*
Tate stood in the doorway a couple days later, watching as Sanders unloaded the car. Jameson was sitting in the backseat, talking on his cell phone. She smiled and held out her arms when Sanders finally made his way up to the porch.
“What did you do?” he demanded, and she laughed.
“What? What!? I'm alive, I didn't kill any of your plants, and I cleaned up the meatball explosion in the kitchen,” she defended herself.
“I had this strange feeling while we were gone, and you sounded odd whenever I called,” he said, looking her over.
“No, nothing strange here. Just bored most of the time,” she replied. Jameson finally got out of the car and strode up onto the porch. Sanders gave her one more Look, and then headed inside.
“God, what a fu-cking nightmare. Sanders was ridiculous, he worried about you the whole time,” Jameson grumbled, pushing his way past her. She shut the door after everyone was inside.
“Sweet to know someone worried about me,” she laughed, following him up the stairs. Sanders left Jameson's luggage in front of his room, then headed back downstairs.
“If I wasted my time worrying about you, I would never get anything done,” he responded, pulling his tie off and walking to the edge of the bed. Tate kicked the door shut behind her.
“See. Sweetness. You're just full of it,” she teased. He glanced at her while he slid his jacket off, let it fall onto the bed.
“You're in an awfully good mood,” he said suspiciously, unbuttoning his shirt sleeves. Tate shrugged.
“I spent a week alone. It was quiet. Peaceful. Nice. I didn't have to listen to you bitch the whole time,” she taunted him, smiling as she said it. He narrowed his eyes, then walked past her into the closet.
“Starting awfully early, baby girl. At least let me -, what is this? Why is this on the floor?” Jameson asked. Tate held her breath and crept to the door into the closet. The blazer Ang had worn was crumpled up on the floor, where he had left it. Tate had never picked it up.
“What?” she asked, feigning ignorance. He picked the blazer up and shook it out.
“Why is this on the floor?” he asked, holding it up. He made a face. “Jesus, is that weed? Were you getting stoned in my jacket?”
“Oh, no. Ang was over, and we -,” she started to explain, as if it were an every day occurrence. Jameson turned towards her, his eyes wide.
“Angier was here? In my house?” he asked.
“Yeah, I invited him over one night. We were bored, I gave him a tour. Thought it would be funny for him to try on the jacket,” she explained. His eyes got wider.
“You let him wear my clothing?” Jameson sounded shocked. She had blown his mind. Jameson was very sensitive about his things.
“Yeah. It looked good on him, though he's a lot taller,” she said, looking down and picking at her nails. Jameson walked over to her, his movements slow and deliberate.
“You brought Angier to my house, let him wear my clothing, and then you proceeded to get high,” he laid everything out. She glanced at him and nodded before going back to her nails. She couldn't look at him for too long. His eyes were blazing, and it was always a look that set her skin on edge. Made her itch to be touched. Hurt.
“Yeah, in the sun room,” she finished.
“You smoked in my room,” his voice was soft. She had trouble hiding her smile.
“Well, not in in your room, we were -,” she started.
He grabbed her by the throat and she went onto her toes, her fingers flying to his hand. He stared down his nose at her, and he looked equal parts pissed-the-fu-ck-off and really turned on. It was an odd look, one that she had only ever seen on Jameson. A look that made her heart rate double.
“What's your game, baby girl? You knew all those things would make me very unhappy, so why did you do them?” he asked, his voice still soft. Tate sighed.
“We were having fun. Maybe, just maybe for ten minutes, I wasn't thinking about you, Jameson,” she replied. His fingers got tighter and he walked her backwards, out of the closet.
“Doubtful. Fun, huh. What else did you do?” he asked, backing her up to the side of the bed.
“Hard to remember. Gets a little fuzzy after the joint,” she replied. He stepped up so he was almost touching her.
“A little fuzzy, hmmm. Tatum, you're being far too obvious to have actually fu-cked him, so you can stop trying to make me jealous. I'm not jealous. I'm angry,” he growled through clenched teeth. She flicked her eyes to the bed, then back to him.
