Psychic,” she joked, pulling her knees up to her chest.
“How're things?” he asked.
Tate had kept him mostly in the dark about everything that had happened. He just knew that she was back in Boston, and that she and Jameson were “friends”; she never elaborated on what kind of friends, and thankfully he never asked. By the time she got back to Boston, he had already moved into his house in Arizona. Spring training didn't start till mid-February, but he liked settling in first.
“Good, things are good. Just kinda hanging out,” she responded.
“No job?” he asked.
“No, no job.”
“What about school? You mentioned once -,”
“No, Dad, no school either,” Tate said sarcastically.
“Well, I worry about you. When you don't keep busy, you either vegetate, or get into trouble. And if you're going to get into trouble, I'd like to at least be there,” he told her. She snorted.
“I'm not getting into trouble, or 'vegetating', I promise. Sandy and I went up to New York the other weekend, he took me to the Natural History Museum, all that good stuff,” she assured him of her innocence. Nick would be the last person alive who would buy it, by the time she was through.
“You and Sanders alone together for a weekend, huh,” he said. She smiled.
“Ooohhh, sounds like jealousy,” Tate teased.
“No, no, not at all. Sanders is a very fine man. When you marry him, can I walk you down the aisle?” he asked.
“Of course. Now if we can just convince Jameson to walk with Sandy, it'll be perfect,” she joked.
“Is there any way we could not invite Jameson?” Nick asked.
“Jameson isn't the kind of man you don't invite places – he just invites himself, anyway,” she assured him.
“Not exactly surprising. So, when are you going to come visit me?” Nick asked.
They had talked several times about her coming out there. Nick thought it was a great idea. Tate thought it was horrible. She was in a bad place, a bad state of mind. She didn't want him to see her like that, and she didn't want him to become a casualty on her path to becoming a bitch.
“I don't know, Nick. When does training end?” she asked, for the millionth time.
“End of March. Tatum, it would be really nice to see you, before I have to go on the road,” he said in a soft voice. She hated his soft voice. It could make her do almost anything.
“I'll try, I promise. Maybe in a couple weeks, before training really gets under way,” she offered.
“That would be nice. I mean, there's no pressure. I just want to see you. I'm not asking for anything else,” Nick told her.
“I know that. Thank you.”
Sometimes, Nick felt like the only person who wasn't asking her for something, or expecting her to be anything. It was nice.
“Though I wouldn't stop you if you suddenly felt like getting naked and climbing into bed with me,” he threw out there, and she burst out laughing.
“Good to know, good to know,” Tate tried to contain herself. Then she saw Jameson prowling through the conservatory, and her laughter dried up.
“So. End of March?” Nick asked. She nodded, watching Jameson.
“I'll try,” was all she offered.
“That's all I ever ask. I gotta go. Take care of yourself,” he instructed her. She nodded again as Jameson finally walked out of the house.
“I never do,” she replied, then hung up the phone.
Jameson was slowly making his way towards her, his hands in pants pockets. She sighed as she watched him. He was wearing a suit, this one with a vest. It killed her. She wanted to lick the fabric, he looked so good. He had everything tailored, so everything fit him like a glove. She loved it. She always loved the way he looked; he always took her breath away a little.
Sometimes, he made it very hard for her to hate him.
“Talking with your boyfriend?” he asked snidely as he approached her.
And sometimes, he made it very easy.
“He's lonely. Can I go visit him?” Tate asked. Jameson snorted.
“Abso-fu-ckin'-lutely not,” he replied, standing right over her.
“Scared you'll lose me?” she laughed. He laughed as well.
“I couldn't get rid of you if I tried. No, but I don't want to have to fly to Arizona, of all the god forsaken places, to rescue you from some ridiculous situation you will no doubt get yourself into,” he answered, taking his hands out of his pockets and opening his jacket.
“All true. But still. Can I go see him?”
“No.”
