Completion (The Kane Trilogy Book 4)

by Fantome, Stylo

  “You’ve never liked me. Why you had a second child is beyond me. You always treated me like I was second place. Like an after thought. Nothing I did was ever good enough for you, and for years, I beat myself up over that. But now I know, I could’ve been goddamn perfect, and it wouldn’t have been good enough for you. I own a successful business and I’m dating Jameson fucking Kane, and I’m still not good enough!” Tate’s voice started to raise.

  “I don’t have to sit here and listen to -,” Mr. O’Shea started to growl.

  “Oh, yes, you fucking do. If this is really us cutting ties, then I’m going out with a bang. Fuck you, Daddy. You never knew me, and you never will. You’ll never know the amazing things I’ve done, or am going to do. You’ll never be invited into any aspect of my life, and you’ll certainly never meet any children I may have. I’m very glad you came all this way for nothing. Fuck both of you, and have a super awesome life,” Tate snapped, then stood up.

  Her father yelled good riddance at her, but Tate ignored him. Jameson called out her name, but Tate ignored him, too. She kept walking out of the restaurant, trying to ignore everything around her.

  You’d think after all these years, becoming an orphan wouldn’t hurt so bad.

  7

  Tate had been right. When Jameson had found out that the O’Sheas were visiting Thailand, he’d thought it was possibly the perfect opportunity for some resolution between child and parent.

  He had apparently thought very wrong. He watched as Tate stormed out of the restaurant, then he sighed and pushed away from the table.

  “You know,” he started, pulling his wallet out of his pocket. “I’ve never understood. Why do you hate Tatum so much?”

  “A better question is why do you like her? She’s never getting a dime from me, if that’s your angle, Kane,” Mathias O’Shea warned him. Jameson barked out a laugh before tossing some bills onto the table, enough to cover their meals.

  “I hope that’s a joke. Tate was a broke nobody when I ran into her in Boston, you never even figured into it. I have more money than you, anyway. I’m very sorry to have dragged you here, this was a bad idea,” Jameson sighed.

  “I could have told you that, if you’d told me resolution was your intention. I saw those profane photos, her giving the finger to those cameras. Disgusting. You need to get her under control,” Mathias informed him.

  “You’re telling me how to handle Tate?” Jameson clarified.

  “Well, someone should handle her! Girl needs someone who can put her in her place,” Mathias said.

  “Tate is absolutely perfect the way she is; you’re the one who needs to be put in his place. Unfortunately, I just don’t care enough to do it. I brought you here to give Tate some closure. I hope she achieved it with that outburst. We won’t be seeing you again,” Jameson said, then started to turn away.

  “Was she pregnant?” Mathias barked out. Jameson froze. Turned back towards them.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve never been able to figure out why you stayed with her. I understand the need for a mistress, but galavanting around with some slut on your arm is unbecoming. Did you stay with her because you knocked her up?” Mathias demanded.

  Jameson was enraged. He could call Tate a slut. No one else.

  “You listen to me,” he said in a low voice as he leaned over the table. “Don’t you ever speak of her that way again. I plan on being with Tate for a very long time, which means I’m going to have to deal with the damage you caused. I’m sorry I tried to do this; clearly you are the lost cause.”

  “I don’t have to take this abuse. I was invited here, by you! I thought you wanted me to talk some sense into that girl, but clearly, that’s not possible. So I hope you two are very happy together, wallowing in your filthy relationship,” Mathias coughed out.

  Enough is enough.

  “I am going to bury you. Do you hear me? Kiss everything you own goodbye. This time tomorrow, I will own every business, every share, every holding you possess. You’ll be goddamn lucky if I let you keep your fucking house. And if I hear you say anything disparaging about Tate, ever again, I’ll take that, too. You never have to worry about her again, she is no longer your family. She’s my family now, and you aren’t worthy of knowing her.”

  Jameson didn’t wait for a response, just walked away. He could hear Mathias sputtering, could hear Mrs. O’Shea trying to calm her husband down. He ignored it all and took out his cell phone, calling Sanders to tell him to bring the car around.