“You're so sure? You're positive?” she whispered. His gaze went to where she had just looked and then came back to hers. He cocked his head to the side.
“Positive enough. Why are you trying to make me mad? What has gotten into you?” he asked, and she managed to squeak out a laugh.
“I think the question should be who.”
He shoved her and she fell onto the mattress. She tried to scramble backwards, but he grabbed her ankle and pulled her back into place before he crawled on top of her. He straddled her thighs and sat back on his heels, working the buttons of his shirt open.
“I thought you'd at least give me a chance to relax when I first got home. That's not a short flight,” he told her. She snorted and wiggled around, trying to scoot out of the sweater she was wearing.
“It's been five days,” she reminded him. He let his shirt fall backwards to the ground and then peeled off his undershirt.
“Five days, huh,” he mumbled, leaning down close to chew on the side of her neck. “Guess that means you didn't fu-ck Angier.”
“Not for lack of trying,” she laughed. He believed it was a joke.
“Shut your fu-cking mouth, Tate. It's only good for one thing, anyway.”
“Thank you. I had a very good teacher.”
He propped himself up over her, stared at her for a moment. It was dark in the bedroom, but she could see light from the closet glinting off his eyes, giving him a cold, steely look. Not much different than usual. She had expected her comment to make him mad. She was wrong.
“If it upsets you that much that they're together,” he started, his voice quiet, “then just ask him to stop. He would, for you.”
Busted.
“I wasn't -,” she started to cover up when he pressed his hand down flat on her chest.
“Don't lie. All you do is lie anymore, baby girl. It gets tiring. You want to break them up – the question is, why are you trying to do it in a way you know would piss me off?” Jameson asked. Tate held her breath. Apparently she wasn't as unobvious as she liked to think.
“Would it really piss you off?” she asked back.
“If you fu-cked Angier in our bed? Yes, it would piss me off,” he assured her.
“So what, if I fu-ck him, you're gonna kick me out?” she pressed, her breathing getting fast. He chuckled.
“Tate, you can lie to yourself all you like – I have already accepted the fact that there is very little you could do to make me stop wanting you,” he told her, pressing down harder on her breast bone before dragging his hand down her body. Her eyelids fluttered shut.
Wanting. Not caring. Big difference, baby girl.
“Leaves me a lot of scope, Mr. Kane. I haven't slept with Ang in a long time, could be kind of fun,” she whispered.
“Only if you like seeing me mad,” he whispered back. She finally chuckled as well, squirming as he started undoing the button on her shorts.
“I love seeing you mad.”
“Tatum. You have never seen me really mad.”
Scary fu-cking thought.
His hand dived under her shorts then, and she forgot what they were talking about; his fingers always had the ability to make her forget everything. Scratching her, squeezing her, choking her, inside of her. Very talented, those fingers.
“Ooohhh, wow,” she breathed out, her shoulders lifting off the mattress.
“Tell me why you're trying to break them up,” Jameson demanded, pressing two fingers inside of her.
“Because,” Tate panted. “I'm angry at them.”
“Why? Why do you care who Angier fu-cks?”
“I don't care. I care that she's fu-cking him,” she replied, her head tossing from side to side as his fingers worked quicker.
“Why?”
“She stole my life away from me, my future. She doesn't get to steal my best friend, too,” Tate replied, a little surprised at herself for blurting it out so plainly. Those damn fingers. He stopped moving and she groaned.
“Seems to me the life you have now isn't so bad. Maybe she did you a favor,” he pointed out, dragging sticky wet fingers up her body. She managed a laugh.
“You would see it that way. I see it as more of a burden,” she teased him. Jameson glared, then pressed his two fingers into her mouth. She moaned, leaning her head forward to work her lips all the way to his knuckles.
“fu-cking Tatum. Didn't I tell you? No more games,” he growled at her, pulling his hand away and then yanking her shorts down.
“Jameson, you and I have never stopped playing games,” she pointed out, hurrying to pull off her bra.
“Such a bitch.”
“You bring it out of me.