“It's very hard for me to be a good girlfriend to him, when you're always interfering,” Tate teased. Jameson glared at her.
“It must be even harder for you to be a good girlfriend to him when I'm the one who's always inside you,” he responded. She shrugged.
“What are you doing home?” she asked, cutting through the flirting. Or was it teasing? Bullying? It was all the same to her.
“It occured to me that maybe you would be uncomfortable here, all alone,” Jameson said.
“Sanders is here,” Tate reminded him. He rolled his eyes.
“Sometimes that's almost like one and the same. I only had one consultation this afternoon, so I rescheduled it and came home,” he explained.
“For me?” she asked. He nodded.
“For you.”
Sometimes he could almost be sweet. Sure, he was the devil incarnate, but in his own weird way, he would try to be sweet. She tried to encourage those moments, figured they would lure him into a false sense of security.
“That's very nice of you,” she said, reaching up and grabbing onto his hand. He frowned, but allowed her to link their fingers.
“I also had something else,” he went on.
Uh oh.
She let go of his hand.
“What?” she asked, instantly wary. He lowered himself so he was sitting on the lounger across from her.
“I have to go out of town,” Jameson started. Her breath caught in her throat. “Just to Los Angeles. I've been trying to sell off my piece of a film company, and it needs my personal attention. I'll be back in a couple days, five at the most.”
Los Angeles. L.A. didn't scare her, Tate didn't have any bad memories associated with that city. She had been nervous that he was going to say New York, or worse, Berlin. L.A. she could handle. It was actually a good thing. Ang hadn't been over to Jameson's house, but maybe now he could be convinced to come over if the devil wasn't home.
“Oh, that's it?” she feigned nonchalance. “That's fine. Are you taking Sandy?”
“I was planning on it, but I don't have to,” Jameson offered. She waved her hand.
“No, it's cool. I'll just bug him if we're here alone. When you're not here, it's basically me just following him around all day,” she laughed. Jameson didn't. He looked suspicious.
“I didn't think you would take this so well,” he told her. She managed to shrug.
“Why? You've been to L.A. before, remember? Maybe this time, instead of two women, you should try for a full on orgy,” she joked. Still no laughter.
“And I certainly didn't think you would be okay with that,” he added. Tate was surprised. Was he actually worried about how she would feel?
“Why wouldn't I be?” she asked.
“Well, last time I attempted to sleep with another woman, I had to pull you off of a certain slutty maid after -,” he started. She held up her hand.
“That was completely different. I don't care if you fu-ck other women, I just don't want to be a part of it. Besides, she was a bitch who didn't know her place. I was there first,” Tate said. He finally smiled.
“Staking a claim on me? Sexy. But I'm kind of disappointed, does this mean no threesomes in our future?” he asked, pouting his lower lip out. She resisted the urge to nibble on it.
“Sure, we can have a threesome,” she nodded as she laid back on the lounger, putting her hands under her head.
“Really?” he asked, his voice full of surprise. She nodded her head again.
“Of course. I've got, like, a dozen guys I can name, right now, that I would love to be in a threesome with you. I know you don't like Ang, but we've kind of had this long standing thing that if I was ever gonna try DP, he had to be one of the P's,” Tate explained. Jameson's foot hooked under her lounger and suddenly she was being shoved over. She rolled onto the grass, snorting and laughing.
“I find it disgusting right now that Angier and I have fu-cked the same person. I certainly don't ever want to be doing it at the same time as him,” Jameson said, standing up and straightening his suit.
“So you're saying there's a chance with another guy?” she asked, propping her knees up. She watched him as he sighed, then stared off into the horizon.
“If you were serious – which you aren't – I would do it. But only after I got to do every sick, deviant, fetish thing I could ever possibly want to do with you, first,” he told her.
“That could take years!” she laughed up at him.
“Yes, but my needs come first, Tate,” he reminded her, then turned and walked away.
