“We are going away somewhere,” he said, pushing her hands away and closing the bag.
“Excuse me?” Tate asked, shocked. He pulled her off the bed.
“I have to get back at you for that ridiculous dinner last week, and you owe me for the rent situation. You are coming with me, on a trip,” he said, moving her to stand against the edge of the bed.
“I am!?” she exclaimed. Her heart was suddenly ridiculously happy. If this was a punishment, she would take it without any questions. He wanted to go away with her somewhere. Surely, it couldn’t just be sex between them.
“Yes. We’re going away for the weekend,” Jameson said, holding the dress up against her. She grabbed it and he walked away, grabbing a box off his side table.
“Wait, for the whole weekend? I have to work,” Tate told him as he came back to her. He sat the box on the end of the bed and opened it, pulling out a very fine, sheer, black stocking.
“No, you don’t. I arranged for you to have this weekend off,” he informed her, laying the stocking across her forearm. It was quickly followed by the second one.
“You did!?”
Heart. Bursting.
“I set this up while I was in Los Angeles.”
A pair of very expensive looking red panties joined the stockings.
“Where are we going?” she asked. Jameson laughed, finally moving to stand in front of her.
“Now that is a secret. Go change in to everything. Put your hair up, nicely, and subtle makeup. No slutty-eyes today,” he told her, scooting her towards the bathroom.
Tate laughed. Normally she would argue with him, but she was so happy, she couldn’t bear to – that day, he could make her do whatever he wanted. So she swept her up in to an artfully messy French twist, and then took her time putting on her makeup. Cat’s-eye style eyeliner and nude eye shadow, with just powder foundation. She did, however, put on a heavy, matte, red lipstick. Hint-o-slut, like a naughty secretary. Perfect, Jameson would love it.
She didn’t know when he got the clothing, or how he had known just what size she wore. The red panties fit perfectly, the stockings felt like they came straight from Paris, and the dress was like a second skin. Went from her collar bone to her knees, and was very tight, with a thin belt around the waist. At first glance, it was almost demure, but when she turned around, she could see that there was virtually no back. Just open skin from her shoulders to her waist. She felt like she was wearing a woman’s version of a power suit. With her hair and makeup, she looked very professional. Very rich. She frowned. Almost like …, how she might have looked had she never left home. She shook her head. No, still too sexy. She wasn’t that girl. She would never be that girl.
“How did you know all the right sizes, Jameson?” Tate asked as she padded out of the bathroom.
But he wasn’t in the bedroom. A shoe box was sitting on the bed, with a couple of jewelry boxes next to it. She pulled out diamond earrings – those can’t be real – and a simple chain with a solitary diamond pendant. She put them all on, and when she opened the shoe box, her breath caught in her throat. Red bottoms. The most coveted of all shoes. She actually moaned out loud as she took the heels out, her eyes traveling over every inch of the leather. Sex with Jameson was pretty amazing, but even Louboutins had him beat. She slipped them onto her feet and moaned again.
“You like?” Jameson asked as he strode back in to the room.
“I want to fuck you, like, so hard right now,” she told him. He laughed.
“Maybe when we’re in the air. C’mon, baby girl, we have to go,” he said.
“How did you know all the right sizes to get?” she asked.
“I took one of your dresses and a pair of your ridiculous socks, gave them to a private shopper. The underwear was easy, I am very familiar with your ass,” he assured her, his eyes sweeping over her body.
“Well, it all fits like it was made for me. How do I look?” she asked.
“Absolutely stunning.”
Tate blushed. He had never said something like that before, she was always sexy, or filthy, or hot. Rarely ever beautiful. Never stunning.
“Was it expensive?” she asked in a soft voice. He raised an eyebrow.
“Very. Now stop questioning me. Let’s go,” he ordered, and marched out of the room.
Sanders was waiting at the front door, next to two black rolling bags. Tate could only assume that one was for her, probably already packed with similar clothing. Sanders’ eyes wandered over her, and she thought she might have seen a hint of a smile on his lips. She winked at him and pinched his butt while they walked out the door.