“Shut up.”
He yanked her legs up, hooking her knees over his shoulders. Her hands went into his hair. Once upon a time, he had treated going down on her like it was some monumental thing, some amazing gift he was bestowing upon her. It was pretty goddamn amazing, but he wasn't so stingy anymore.
She wouldn't say it out loud, would barely even whisper it inside her own head, but she had actually realized, he was a pretty giving man.
Even scarier fu-cking thought.
When she'd had a big enough orgasm that she thought she was going to pass out, he finally let her go. While her head was spinning, he crawled back up her body, kissing his way to her throat.
“You're very good at that,” she panted. She felt his smile against her pulse, his fangs against her skin.
“I know.”
“Did Petrushka teach you how to use your mouth?” she asked bluntly. Jameson snorted.
“No. By the time I got with Pet, I had learned all my tricks,” he replied, leaning away from her enough to unbuckle his pants. Tate helped, using her feet to work them down his legs.
“All of them, hmmm? So I guess there's nothing new to learn from me,” she sighed. He laid all of his weight on her.
“Tatum, I think I learn something new from you every single day.”
Nice words scar so bad.
~3~
“If you won't talk to them,” Sanders started the next day, walking into the kitchen. “Will you talk to me?”
“What do you want to talk about?” Tate asked, holding out a spoon covered in brownie batter. She held it in front of his face until he took a taste.
“Paris. Last fall. Why you're trying to break up Mr. Hollingsworth and Mrs. Carmichael,” he said. She blinked in surprise.
“Jameson told you about all that?” she asked, dumping the brownie mix into a pan.
“I asked if he had talked to you. He mentioned it. May I ask why you're doing this?” Sanders pressed again. She sighed, opening the oven and sliding the pan inside.
“Because. I'm upset. I'm tired of feeling like people walk all over me. I shouldn't have to ask them to not be together – they should've known better,” she tried to explain. He shook his head.
“Sometimes, it is possible for a person to have no control over the people he likes,” he pointed out, staring at her very hard. She frowned.
“Jameson and I are completely different, he never -,”
“I was talking about me and you, Tatum.”
Well, isn't he just full of surprises.
“What are you saying, Sandy? You don't want to be my friend, but you just can't help it?” she laughed. He nodded, and her laughter dried up pretty quickly.
“When I first met you, I did not like you. I never liked any of the women Jameson brought home. But you wouldn't leave me alone. You talked to me. I grew accustomed to you. And then I started to appreciate you. I looked foward to us spending time together. Now, I'm not even sure how it happened, but I feel like I need to be in your presence. I did not want, nor did I ask, to love you. It just happened. Would you hold that against me?” Sanders stated.
Tate was completely blown away. Sanders loved her? Of course, she knew that he liked her. That they were friends. He had called her his best friend, once. Very touching. But people also referred to their dogs as their best friend – Tatum felt like a spaniel about half the time. But he loved her. Sanders loving anybody was shocking enough, but her ..., she didn't know what to do with that information.
Except feel like the goddamn devil – I am completely unworthy of him.
“Sanders,” she breathed. “I think I hate myself.”
“No you don't. You're just confused. Talk to him, talk to Mr. Hollingsworth,” he urged. She shook her head.
“I can't. I just ..., I feel like this is something I need to do. It's all I think about. Sometimes, I stay awake all night, because I can't stop thinking about ruining things for everyone,” she whispered, glancing at the doorway. Jameson was somewhere in the house.
“You're being overdramatic. Maybe you should see a therapist,” Sanders suggested. She snorted.
“fu-ck that.”
“What Jameson did was wrong, but he has apologized. You claim to have forgiven him, but you haven't. If you are going to keep holding it against him, then I personally feel you should not be with him. What Mr. Hollingsworth did was wrong, he should not have kept his relationship a secret – he should have discussed his feelings with you before anything started. But it is not the end of the world. For your sake, for everyone's sake, just talk to people,” he urged.