~2~
Tatum wasn't sure if she'd ever actually been alone in Jameson's house before – she was pretty sure Sanders had always been there, at least. Without anyone there, it was big and drafty and kinda scary. She went to sleep in Jameson's bed, spooning his pillow. She felt like a baby.
She had worried about what to do for transportation, or how she would even get Ang out there, but it turned out Sanders and Jameson had been holding out on her. The Bentley wasn't the only car. There was a Jaguar S Type that never saw the light of day. Sanders preferred the Bentley, and Jameson hardly every drove himself. It was all hers, she was told. Tate decided not to point out that it would have made life a lot simpler, in the old days, if she'd had access to her own fu-cking car. Like, say, a certain night ... when she had wanted to leave ... but didn't have a ride ... so she drank herself retarded and stole a car anyway. Yeah. Not cute. One more point to the devil.
She had a lot of catching up to do.
She had to plead and beg for a couple of days, but she finally got Ang to agree to come out. She didn't even have to give him a ride, as it turned out. Ellie loaned him her car. Barf. But Tate smiled and hugged him at the door, pretended like she didn't care. Not even one little bit.
“See, it's not so bad,” Tate pointed out, ushering him inside. Ang frowned while he looked around.
“It's worse.”
She had dinner delivered and they ate in the kitchen. That room had taken her a while to get used to, as well. She had some good memories in it, most of them burned into the island. But there were some bad memories, too. Ukranian-Danish monsters, stomping around Tatum's land.
“It's a lot, but you get used to it,” she commented as they walked out of the kitchen and he took in the huge hall.
“Maybe you get used to it – you grew up somewhere like this, I bet. I grew up in a shoe box,” he said.
“This is the sitting room,” she started giving him a tour.
“What do you do in a sitting room?” Ang asked, glancing in the large room. Two sofas faced each other over a large, flat coffee table, and a gigantic fireplace stood on the far wall.
“I have no fu-cking clue. On the other side is the living room,” she turned back to look behind them.
“My whole apartment could fit in here,” Ang breathed, walking into the room. Turning to the pristine couches. There was a bar at the back of the room and a door in the far corner. She led him through it.
“Holy shit!” he exclaimed, and she smiled, not turning on the lights in the conservatory. The lights around the pool and pool house were on, casting an orange glow into the room.
“I love this part of the house. In the summer, Ang, you would die. It gets so warm in here, almost like a sauna, and it looks right over the pool,” she explained, walking the length of the room.
“It smells amazing in here. Who takes care of all these? I gave you that bamboo once, and you killed it,” he reminded her.
“It's one of Sanders' hobbies. Jameson and I aren't allowed to touch anything. One time we overturned a table of American Beauties. He was able to save them, but he didn't speak to us for about two days,” she told him.
“And how did you two manage to overturn an entire table full of roses?” Ang asked, an eyebrow cocked up. She snorted.
“Shut up.”
“Slut.”
“You love it.”
She led him upstairs. She gestured to Sanders' old room, but didn't go inside. No one went in there, it was like an unspoken rule. Across from the main house was a guest house – a home still bigger than most average Americans'. Sanders was staying there.
She showed Ang the upstairs study, a den, a game room. Several very posh guests room. She showed him a bathroom so big, her old apartment could have fit inside it. They both laughed at the fact that their homes could fit inside just two rooms in Jameson's home. Rich people. Then they circled back to the main hall, worked their way towards the door at the very end.
“What's left?” Ang asked. Tate chewed on her bottom lip.
“My room,” she replied, and swung the door open. She went inside, but Ang stayed in the doorway, looking around.
“Your room, huh. Looks more like Satan lives here,” he commented, his eyes wandering over the dark decor. The heavy, oak furniture. The huge, black bedspread. She rolled her eyes.
“You scared of the devil, Angy wangy?” she teased, walking further into the room. He snorted and followed her inside.