They didn’t talk as they drove to an airfield a little ways away. She was surprised they didn’t just go all the way in to Logan Airport. Jameson barely even looked up from his phone as they breezed through security and headed out onto the actual tarmac. Money talked. They approached a small, private plane, and her jaw dropped.
“Where exactly are we going?” she asked as Sanders climbed in to the plane ahead of them, loading up their bags.
“I told you, it’s a secret,” Jameson said, pressing a hand against her bare back and leaning close to her ear.
“Yeah, but …, a private plane? Do you own this plane?” she asked. He laughed.
“No, I chartered it for the weekend. I feel like if I ever buy a plane, I will have irreversibly slipped in to the land of douchey-rich-guy,” he told her. Tate laughed.
“I don’t know about that, might be nice to always have a plane on standby,” she said.
He kept his hand on her back while she climbed the stairs ahead of him. Sanders was already seated in the back of the plane, a laptop open in front of him. A flight attendant fiddled around in the back and a pilot smiled at them from the cockpit. Tate wasn’t sure where to sit, so she just plunked down in a chair close to the door. Jameson sat in the seat across from her, his eyes wandering over her face.
“You look excited,” he commented.
“I am. I’m holding out hope that we’re going to the Bahamas,” she told him. He threw his head back and laughed.
“Oh, Tatum. So optimistic. I’m going to tell you right now, it’s not the Bahamas. You should be very, very afraid,” he teased. She rolled her eyes.
“We’ll see.”
He told her the flight would take about two hours, but that’s all he would say. When they took off, they headed over land, so she knew they weren’t going East. Somewhere West – back to Los Angeles? No, that would be way longer than two hours. How long did it take to go to Chicago? Did Jameson even like Chicago? She had no clue where they were headed, and his words started to get to her. She got nervous.
She talked Sanders in to playing a couple rounds of gin rummy with her. Jameson produced a chess board, and beat her so quickly, it was embarrassing. Then he got Sanders to play, and that was actually interesting. They were both very good. She wondered if either had competed, and realized she knew almost nothing about either of their pasts. Jameson won, but it was a hard fought battle. Sanders made a noise in the back of his throat, and it took her about five minutes to realize it was a laugh.
This is going to be a hell of a weekend.
“Time to clip your wings, baby girl,” Jameson commented after the pilot announced their descent.
“Excuse me?” Tate asked as he dug something out of his bag. A long, black sash appeared in his hands.
“You said you trusted me,” he reminded her as he sat down next to her. She edged away from him.
“Yeah, with both eyes open. Not so much in the dark,” she joked, even though she was a little nervous.
“I’m not asking, Tatum,” he said in a stern voice.
The blindfold wrapped around her eyes, and she was left in darkness.
Tate had never really been in to the whole bondage scene. Sure, it was fun once in a while, but she liked to touch, and she liked to be touched, too much for it to be a real thing. And blindfolding was the worst. She had said it once, she was a ve
ry visual person. She wanted to see everything. Ang loved it and was forever trying wrap things around her head. It was usually a battle that he won only after copious amounts of liquor.
After the plane landed, she stayed sitting in her chair, as still as a statue, while people and the crew moved around her. At one point, someone leaned close, and she jerked away, but then there was a hand covering her own. Sanders’ voice assured her that everything would be just fine. She managed a smile and tried to grab onto his arm, her fingers trailing down his sleeve as he pulled away. Then Jameson was next to her, she recognized his cologne, and he pulled her out of her seat, led her down the aisle.
Her nerves abated a little when they had to figure out how to get down the stairs. She stumbled on the first step and refused to go down anymore while wearing the blindfold. Jameson simply picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, carried her all the way to a car. By the time she was ensconced in a back seat, she was laughing hysterically.