She stared at the counter top. Of course she should talk to everyone else. The thought ran through her brain a million times. Every time Tate was with Jameson, it was on the tip of her tongue. If anyone would understand an uncontrollable urge to hurt people, it would be Jameson. But she couldn't talk to him – she wanted to hurt him, too.
She wanted blood.
“I get it. I really do. And I'll snap out of it, I promise. No more sneaking Ang into the house, no more dirty tricks while you guys are gone,” she promised. She hated lying to Sanders, so she kept her options open without being specific. He sighed.
“I honestly think you'd -,” he started to say, but then Jameson walked into the room.
“Think she'd what, Sanders?” he asked, moving to stand between them. Tate shrugged and put the brownie spoon in her mouth.
“I think if she keeps eating sweets the way she has been, her weight is going to balloon out of control,” Sanders replied, then marched out of the room. Tate stared after him.
Was that ..., did he just ..., was that a dig!? Did Sanders just snap at me, in Sanders-speak!? Good for you, Sandy.
“Am I getting fat!?” she exclaimed, turning to look down at her ass.
No matter what was going on in her life, she always tried to make it a point to exercise, in some fashion, at least twice a week. In Spain, she had jogged up and down the marina. In Weston, she used a small gym that Jameson had put into a spare room. She couldn't be getting fat! She turned in a circle, trying to judge.
“Your ass is perfect, he's being rude. You've upset him. What were guys talking about?” Jameson asked, leaning against the island.
“Ang,” she replied. Jameson hung his head.
“fu-ck, I just cannot get away from that guy.”
“You're the one who blabbed all of our pillow talk to Sandy. Do you throw in the dirty stuff, too?” Tate asked, licking the spoon clean.
“Only if he's been very good. Let's get out of here,” Jameson suddenly said.
“But I just put brownies in,” Tate told him, gesturing to the oven. He moved to stand in front of her and ran his finger along the inside of the bowl she'd used to make the batter.
“So. Set a timer, Sanders will take them out. Let's go get lunch,” he suggested, licking his finger. She followed the movement with her eyes and he smiled.
“You take him for granted,” she warned him. He barked out a laugh.
“You are always so wrong. C'mon, fat ass, let's go,” he urged, roughly squeezing her butt before walking past her.
“I am not -,” she started to argue when he hooked a finger into her apron and yanked her backwards.
“I wasn't asking, Tate.”
They went to lunch in Weston, which surprised her. He was either at home, or in Boston. She couldn't remember him ever doing anything in Weston, but he drove them straight to a restaurant and walked right in, like he had been going there for years. He had ordered before she even sat down, and she had to wait for the waiter to come back before she could put in her own order.
Being alone with him in public was the worst for her. She couldn't seduce him in a restaurant, during the middle of the day. Well, she could, but it would be a little awkward, while he was stuffing his face and a family of four sat behind them. So she was subjected to his company. And sometimes, Satan was very pleasant company, indeed. It almost made her feel guilty about her plans.
Almost.
Because she loved it so much, he had taken the Jaguar, and then surprised her by cruising around with her for a while afterwards. It was freezing, but the sun was out, so he opened the sun roof. She leaned her seat back, enjoying the breeze.
“Tate,” Jameson started, his voice heavy. She groaned.
“No more talking. I feel like everyone keeps wanting to have 'talks' with me. I am a big girl. I make my own decisions, retarded as they may be, thank you,” she said quickly.
“I wasn't going to have 'a talk'. I was going to ask how much convincing it would take to get some road head,” he replied. She burst out laughing and glanced over at him.
“Jesus, Jameson, are you always fully erect?” she chuckled. He smiled.
“Not quite always.”
“Not quite, huh. What about when you're at work? What could possibly get you excited there?” she questioned.
“Well, we did hire a new secretary. She is particularly edible,” he said. She stopped laughing.
“Oh really. fu-ck her yet?” she asked, trying to sound breezy.
“Despite what you may think, I don't just fu-ck every woman who steps in front of me. I do let some of them get away,” he assured her.
“What about this one?” she kept on.
“No, I haven't fu-cked her.”
“Yet.”