  He found Tate just around the corner. She was leaning back against a wall, staring off down the street. Jameson moved to stand in front of her, but she didn’t look up at him.

  “Are you mad at me?” she asked. He barked out a laugh.

  “Why on earth would I be mad at you, Tate? For speaking your mind? I love it when you’re a bitch,” he reminded her. She started to laugh as well, but then he saw the tears.

  “I just don’t get it,” she squeaked out. “What did I ever do to him? I never did anything. I used to do everything they wanted. How can you hate someone you don’t even know?”

  “Because he’s miserable, baby girl, so he wants everyone around him to be miserable,” Jameson explained. She sniffled and wiped at her face.

  “Well, he does a damn good job of it, cause I feel pretty fucking miserable,” her voice finally cracked at the end, and the tears couldn’t be stopped. Jameson pulled her into a hug.

  “Don’t say that. You have me. You don’t need him. I’m sorry I did this,” he whispered, rubbing his hands up and down her back.

  “It’s not your fault. I just …, hate him, Jameson. I really, really hate him, and I don’t want to. I don’t even want to know him. I don’t want to be related to him,” she cried, locking her arms around his waist.

  “It’s done. You said what you wanted to say. You never have to see him again.”

  “I swear to god,” she groaned, finally catching her breath, “I’m changing my name when we get home. I don’t even want to be an O’Shea anymore. I don’t want that name. I don’t want that connection.”

  Jameson took a deep breath. Pressed his face into her hair.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  *

  Tate woke up in the middle of the night to discover she was alone. She thought about getting up and looking for Jameson, but she was too exhausted. Meeting with her family had been draining. Jameson had all but carried her up to the room, undressed her, then tucked them both into bed. She fell asleep with him wrapped around her, warm and comfortable.

  Figuring she was better off not knowing what nefarious deeds he was up to, Tate went back to sleep.

  In the morning, she woke up feeling somewhat refreshed. She’d never actually had an outburst like that with her father. Sure, she’d snapped at him, that one time Jameson had taken her home. But to actually say how she felt, say everything she’d ever sort of wanted to say; it felt good. She felt like she had finally closed a chapter. So when she got out of bed, she almost skipped into the living room.

  “I thought you were going to sleep the day away,” Jameson commented as he munched on toast at the breakfast table.

  “Thought about it,” she replied, kissing him on the cheek before sitting down across from him.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, not looking away from his newspaper. Tate shrugged and plucked some bacon off of his plate.

  “Surprisingly good,” she told him, stuffing the food into her mouth. “I mean, last night I kind of wanted to puke. But now, it’s like …, gone. You know?”

  “Good. I’m glad.”

  “Where were you last night? I woke up and you were gone,” Tate said, then reached over and stole a piece of toast.

  “I had stuff to do.”

  “At three in the morning?”

  She took another piece of bacon.

  “There is an entire spread over there,” Jameson pointed out, finally looking away from his paper. “Why do you always take my
food?”

  “Cause it tastes better when I steal it from you,” she teased.

  “God, I almost prefer you when you’re depressed and crying.”

  “Fucker.”

  “Always.”

  “So where were you?” Tate tried again, polishing off all his bacon.

  “I told you, I had some business. It was states side, hence the early hour,” Jameson answered cryptically. Tate narrowed her eyes and grabbed a fork, began picking at his scrambled eggs.

  “What kind of business?” she asked suspiciously. Something about his answers made her nervous. He was keeping something from her.

  “Bad business,” he answered, then stood up. He picked up his plate and sat it in front of her.

  “Oh god. Just tell me now, am I being sold into slavery?” Tate groaned. He chuckled.

  “No. Just some trash that needed to be taken care of, Liebe. Nothing for you to worry about,” he assured her, then kissed her on the head before going into the bedroom.

  Hmmm. Still don’t trust him.

  Tate finished breakfast and was fully prepared to rape him in the shower, but she was informed that she needed to get ready. They were meeting an acquaintance of his for doubles tennis. Tennis. Tate actually laughed.

  “Is this a joke?”

