The Kane Series Boxset

by Stylo Fantome

  “Did you think about me?” Jameson's voice cut through the room.

  “Excuse me?” she asked, letting go of her leg and propping herself up with her hands. He wasn't facing her, his eyes on the flames.

  “While you were fucking Ang, did you think of me. You said you were lonely, that you had been thinking about me all weekend. When he was fucking you, were you thinking of me?” Jameson asked, finally turning to look at her.

  Tate stared back, taking a deep breath. She didn't want to tell him, because the answer made her feel bad. Made her feel like a traitor. The other reason she had felt so bad all weekend. But he just kept staring at her, his eyes boring into her soul.

  “Yes,” she whispered. He smiled and leaned forward, over his arm rest.

  “So while this guy, Angier, was inside of you, you were imagining it was me, weren't you?” he asked her. Tortured her.

  “Yes.”

  Usually, Ang was so amazing, he was able to obliterate any other person from her mind. She could barely think straight, let alone think of another man. But Jameson had her all messed up. He'd gotten under her skin and was running rampant through her system. It wasn't a matter of one being better in bed than the other – they were both spectacular. But only one of them captured her mind.

  And it wasn't her best friend.

  “Good. New rule. Anytime you fuck someone else, you picture me. Understood?” Jameson demanded.

  “I don't think that even needs to be a rule; it'll just happen on its own,” Tate laughed. He gave one more tight lipped smile and leaned back in his chair.

  “Jesus christ, that we even need these kinds of rules, really says something about us,” he mumbled.

  “I think they're a good idea,” she told him. He laughed, and it was an evil sound. It sent shivers down her spine.

  “You would think that, Tate, because you're a whore,” he stated.

  Ah, now we're getting somewhere.

  “Maybe. But at least I'm a responsible one,” she teased.

  “That's an oxymoron,” he told her.

  “You're an oxymoron,” she taunted him, laughing.

  “That makes no sense.”

  “You make no sense.”

  “Stop it, Tatum.

  “You stop -,”

  “Don't make me come over there. I'm not in a good mood,” Jameson warned her.

  “Maybe if you come over here, I could cheer you up,” she offered.

  “Maybe I don't want to cheer up. Maybe I want to be in a bad mood,” he countered. She rolled her eyes.

  “You sound like a little kid who wants to bitch just to bitch,” she told him. His head snapped towards her.

  “What the fuck did you just say?”

  “I think you heard me,” she said with a smile. He stood up.

  “I think you want to get hurt,” he replied, moving to stand over her. She leaned back on her elbows, smiling up at him.

  “I live to make you happy,” she told him, sighing melodramatically. He squatted down next to her.

  “Are you ever scared of me?” he asked, his voice soft. Tate shook her head.

  “No, not even a little,” she assured him.

  “Sometimes I wonder if maybe you should be,” he added.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because, I have the strangest feelings about you. Like I want to take you everywhere and have you by my side, but I also want to hold you down. Make you beg and cry,” he told her. She kept her eyes focused on his, didn't move a muscle.

  “Sounds like a pretty good plan to me,” she whispered. He reached out and traced a finger down her leg, from the hem of her underwear to her knee, then back up again. His eyes watched his finger.

  “How did I find you?” It was obvious that he was thinking out loud.

  “That's pretty easy – you made me,” she responded. Jameson's eyes cut to hers, flashing blue in the shadowy room.

  “I didn't know that's what I was doing, at the time,” he told her, then started digging his nails into her thigh, dragging them up her skin. She hissed.

  “Me, neither. Maybe we found each other,” she breathed, letting out a sigh when he lifted his hand. He moved back down to the same spot and repeated the motion. She hummed and let her head drop back, closing her eyes.

  “Sometimes I still can't believe you're here, Tate. That it's really you. Tatum O'Shea. Mathias O'Shea's daughter; Ellie's little sister,” he said, moving his hand to her other leg.

  “I haven't been any of those things in a long time, maybe that's why it still feels so weird to you,” she suggested.