“So this is where it happens,” he sighed, striding up to the bed.
“What?” she asked, standing next to him.
“The magic,” he deadpanned, and she cracked up.
“Sometimes. C'mon, look at this,” she said, and led him into the walk-in closet.
“If you're trying to impress me, it won't work. My sexual favors can't be bought,” he told her, fingering one of Jameson's blazers. Tate pulled the jacket down.
“Yes, they can. Try it on,” she offered, holding the jacket out. He looked like he was going to be sick.
“I'm sure you miss him, but I am not about to dress up like him and ride around on you while you wear a saddle, or whatever sick fetish you richies are into,” he said loudly. She burst out laughing.
“Ang. This is Dolce & Gabbana. It cost over $2,000. Have you ever worn an article of clothing that cost that much? C'mon, put it on, and we'll go get high, and then he can bitch about that time Angier made his two-grand-jacket smell like weed,” she suggested.
Ang put it on.
“I'm taller than him,” he commented, staring at his wrists where they jutted out of the cuffs.
“Duh. Haven't you noticed?” she asked, walking around, straightening out the material. She smoothed her hands over his shoulders, let her touch linger.
“I mean, yeah, I guess. He's just ...,” he let his voice trail off.
“Larger than life?” she filled in for him. He nodded again.
“Don't tell him I said that.”
“Won't breathe a word.”
“Good. At least I've got something on him,” he commented, pushing up the sleeves.
“At least two and a half inches. He's like six-two,” she told him, coming back to his front.
“Short stuff.”
“You've got more on him than that,” she teased, winking at him. He nodded.
“Damn straight, and don't you forget it. Now where's the weed?” Ang asked.
They moved into the make-shift office Jameson had created out of a balcony. She opened the windows before pulling up two chairs for them. She produced a joint and they tucked in, Tate spreading a blanket across both of them. They sat in silence for a while.
“It's so peaceful here,” she finally sighed. Ang nodded, taking a deep pull.
“Surprisingly. I thought hell would be a lot scarier,” he managed to squeak out before exhaling the smoke.
“A person can get used to hell,” she replied softly.
“What?” he asked, turning towards her. She shook her head, taking a drag.
“It's not so bad, huh? Nice house, nice grounds,” she commented, passing it back to him.
“Heh, nice grounds. Groooouuunds,” he drew out the word before leaning forward and grinding the butt out against the window sill. “I'm happy if you're happy, kitty cat. Are you happy?”
“Most of the time,” Tate breathed, closing her eyes.
You don't want to do this. Don't be this person.
“What do you mean? Are you really okay?” he asked, and when she opened her eyes, he was looking at her. She wondered why he hadn't thought to ask that question before he had started fu-cking her sister.
“Yeah, I'm good. Just cold, let's get out of here,” she said, pushing the blanket away and standing up.
After she secured the huge windows, she led him back into the bedroom. She showed him the sideboard where Jameson kept most of his every day things – a lot of cuff links, tie pins, watches, things of that nature. Everything plated in gold and diamond and platinum. While Ang guffawed over all the stuff, Tate made her way over to the bed. Knelt on top of it and crawled towards Jameson's side.
“Holy fu-ck, Tate, this table holds more money than I'll ever see in my life. I don't know whether to be impressed, or disgusted,” Ang called out from behind her. She pulled a box out of Jameson's night stand and then turned back to Ang.
“Look at this,” she offered, knee walking back towards him. He met her at the edge of the bed and she opened the box. “This is a Jacob and Co. watch.”
“It's awesome,” he said, taking the box into his hands and looking over the timepiece.
“It's worth over $300,000.”
“fu-ck!” he exclaimed, and dropped the box. It bounced on the mattress and rolled, the lid snapping shut. She laughed and picked it up, sat it on the pillows.
“I know, right? Who would spend that kind of money on a watch?” she asked.