“Yet,” he agreed.
“Well, don't hold back on my account. I would hate for you to be uncomfortable at work,” she managed to joke.
Tate wasn't sure how to really feel about it. She was going to dump Jameson like a bad habit, as soon as the perfect opportunity presented itself. She shouldn't care who he slept with, really. But still ...
“You and I both know you wouldn't like that to happen, so I have restrained myself. For you, I would like to point out. I want brownie points,” he said. She snorted.
“You're still in the red on brownie points. And really, I don't mind,” she assured him.
“Yes, you do.”
“I don't.”
“Tatum.”
“Jameson.”
“Stop it.”
“You stop it.”
“Okay, how about I bring her home. You could cook us dinner, and I could fu-ck her on the table afterwards,” he suggested, his tone biting. The picture he was painting, the idea of him fu-cking someone else in their – correction, his – house, made her want to throw up. But Tate figured being flippant would be more beneficial to her cause. She took a deep breath.
“Alright. But I'm a shit cook, you should probably just skip to the fu-cking,” she warned him. He barked out a laugh.
“Baby girl, why can't you just admit, out loud, that you don't like sharing me,” he said in a soft voice.
“Because it's not true. You're the one who doesn't like to share his toys,” she reminded him. He nodded.
“There's only certain people I don't like to share with, and I'm okay with that fact,” he agreed.
“Maybe I'm not,” she countered.
“You want to sleep with other guys? Go for it. I never said you couldn't,” he told her.
“Really? I seem to recall a sharp pair of scissors telling me other wise.”
Jameson was quiet after that, and after a couple minutes, he pulled the car into a turn around area. They were deep in the country, surrounded by frosty fields. Boston was in the middle of a cold snap, and temperatures had been in the low-twenties. As he turned the engine off, Tate wrapped her sleeves around her fists and turned to look at him.
“I don't care if you sleep with other men. I do care if you fu-ck them and then rub it in my face; try to make me feel like shit about it. It doesn't work – it just pisses me off and makes you look like a stupid whore,” he told her bluntly.
My, my, Satan makes a daytime appearance.
“I have a game,” Tate started, undoing her seatbelt.
“What?” he growled, eyeing her warily as she moved her seat back.
“How about we both tell the truth,” she suggested, pulling her hair up into a ponytail.
“I never lie, so this will be pretty easy for me. You, on the other hand, haven't been acquainted with the truth in quite a while,” he called her out. She rolled her eyes.
“Yes, it would bother me if you had sex with your secretary,” she stated. His eyebrows went up.
“I already know that, though I'm surprised you admitted it out loud,” he replied. She crossed her eyes at him.
“It is one thing for you to sex up some random chick in a far away place. It is another thing for you to find some new fantastic lover that's better than me right here at home. As you once said, I'm not done playing with you yet,” she explained.
“I'm flattered.”
“So. Now you admit something, too,” she urged.
“Like what?” he asked. She took off her scarf, threw it into the backseat.
“Like the idea of me having sex with someone else makes your blood boil,” she filled in for him. Jameson snorted.
“Tatum, I couldn't care -,”
“He almost kissed me.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ang. In the bedroom. He almost kissed me. I was kneeling on your bed. He had his arms around me,” she painted a picture. Rage rippled across Jameson's features.
“Why are you telling me this?” he demanded.
“To point out how mad you are right now,” she replied.
“That's because I don't like Angier. A stranger is completely different,” he snapped.
“Oh really? So another man, some stranger, touching me, doesn't bother you,” she clarified, and slowly shrugged off her jacket.
“Not in the least,” he replied. She smiled.
“Another man fu-cking me doesn't bother you. So if I were to go downtown, and rent a hotel room for a weekend, and just sow some wild oats, you would be cool with that?” she clarified, putting her jacket into the backseat.
“Completely.”
“Ooohhh, I know what I'm doing next weekend. I'm going to get a room, and then I'm going to put on the tiniest skirt I own, and then I'm going to go bar hopping. I am going to find some devastatingly sexy guy. fu-ck it, maybe I won't even need him to take me back to the room,” Tate said, shivering as she described it.