  “If you aren't those things, then what are you?” he asked. She thought for a second.

  “Just Tate. Bartender. Party girl. Ang's friend,” she prattled off things that came to mind when she thought of herself.

  “Slut?” Jameson whispered. She opened her eyes.

  “Oh yes. Most definitely that,” she sighed. His nails moved to her throat, so she kept her head back.

  “Pain,” he added through clenched teeth. She gave a small nod as he dragged a sharp nail from underneath her ear down to her collar bone.

  “Maybe just sex, period. Kinda encompasses it all,” she suggested.

  “Very thoughtful of you.”

  “I like it. Tatum 'Sex' O'Shea. Why not,” she laughed. Suddenly his hand was tight around her throat, squeezing. She rolled her eyes to look at him. He was staring at her neck.

  “Sounds good to me. We could -,” he started, but he was interrupted. The library door swung open. Tate didn't have to look to know it was Sanders. It was strange - he walked in and out of rooms without knocking, all the time, but he never seemed intrusive. She hardly even noticed him. She kept staring at Jameson, who gripped her neck even tighter. She took shallow breaths through her nose.

  “Tokyo, sir. The eight o'clock meetings,” Sanders' even voice carried over the room. Jameson sighed and finally looked her in the eye. She smiled at him.

  “Gotta go, baby girl. No rest for the wicked,” he told her, before letting her go. He leaned in quick and kissed her throat before getting to his feet.

  “Gonna be a while?” she asked. He nodded.

  “Probably. You know where the kitchen is, or you can go up to my room. If you need anything, just ask Sanders,” Jameson instructed, looking back and forth between the two of them. Tate gave him the biggest smile she could manage. Sanders stared at the wall.

  “Got it. Go make my money,” she told Jameson. He snorted.

  “That's not even funny.”

  He strode out of the room and Tate stayed as she was for a moment, looking after him. Then she sighed and sat all the way up. Sanders was still standing in the room, still staring at a wall. She looked him over.

  “Got a hot date tonight, Sandy?” she asked. She loved to tease him. She would crack him some day.

  “No, Ms. O'Shea,” was all he said.

  “You look awfully nice tonight. New suit?” she pressed. He cleared his throat.

  “No, Ms. O'Shea.”

  “Are you ever going to call me Tate, like I asked you to?”

  “Probably not, Ms. O'Shea.”

  She had an idea. She got the impression that Sanders and Jameson virtually never left the house, unless it was to go to Jameson's office. Not right. Jameson hadn't ever asked to go back to her place, or taken her anywhere fancy. Tate loved every second she spent alone with him, but she didn't want to be someone's dirty laundry, either.

  “Do you have any newspapers, Sandy?” she asked, climbing to her feet.

  “Several. Which would you prefer, New York Times? LA Times?” he listed them off.

  “Just Boston papers, any you got. And any weekly periodicals you have,” she added, running her hands over her legs to shake off any carpet dust. She was standing in front of Sanders only wearing knee high socks, boy-briefs style underwear, and a tight white tank top. She should probably feel bad, she didn't like to make people feel uncomfortable – but if Sanders was uncomfortabl
e, he didn't show it. If anything, he looked bored.

  “Is that it?” he asked.

  “Just that. Hurry back, it gets lonely in here,” she teased him. He rolled his eyes and headed out of the library. She laughed and then went over to the fireplace, determined to figure out how to turn it down.

  JAMESON STRODE BACK into his library just over two hours later, and was in for a little shock. The fire was much smaller, and the over head lights were turned on – he almost never used them, himself. Tate was sitting cross legged in the middle of his floor, surrounded by newspapers and clippings. She was cutting something out of one of the papers, the tip of her tongue visible at the corner of her mouth.

  Almost cute.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, striding through the mess of papers.

  She looked up at him and broke into a big smile. He had to steel himself against it. If he wasn't careful, he was going to get too comfortable with her, and Jameson tried to make it a habit to never get too comfortable.