“Why the fu-ck would you even let me touch that? That watch is worth more than I am,” he laughed as well, but he looked a little shaky.
“I think it's funny. All this stuff, it's silly,” she said, reaching out and playing with the button on the blazer he was wearing. He was taller than Jameson, but leaner. The blazer was pretty loose on him.
“It's fu-cking stupid. A watch!? Why? How often does he wear it?” Ang asked. Tate shrugged, unbuttoning the jacket and pushing it open.
“Not often. Once in Spain. You should see the shit he keeps in the safe,” she said, plucking at his shirt. He began absent mindedly batting at her hands while he glanced around the room.
“You're shitting me. Please tell me it's behind a huge portrait of like his dog or something,” he chuckled. She hooked her fingers inside his belt.
“No. It's in the closet,” she replied.
“Tate, what are you doing?” he asked, finally clueing into the fact that she was touching him. She smiled up at him. Ang liked to pretend he liked being poor, turned up his nose at rich people, but really, he was fascinated by it, and even better, distracted by it. It was one of the things that had attracted him to Tate, she knew. It was probably part of what drew him to her sister.
Bitch.
“What? I feel like I haven't touched you in a long time,” she said, pulling him close and wrapping her arms around his waist. She pressed the side of her face to his chest and he sighed, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.
“Are you really okay? You kinda scare me, sometimes,” he mumbled. She ignored the sadness in his voice and worked her hands up his back. He felt so different from Jameson.
“I'm okay, Ang. I'm happy here. Everything is great,” she whispered, massaging her fingers back down his spine. He shivered under her touch.
“You can always come live with me,” he said softly. She laughed low in her throat and pulled away a little, running her hands up and down his sides.
“Do you think your girlfriend would appreciate that?” she asked, watching him from under hooded eyelids. He ran his hands under her hair, lifting it away from her shoulders and piling it all on the back of her head.
“I don't think she'd care, but more importantly, I don't care. You've been my best friend for a million years,” he replied. She smiled, running her teeth over her bottom lip while she pressed herself against him.
“Sometimes a little more than a friend,” her voice was soft. He laughed, scratching his fingers over her scalp.
“Most of the time. God, we used to have fun,” his voice fell into a murmur as his eyes wandered over her face.
Please, don't hate me after this. I have to get my soul back.
“Used to?” she asked, her voice soft as she ran her hands along his body.
“Tater tot, we haven't had fun since Satan came to town,” Ang chuckled, his hands moving to the back of her neck.
“Hmmm, he's not in town right now,” Tate reminded him. He narrowed his eyes.
“No, he's not, and I doubt he would appreciate me seducing his succubus in his lair,” he told her.
“I doubt he'd care. Besides, succubi are supposed to sleep with lots of people,” she pointed out.
“Succubi? Is that how you pluralize it?”
“Succubuses sounds weird.”
“Like a slutty bus.”
“Slutty buses.”
“Wait,” he stopped. “Did you just imply that you want to sleep with me?”
“Ang. If I laid it on any thicker, I'd be staked out on the mattress,” she said bluntly.
“I thought it was 'against the rules', or some bullshit,” he said, glancing around the room, like he was checking for hidden cameras, or waiting for Jameson to pounce out of the shadows and eat him.
“That was before; besides, since when have you cared about what upsets Jameson?” she evaded answering him.
“I don't. But I don't want to piss off Ellie, either. She's not exactly as free a thinker as you and I,” he laughed.
I'm counting on that.
“That's not fair. She wouldn't know you if it wasn't for me – she owes me a finders fee,” Tate mock pouted, sticking out her bottom lip. He pinched it between his thumb and finger.
“What's going on with you, babydoll? Satan not giving it to you good enough?” he questioned. She tilted her head down, drawing his thumb into her mouth and sucking on it. He hissed air through his teeth. She let him go and he dragged his thumb down her chin.
“How about you stop worrying about him for tonight. I know I have,” she said in a husky voice.