“You do love a good alley-fu-ck.”
“Don't I, though? Or a car. Cars are good. If he has a car, I'll just climb into the backseat and let him bend me over the console. Been a long time since I've had good car sex,” she sighed.
“You could be having it right now.”
“And ruin the fantasy? No, I'll wait. I'm very glad to know you're okay with all this, it's so exciting! If it's really good, then maybe I'll take him back to the hotel room, and let him touch every inch of my body, put his dick in any orifice he wants. Maybe, if I'm very lucky, I'll get some new bruises to bring home,” Tate said. Jameson's hand went into her hair and pulled, yanking her towards him.
“Sex is one thing. If I see a bruise, we have a problem,” he hissed.
“That's stupid. So I can have sex, just not good sex?” she asked. He glared at her.
“You can have perfectly good sex without someone leaving a mark on you. I get to leave marks – not other men,” he told her.
“Maybe you can have good sex that way, but not me. No, if I'm gonna go out and get nailed, then I'm gonna get fu-cking hammered by some guy. Like, can't walk right the next day,” she laughed.
“I think it's time for you to shut the fu-ck up,” Jameson informed her. She shook her head.
“But it's just getting good, and not like you care, right? I hope whoever it is isn't shy, cause I love going down on a guy in public. Just right there in some dark night club. I'll just slip onto my knees – men seem to love that, don't they? – and press him against a wall, then take every inch of his -,” her voice got softer and softer, all while his fist pulled harder and harder.
“Tatum,” Jameson interrupted, his voice sharp.
“Hmmm?” she purred, trailing a finger up his chest.
“You are not getting a hotel room this weekend.”
“I'm not?”
“And you are not going bar hopping.”
“Boring.”
“And you are most certainly not making every 'orifice' available to some random guy.”
“And why is that?” she asked.
“Because,” Jameson answered, his free hand undoing his belt buckle.
“Because why?”
“Because. If another man ever touches you, I will fu-cking kill him,” he replied simply. Tate smiled broadly.
“I win,” she whispered.
“It's going to be awfully hard to gloat with your mouth full of dick.”
“I'll manage.”
“Bitch.”
She was about to make a witty remark, but then he was forcing her head into his lap and she was a little busy.
If he doesn't want you fu-cking anyone else, that means he's jealous. And if he's jealous, that means he cares. And if he cares, then maybe he really never lied. And if he never lied, then you don't have to ruin everything. And if you don't have to ruin everything, then maybe you can admit out loud that you have most definitely, certainly, positively, absolutely, irrevocably sold your soul to Satan.
~4~
Tate could handle angry Jameson. She could handle mean Jameson. She could handle funny, smart, sexy, witty, foul mouthed Jameson. But there were two versions she had had trouble with, sadistic Jameson, and nice Jameson. Sadistic Jameson had only ever truly come out twice – when he had tricked her into visiting her parents, and big time when he had brought Petrushka home. He could push her around and call her all the names he wanted, but fu-cking with her mind or her heart, that was not okay.
Nice Jameson, though, he was the worst. She didn't trust him. He hadn't come out till so late in the game – she hadn't thought he even existed. When she was always expecting him to be bad, it was shocking to see good. It was like she was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, the other hand to swing. Hovering in a state of permanent wincing.
She hated it, and anymore, nice Jameson was around more than any of the others combined. Her conscience was being ripped in half. She would find herself staring at him, moon-eyed, practically worshipping every word that fell from his mouth, and then she would slap herself.
He brought Pet to America. He brought Ellie to Paris. Who's he gonna bring home next? Do you really wanna be here to find out?
It was torture. Sanders wasn't helping, always looking at her sideways, pulling her aside to chat, to assure her that Jameson's intentions were noble and pure. Bullshit. Jameson and nobility didn't dine at the same table, and he had probably been born with a dirty heart, so purity was out of the question.
Kinda like me ...
She was so fu-cked. She just wondered when she would finally throw in the towel and really admit it to herself.