  “Nope. Tell Angier he needs to be ready in an hour.”

  “Angier won’t even know which end of the racket to hold.”

  “Good thing he’s on your team, then.”

  Tate hadn’t played tennis since high school. Ang had never played tennis. When she woke him up and told him what they’d be doing, he looked at her like she was crazy, but she promised that it would be fun. She was going to wear her Serena Williams-esque shorts, so at least his view would be nice during the game.

  “Does Jameson like tennis?” Ang asked as she brought him coffee in bed.

  “I’ve never even seen him play tennis,” she replied.

  It took some coaxing, but eventually Ang got out of bed and put on some shorts and a t-shirt. Tate ruffled his hair and he piggy-backed her all the way to her suite. Jameson was waiting inside, also in shorts and a t-shirt, a black hat shoved low over his eyes. He glared at them as they galloped around the room, but didn’t say anything. Tate got changed into her gear, then they headed out.

  “So why are we playing tennis?” she asked, once they were in the car. She and Ang sat in the back, while Jameson rode up front with Sanders.

  “I ran into an old friend of mine. She invited us to play, I thought it would be fun,” was his answer.

  Ooohhh, this “acquaintance” is female, I get it now.

  “Is this ‘she’ hot?” Tate asked.

  “Exceedingly.”

  “Barf. Sandy,” she decided to change the subject. “Do you play tennis?”

  “Not if I can avoid it.”

  “Are you going to play with us today?”

  “God, no.”

  They pulled up to a swanky resort and filed inside. Sanders disappeared into the lounge while Jameson led the rest of them to the tennis courts. Tate was laughing at a story Ang was telling when someone caught her eye.

  There was a woman a couple feet away from them. She was ridiculously tall, probably five-foot-ten, or eleven – in flat sneakers. She was wearing a white pleated tennis skirt, so short it was almost pointless, and a skin tight white tank top. Her shiny black hair had been slicked back into a tight ponytail, and she wore a white visor. All the white set off her deep tan to perfection. But that didn’t bother Tate.

  No, the way the woman draped herself all over Jameson and loudly kissed his cheek, that bothered Tate.

  “Angier, Tatum, this is Isadora,” Jameson introduced the woman, all while yanking away from her. Tate smiled.

  Good boy.

  “Ah, hello, I am so pleased to finally meet you!” the woman gushed in a thick accent. Tate couldn’t quite place it, it almost sounded Spanish, but not quite. The woman’s voice was also thick and heavy, coming from the back of her throat.

  “Oh, thank you, nice to meet you, too. Thank you for inviting us,” Tate said quickly, moving to shake Isadora’s hand. The other woman ignored it and leaned down, kissing Tate heavily on the cheek. Tate had the strange feeling that she was being hit on.

  “But of course, I had to. I had to meet the woman that tamed our ferocious Kane,” Isadora giggled, leaning into Jameson and pressing a hand to his chest.

  What the hell is going on? Is he trying to orchestrate a threesome? I’m not fucking this giraffe.

  “Yeah, well, he is so …,” Tate struggled to maintain her smile, “ferocious, I suppose. How do you two know each other?”

  “He didn’t tell you?” Isadora laughed, an almost musical sound, octaves descending the scale. Tate and Ang glanced at each other. He looked just as confused as Tate felt.

  “I didn’t realize a conversation was necessary to have tennis,” Jameson snapped, then walked away from them.

  “Ah. I see you haven’t quite tamed him yet,” Isadora teased, winking at Tate.

  I don’t appreciate all this winking and giggling and breathing. Not from someone that pretty.

  “Did you two used to date?” Tate asked, though she was pretty sure she already knew the answer.

  “Yes. It seems like forever ago,” Isadora sighed, looking longingly after Jameson. “He has a vacation home in Rio, that is where I’m from. I am a singer. It was a whirlwind, only a month or so, but Kane leaves a lasting impression, doesn’t he?”

  “He certainly leaves something, that’s for sure,” Tate agreed.

  They finally followed after Jameson, to a court that Isadora had booked for all of them. Tate all but shoved Ang into the overly-sexified Brazilian, then cornered Jameson by a bench. He was uncovering his racket and swinging it through the air.