Like that would even be possible.
She knew she had him. The temptation to put something over on Jameson was too great for him. She knew Ang very well, knew how to get to him. They hadn't slept together in a long time – since August. They had quit cold turkey, and he hadn't had a say in the matter. In fact, he'd been pretty angry about it for a while. Here was his chance to strike back. fu-ck Tate, in Jameson's bed. In Satan's home. Much too hard to resist. She closed her eyes as his head lowered towards hers.
Please, please don't hate me.
“It's haaaard out here, for a BITCH!”
His pocket started blaring Lily Allen. Talk about a mood breaker. They stared at each other, in the darkness of the bedroom. The only light was coming from the closet and the windows. The chorus to the song repeated itself, and she realized it was his phone. He licked his lips.
“Ellie,” he said, then pulled away, walking into the closet to take the call.
Moment gone, plan ruined. She huffed and fell backwards onto the bed. She tried to ignore how elated she actually felt; she wouldn't have another chance like that one for a while. It would've been perfect. fu-ck Ang in Jameson's bed, piss off all three of them. Originally, she wanted to do it in the library. She hadn't even gone into it yet, so if Jameson found out she had not only gone in there with Ang, but slept with him in there, game over. But she couldn't make herself go in there yet. The bed was a close second.
“How's the little woman?” Tate asked, staring up at the ceiling as Ang walked back into the room.
“Okay, she has a cold,” he said, standing in front of her legs. He reached down and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her upright.
“Does she pee when she sneezes?”
“What? No. What the fu-ck was all this about?” he demanded. He had taken off the jacket and was holding his car keys in his hand.
“What do you mean?” she asked, standing up and straightening out her shirt.
“This, Tatum. What the fu-ck is going on with you?” he asked. She laughed.
“Ang, since when have we needed a reason to have sex? One time we did it to celebrate Election Day. I wanted to do it because you're here,” she told him. He narrowed his eyes.
“Since when has Jameson not been enough for you?” he countered.
“Hard for him to fulfill needs when he's thousands of miles away,” she replied, and lead him out of the room.
“Is that what this was about? You're lonely?” he asked as they made their way down the stairs. She took quick breaths.
Yes. I'm always lonely. So lonely.
“Ang, it was just fun. I'm a little stoned, you're sexy, it's been a while. It didn't happen, big whoop. Next time I'll just take my top off, maybe then you won't hesitate,” she managed to joke.
“If you whip out your boobs next time, I promise to fu-ck you until you won't be able to look at Satan the same,” he joked. She snorted.
Yeah, good luck with that.
“If Ellie could hear you now,” she sighed, opening the front door.
“Yeah, it wouldn't be pretty. Seriously, you okay out here? You can come stay with me, or her, until they come home,” he offered. She shook her head, almost shaking with the amount of tension running through her body. She just wanted him gone.
“No, I'm good. Besides, someone has to water Sanders' plants. He'd kill me and bury me in there if I let one of them die,” she said. Ang nodded.
“Okay. Take it easy, kitty cat. Call me if you need anything. Anything,” he urged, then leaned down and gave her a quick kiss.
“Good night!” she called out after him.
Tate had barely swung the door shut when she fell to her knees. She crawled forward, pressed her back to the door and pulled her knees up. She tried to get her breathing under control while she wrapped her arms around her legs. Holy shit. Holy shit, what had she almost done? Ang had no clue, he thought she was being weird, but all sexy and cheeky. Stupid man. He didn't know.
And Jameson. Jesus, if he even knew how far it had gone right then, he would've been pissed. If she'd actually gone through with it? Slept with Ang? God. He would hate her. Ellie would hate her. And Ang would hate her, as soon as he found out it was all on purpose. Most of the time, it all sounded like a great idea.
But sometimes, when she was alone, and she couldn't stop the crying, it just sounded like she was the worst person she'd ever met.
Well, next to Jameson ...