  “Coupon clipping!” Tate responded in an excited voice.

  “Excuse me?”

  “When I first met Ang,” she started. He had never met the man, but Jameson already kind of hated her best friend. “I was really desperate for money. My jobs sucked, I was a shitty waitress. Scraping the bottom of the barrel. Ang showed me how far coupons can get you. He goes on Groupon all the time, too. We get into places free, get all kinds of free food, and free swag. It's pretty awesome.”

  “'Awesome.' Why are you doing that here, now?” Jameson pressed. She smiled up at him again, only this time it was a devilish smile. That was the smile he liked, the one he wanted to slap off her face.

  “Because I'm taking you out on the city, mister. You and Sanders. We're gonna go out, and you're gonna live like a real urban-ite for a day,” she informed him. He laughed.

  “There is no fucking way I am ever fucking doing that, so get that out of your fucking mind, right fucking now,” he suggested. She shook her head.

  “Oh, you're going to do it, and afterwards we're going to a dinner party. I had already agreed to go to dinner at a friend's house. You can come with me,” she told him. He scowled.

  “And if I don't go?” he asked. Tate shrugged.

  “Not that big of a deal. We can just officially declare you the king of all pussies. And not in the good way. You don't have to go, I can go as Ang's date,” she assured him.

  “I guess I'm going to a fucking dinner on the bad side of Boston. You get two hours, no more,” he told her. She laughed.

  “You hear that Sandy, you're getting out of here!” she called out. Jameson hadn't even realized the other man was in the room – he was in for another shock. Sanders was behind the desk, snipping and cutting away at a newspaper, as well.

  “Sounds exhilarating. If no one requires my services anymore, I'm going to get back to work,” Sanders said, getting up from his seat. Jameson nodded.

  “We're not doing early tomorrow, so sleep in as late as you want,” he told him. Sanders nodded, and walked forwards. Tate held up her hand, palm facing backwards.

  “Up top, Sandy,” she said, her eyes never leaving the paper she was scanning. Sanders high fived her and then continued out of the room. Jameson stared after him.

  What just happened?

  “I think he likes you,” he mumbled. Tate shrugged.

  “Most people do. I'm pretty fuckin' awesome,” she told him. He burst out laughing and walked over to her, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her to her feet.

  “Yes, but usually, Sanders doesn't like anybody,” Jameson said, pulling the scissors out of her hand and tugging her away from the sea of newspapers.

  “But I wasn't done. What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Oh, you're done. Time for good girls to go upstairs and show me how bad they can be,” Jameson told her.

  “I don't think there's very much that's good about me anymore,” she laughed, following him out of the room.

  “I think you have no idea what bad really is – you almost have too much good,” he replied.

  “I don't think -,”

  “Stop arguing, or I'll make you crawl up the stairs.”

  Tate was silent for about two seconds, then turned into a prosecuting attorney, arguing all the points on how she couldn't possibly be good. Jameson stopped moving, smiling at her back as she started up the stairs. Then he reached forward and grabbed her ankle, pulling her leg out from underneath her. She went to her knees, hands flying out to catch herself.

  “Shit!” she cursed. He moved a few steps ahead of her, then squatted down and fisted his hand in her hair.

  “Why are you always set on defying me, baby girl?” he asked, his voice low as he pulled her hair, forcing her head up towards his own. She looked up at him, a smile playing on the edge of her lips.

  “Because it's always so much fun.”

  “You are such a mindfuck, Tate. Something is wrong with you, that you want to be treated like this, that you like being a whore,” he hissed at her. She chuckled low in her throat.

  “Hmmm, but really, what does all that say about you? That you want to treat someone like this? That you want to be with a whore?” she replied.

  “I've made peace with my desires.”

  “Like you said, we're the same animal. You had a bad weekend. Let's go upstairs, and you can take it out on me,” she whispered. He tugged harder on her hair and she raised up onto her knees.

  “Sounds like that works out more in your favor, than mine,” he pointed out. She laughed, reaching out to scratch her nails down his arm.