  “Alright, let’s get it over with so we can play,” he sighed, obviously ready for her indignation.

  “You invited me to play tennis with a woman you used to fuck. With a woman who clearly still wants to be fucking you,” Tate laid it all out.

  “To be fair, she wants to fuck you, too,” Jameson corrected her.

  “Oh, excuse me, that totally changes things. Hold my shorts while I go initiate a sixty-nine.”

  “Don’t make promises you won’t keep.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me? I like to be mentally prepared when I have to interact with one of your groupies,” Tate groaned, pulling out her racket as well.

  “Hey, I have to interact with Angier all the time. You can suck it up for one hour, baby girl,” Jameson pointed out. She snorted.

  “That’s one hour too long.”

  “I actually did it for him,” Jameson said, his voice quiet and confidential.

  “Huh?”

  “She’s lonely here. Desperate. And I know Angier will fuck anything with a pulse. Seemed win-win,” he explained.

  “You’re such a sweetheart,” Tate said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. He swung the racket against her ass, causing her to yelp.

  “Don’t piss me off. We’ll play, they’ll flirt, we’ll get drinks, and hopefully we can all end the day having sex,” Jameson told her.

  “It almost sounds fun, when you put it that way.”

  The Brazilian made sexy eyes at Ang for a while, but it was obvious that Jameson was her ultimate goal. As they all took their sides of the court, Tate glared as the other woman flirted and touched Jameson. Leaned against him. Breathed on him.

  “What are we doing here?” Ang asked in a low voice.

  “That chicks wants to fuck Jameson. He’s trying to pawn her off on you. Be sexy,” Tate advised him.

  “Bitch, I was born sexy.”

  Tate had to agree. Ang was wearing a pair of old fashioned looking Ray Bans, and his hair was cropped extremely short on the sides, but long and wild on top. There was a touch of James Dean about him; something 1950’s. His bad boy smile was firmly in place, and though Isadora was focusing on Jameson, she
threw a couple flirty glances Ang’s way.

  “Well, sexy it up some more, get her attention. I don’t want to spend the rest of the day trying to talk Jameson out of an orgy,” Tate hissed.

  “We could end up in an orgy!?”

  “Angier, don’t make me serve the ball into the back of your head.”

  Tate was rusty – tennis had never really been her sport. She could knock the ball back and forth, but she wasn’t great. Ang couldn’t play for shit, it was comical watching him lope up and down the court. They both laughed a lot, collapsing into giggle fits enough times to earn a snap from Jameson.

  Isadora played the game beautifully and elegantly, like Tate knew she would, and of course Jameson was good at it. If there was something Jameson wasn’t good at it, he simply didn’t do it, so Tate had figured he’d do well at tennis. Together with the Brazilian bombshell, they dominated the game. Tate couldn’t quite figure out why they didn’t switch, place a bad player with a good player, to at least even the odds.

  But it quickly became apparent that Isadora didn’t want to even the odds. She cooed in Jameson’s ear, wiggled her ass in his face. Tate spent half the game making puking faces at him, which just earned her wolf grins and him feeding into the flirtation.

  “I don’t think she’s interested in my sexy,” Ang informed Tate, looking over his glasses as Isadora bent straight at the waist, keeping her knees locked while she tied her shoelaces. Jameson stood directly behind her, waving his racket at them.

  Tate gave him the finger.

  “Yeah, we’re not here to play tennis. She invited us here so she could become fuck buddies,” Tate grumbled.

  “Wouldn’t be all bad. She’s kinda hot,” Ang pointed out. Tate snorted.

  “I didn’t come all the way to Hong Kong to have an orgy with Jameson’s ex girlfiend.”

  “Does this kind of thing happen a lot?”

  “Yes. We went to the Met gala last fall, and god, what a nightmare. There was this model, some young blonde thing that Jameson had slept with like a million years ago. Followed him around all night. I don’t want to go through that again,” Tate told him.

  “What are you going to do about it?” Ang asked.

  “Whore you out.”