She made a mental checklist as they drove. They were somewhere that wasn’t any warmer or cooler than Boston, really. Wherever they had landed, Tate could smell foliage, a heavy forest. Something familiar. She figured they were still in the Northeast. Maybe he was taking her to some getaway in Maine. Or Vermont – she remembered Jameson saying he owned a farm in Vermont. Her outfit wasn’t very conducive to a weekend in a cabin, though. She hoped for a five-star hotel.
“I am going to take your blindfold off in a moment,” his voice was soft, after they had been driving for about an hour.
“Thank god,” she laughed.
“I want you to remember something, though,” Jameson said, at the same time the car took a slow, but sharp, right turn. Gravel crunched under the wheels.
“What?” she asked.
“You started these games,” he told her. Her nerves went through the roof at that statement.
This is not a romantic get away. This is something very, very bad.
The blindfold fell away and she blinked, trying to adjust to the light. The car they were in had tinted windows, making it hard to see outside. Jameson was sitting next to her, carefully folding the sash up and putting it in his jacket pocket. She scooted closer to her door, peering out the window. She didn’t get it. All she could see were trees. A narrow, gravel road. She pressed her forehead to the glass, tried to see ahead of the car. Glimpsed a house in the distance.
Oh. My. God.
“You didn’t,” Tate breathed, her heart stopping in her chest. She turned to look at Jameson, and he smirked at her.
“I told you, I always win,” he said, stretching an arm out along the seat behind her.
I am so. Fucking. Stupid. Goddamn Satan wins again.
She lost her damn mind. Screamed and slapped him across the face. He ducked the next blow and grabbed her wrist, but she was already throwing herself at him, grabbing his hair with her other hand and trying to kick at him. Her dress was too tight, she couldn’t really reach, and had to settle for kicking him in the shin.
They wrestled around for about a minute. Jameson could stop her whenever he wanted, she knew he was just letting her work out her frustrations – so she made the most of it, pulling his hair, pounding on his shoulders. When she scratched at his face, though, she apparently went too far. They were driving in an extended-back town car, and he slammed her onto the floor.
“This isn’t a fucking game!” she screamed at him. He pinned her wrists by her head.
“Calm the fuck down!” he shouted at her. She used every muscle she had, swung her weight around underneath him. He didn’t budge.
“How could you!? How could you!? You must really fucking hate me, Kane!” she shouted at him. His hand came down over her mouth, clamping it shut.
“Calm. Down. Take a deep breath. It’s not that bad. This was going to happen some day, I just sped up the process,” he said. She shook her head and cursed at him from behind his hand. He pressed down harder. “Shut the fuck up and calm down. You made me go to that ridiculous dinner. You kissed Sanders in front of me. You kissed Angier in front of me. You owe me.”
She forced herself to go still, and he finally removed his hand. She breathed heavily, staring up at him. He was very close to her, his hair messy and hanging over his forehead. One, long, red, scratch mark went from under his ear to just under his jaw. Not too noticeable. Pity. She took a deep breath.
“This wasn’t about you, you had no right to do this. I’m nothing to you, why would you do this?” she whispered. He frowned at her.
“You are not nothing to me,” Jameson replied. She shook her head.
“You’re always telling me I’m nothing. Reminding me, over and over again. Nothing, nothing, nothing. You’re the devil,” she said, moving her eyes away from his to stare at the roof of the car. She could feel tears at the back of her throat and she didn’t want him to have the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
“I will fully admit to being the devil, but I have never said you’re nothing. Look, if you can’t do this, if you can’t handle this, we will go right back to the airport and I will take you home. You never have to talk to me again. Just say the words. Admit you can’t handle this,” he told her. She took a deep, shuddering breath.
“Move,” she snapped, and he got off of her. Pulled her onto the seat next to him.
She fixed her hair. Dug out a mirror and fixed her lipstick, which had smeared all over her chin. She straightened out her dress, pulled the stockings back in to place, fidgeted with the jewelry. Jameson reached out and tried to place a hand over her own, but she pulled away from his touch as if he burned her, refusing to even look at him.