  “Baby, all I do is give you favors. You should feel blessed, to have such an accomodating whore,” she purred. He snorted and shoved her forward, forcing her back onto her hands.

  “Burdened is more like it. Now fucking crawl.”

  And she did, all the way to his bedroom.

  Maybe I should keep this one ...

  ~7~

  A week later, Tate rushed around her apartment, a toothbrush sticking out of her mouth. She grabbed various articles of clothing, shoving them into an oversized purse. She had stayed at Jameson's for most of the last week – even gone back to his place after her shifts at the bar – and she didn't know how this week was going to go, but she wanted enough clothing to cover all her bases. She snorted at that thought.

  Not that I wear much clothing.

  It was August in Boston, which meant hot and humid – but Jameson insisted on keeping the house at near boiling temperatures. She pretty much lived in her underwear, tank tops, and socks when she was there. If it bothered Sanders, he didn't show it, so she didn't think twice about doing it.

  Tate also liked to think that she and Sanders were developing a friendship of sorts. The kind where only one friend talks, and the other just stares and says the bare minimum. Friendship-ish.

  That morning, she had managed to drag them into downtown Boston to play at being poor with her. She got them free lunch, took them through a Sunday market, forced Sanders to try on ridiculous clothing. Jameson wasn't as easy, he simply refused to do anything.

  But he went along with her, and even laughed when she held Sanders' hand and told a clerk that he had just proposed, so could they, please, join in on the champagne brunch the store was throwing for newly-engaged people? Jameson laughed even harder when she really sold the act by planting a big kiss on Sanders' mouth – tongue and everything. The really shocking part was Sanders kissing her back. Cheeky man.

  But then Jameson got called into work; a client was having some sort of financial crisis. Tate let him go, but only after making him promise to pick her up at six o'clock. He had said he would go to her dinner, and she was holding him to it.

  Tate tried not to think of it as a dinner date with friends – she thought of it as an elaborate form of torture, a game; seeing how far she could push him. Also, a tiny part of her had wanted to see if he'd actually go through with it. They spent so much time at his place, only venturing o
ut on occasion for dinner, that she was beginning to think he was hiding her away. It was strange – she didn't really mind being someone's whore, but she hated the thought of being someone's dirty secret.

  She dropped her toothbrush into the sink and spit out the excess toothpaste foam. Water, gargle, spit, and she was good to go. She threw on a jacket and headed for the front door, when there was suddenly a loud banging. She paused, but the banging didn't. A voice with a heavy Boston accent started shouting.

  “I know yuh in there! Open the doo-or!”

  Landlord.

  Tate cursed under her breath and began backing away. She noticed a note stuck to the fridge - “Avoid front door – I would be mad you haven't paid rent yet, but can't pay either. Love ya, bitch! Rus.” Tate swallowed a groan and headed for her bedroom.

  “Tatum! I know yuh in there! You owe me money! I want it, now!” the landlord yelled. She hurried to her window and was fighting with it to go up when her cell phone rang. With an aggravated sigh, she pulled it out and answered it.

  “I'm at the curb, where are you?” Jameson's voice demanded.

  “Uh, still in here,” she answered in a hushed voice. “Look, pull around to the back alley. I'll meet you out there.”

  “Back alley? And why the fuck are you whispering?”

  She rolled her eyes and climbed out onto the fire escape.

  “Just fucking meet me back here!” she hissed at him and then hung up the phone.

  By the time she was dropping to the ground, Sanders was pulling the car up next to her. Tate practically fell into the backseat, the strap of her jumbo-sized bag tangling around her legs. She laughed, breathless, as the car started rolling again.

  “Okay, first of all, never hang up on me again. Second of all, what the fuck is going on?” Jameson asked. She stretched a leg over his lap, pulling at the strap.

  “My landlord was at the door,” she was still laughing, pulling her foot towards her chest, the strap pulling tight around her ankle.

  “Do you often run from him?”