“Tate, we -,” he started, but she shook her head. The car was pulling up in front of a large, colonial style home. Not unlike Jameson’s home in Weston, though this one was on a much grander scale. More pillars, more bricks, more rooms. She knew it had more rooms, because she had been in it many times. She took a deep breath.
“You’ll never win, Kane. So how are we doing this? Is there an explanation, a back story? Are you my boyfriend? Am I your paid whore?” Tate asked.
“We ran in to each other in Boston. We’re friends,” he said in a slow voice. She cackled.
“Friends. We have never been friends, Jameson,” she snapped, listening as Sanders got out of the driver’s seat. Talked with someone who had come out the front door. Jameson put a finger under her chin and pulled her gaze to him. He looked angry.
“Baby girl, I might just be the best friend you’ve ever had,” he told her. She smiled sweetly at him at the same time Sanders pulled her door open.
“You better start smiling, Jameson. You know how my family loves a happy face,” she whispered, and then took Sanders’ hand, allowing him to pull her out of the car.
Her mother, sister, and some guy she didn’t recognize, all stood on the porch of the house she had grown up in, the house she had been living in when she had first met Jameson; the house she hadn’t been back to in seven years. She took a deep breath.
Show time.
*
Her mother actually cried. Like real tears, not drunk ones. Hugged her. Gushed over how beautiful Tatum was, how amazing she looked. Tate managed a smile, but she had a feeling that it looked more like a smirk, as that long ago phone call played through her mind. Her own mother, calling her a worthless whore, a good for nothing, a home wrecker. Telling her own daughter that she wasn’t allowed to come home, ever again.
“Ever again” apparently only lasts seven years.
The mystery man turned out to be Ellie’s husband. He was tall, dirty-blonde, and handsome. He smiled a lot and stared at Tate’s chest the whole time, even though there wasn’t even a hint of cleavage showing. Asshole rolled off of him and Tate moved away quickly.
She had often wondered what meeting up with her sister would be like; would she be forgiving? Would she be angry? She wasn’t necessarily either, she was just the same, old, hateful Ellie. Like no time had passed. Scowling at Tate like she w
as a nuisance, an interruption. Like she was lesser than. And when Jameson came down the line, shook Ellie’s hand while standing what could probably be considered too-close to Tatum, Ellie’s eyes looked downright murderous. Tate could read her thoughts, “you stole this from me, he was mine, and you ripped it all away.”
Funny that everyone had gotten so angry at her, but no one had seemed to care about Jameson’s part in it all.
They all went inside and she was told that her father was out of town, but he would be back the next day. Her mother claimed that he was “looking forward” to seeing Tate, but the woman could barely get the words out through her painted on smile. Tate just nodded, following everyone in to the kitchen.
Wine was poured and stories told. Jameson had called Mrs. Blanche O’Shea a couple days ago, explained how he had run in to Tate, how they had developed a friendship of sorts. He just wanted to help, could he bring Tatum down for a visit? Tate’s mom had been all over that idea, and got even more excited when he had invited himself along, as well. They were placed in rooms across from each other, neither of them Tate’s old bedroom. That room had long ago been broken down and turned in to a spare office.
Ellie’s husband, Robert, talked non-stop. How he had heard so much about Tate, but he had no idea that she was so good looking. Mrs. O’Shea only made beautiful children, it seemed. Most of his speeches were made to her chest, and at one point she caught Jameson scowling at them, so she indulged Robert. Arched her back, stretched her arms, leaned in to him. Made a big show of letting her hair down, shaking it out so it was wild and messy – a person fave of Jameson’s, she knew.
Ha, choke on it, Satan.
Ellie didn’t even notice, she was so busy kissing Jameson’s ass – Tate was just waiting for her to get down on her knees and make an offer to suck him off, right in front of everyone. It was ridiculous. In between flirting with Jameson, Ellie threw poison darts with her eyes at Tatum, who just rolled her own eyes and drank a little more. Finally, as if awkward small talk wasn’t bad enough, they all sat down to dinner.
Degradation Page 20
