But even if she'd had her stuff, it wasn't like Tate could just fly home. He was very clever, Mr. Kane. This wasn't like his party, she couldn't just drive off in a drunken rage. She was stuck in another country. Her Spanish wasn't very good, and even if she could make it to the airport, she was pretty positive she couldn't afford a last minute, one-way ticket to Boston.
Sanders had to have known how she would react, so it was safe to assume he wouldn't just buy her a plane ticket at the first sign of tears. No, he had probably prepared himself for this little episode. It was also probably the reason why no one had come looking for her. Tate had stormed away from the boat around eleven that morning. It was after five o'clock at night, the sun was beginning to go down.
She was exhausted. She didn't want to fight with anyone. She didn't want to feel so upset anymore, so emotionally charged all the time. In a way, the whole situation reminded her of the time Jameson tricked her into visiting her parents. Tate had hated it at the time, had hated him. But in the end, it had been a huge act of closure for her. Maybe that's what this trip could be, closure. She'd been a bundle of nerves, wondering and worrying about Jameson. Now that problem was solved.
She could move on; she could get on with her life.
By the time she found her way back to the marina, the sun had almost completely set. There was just a burnt orange line on the horizon, surrounded by a heavy blue. It suited her mood. She wandered down a couple docks before she found the right one, and then made her way towards his boat.
Tate had to admit, she was very impressed. It wasn't the largest boat in the harbor, but it was one of the sleeker looking ones. The exterior of the boat was white – of course – with black lining and piping. The boat on the other side of the sleeve was a sharp looking speed boat, obviously a mate to the larger yacht, as it was done in the same style and colors.
She was just standing there, staring up at his boat, when she heard a whistle. Tate turned in a circle, looking for the source, when it came again. She finally spotted it. A man, leaning over the rail of a ridiculously huge yacht, was whistling at her. She slowly made her way down to him. She could hear that some sort of huge party was going on inside the boat.
“Are you lost?” the man asked in a heavy British accent. Tate shook her head.
“No, I just found it,” she assured him, gesturing back to Jameson's boat. The guy whistled again.
“A guest of Mr. Kane's! Outstanding. I haven't had the pleasure of meeting him personally, yet. Would you care to come on board for a drink? We're having a pre-pre-pre-New Year's party,” he laughed.
Tate laughed as well, and was about to decline, when she stopped herself. Why couldn't she say yes? It wasn't like she really wanted to be on Jameson's boat. And she hadn't been to a party, a real party, in forever.
It's not like there's somewhere else I'd rather be.
“Why not? Sounds like fun.”
*
Sanders was practically going out of his mind with worry. He wasn't saying anything, but Jameson could tell. The younger man would fidget. Adjust his tie, adjust a vase, adjust a chair. Adjust, adjust, adjust. Pace from one end of the boat to the other. Adjust some more stuff. When Jameson couldn't take it anymore, he went to go get her.
I have never chased after a woman in my life, and now it feels like I spend most of my time chasing after Tatum O'Shea …
But she was worth it. Jameson could admit that, now.
The last time he had seen her, Tate had been in the hospital, looking damaged and broken. Something he had smashed on the ground under his foot. So sad. Seeing her walking down the dock, smiling, laughing, looking almost like her old self, had been wonderful. He wasn't prone to sentimentality or romanticism, but she was like sunshine. And Jameson's life was very dark.
Of course, the sunshine hadn't lasted long. Tate had been very upset when she realized he was behind everything. He had expected that, of course. She had run away, and he had expected that, too. But without any money or her passport, he hadn't expected her to be gone for so long. It was after nine o'clock at night. It was dark out. Where in the hell could she have gone? What could she be doing?
Jameson stood between his two boats for a few moments, contemplating where she would go. Once upon a time, she had been a very smooth operator. She was looking much more like a Stepford-wife now, but Tate might just still have it in her to talk her way into a free hotel room.
But then something else got his attention. A boat a couple sleeves down from his own was having a party. A very loud, raucous one, by the sounds of it. On a hunch, Jameson made his way down to it. No one was guarding the stairs that led to the plank, so he made his way inside.
On board, the deck was covered in wall to wall people. He found her on the far side, leaning against a railing. She wasn't alone. She was talking, laughing, with some man. He looked vaguely familiar. Jameson scowled. He hadn't seen her smile in so long, and the first time he really got to see it again, she was giving it away to someone else. He walked up slowly, so he was right behind her. She didn't say anything, but he knew that she was aware of him.
“Oh, looks like he found you!” the man laughed. Tate laughed as well, but still didn't look behind her.
“I knew he would. He always does,” she teased, but Jameson could hear the edge under her voice. He almost laughed as well.
Better remember that, baby girl.
“And you are?” Jameson asked, staring at the other man.
“Bill. Bill Matthews,” the man said, holding out a hand. Jameson shook it.
“Your boat?” he asked. Bill nodded.
“Yes, yes. We haven't met, but I've heard of you, Mr. Kane. Glad to finally meet you,” he said. Jameson managed a smile.
“Thank you. Now if you'll excuse us, I'm sure Tatum would like some rest. She's had a long day,” Jameson explained, reaching out and gripping her elbow. She jumped at his touch, but didn't pull away. Bill looked surprised.
“Oh, sorry, didn't mean to keep her from you. I -,” he started, but Jameson just walked away, pulling Tate along beside him.
“I see your manners haven't improved,” she growled at him.
“Why would they have?”
When they were back on the dock, she yanked her arm free and surged ahead of him. He lengthened his stride to keep up with her. She was still refusing to look at him, but he could tell that something was different. She had made some sort of peace with his little ploy. He figured he was safe, at least for the night. She wasn't going to run away quite yet.
“So what, I'm a prisoner, now? I have to stay locked in your stupid boat?” Tate snarled as they walked up behind his yacht.
“Of course not. But Sanders has been worried. I had to find you, or he would've driven me insane,” Jameson explained.
She stomped down the plank. He had thought maybe she would comment on his boat, on the style or size, but Tate didn't say anything. She continued moving, striding across the deck. Sanders was coming out at the same time, and the relief was obvious on his face. Tate steamed right up to him.
“I'm very happy to see you. I was so worried that -,” he started, when she slapped him across the face.
Jameson was shocked, but he didn't hesitate. He immediately moved between them, grabbing her by the wrist in case she tried to swing again. Sanders looked completely bewildered. He had a hand pressed to his cheek, where she had hit him, and his eyes were huge as he stared at her. Tate glared right back at him, struggling against Jameson's grip.
“You're a traitor! You told me not to make you choose, but it's kinda obvious you already had your choice made! I never even stood a chance! Traitor!” she yelled at Sanders. His jaw dropped open.
“Hey!” Jameson barked, and everyone's attention snapped to him. He forced Tate backwards, out of reach of Sanders. “None of this was his fault. I asked him to help me. Apologize to him, now,” Jameson growled, glaring down at her.
She burst out laughing, and he was surprised.
So
meone's gotten braver since I saw her last.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” she cackled. Jameson nodded.
“You can hit me all you want, but if you touch him again, I'll throw you off this fucking boat,” he warned her. Her laughter escalated for a moment.
“Ooohhh, what a threat, being thrown off a boat I don't even want to be on,” she hissed.
Before Jameson could respond, Sanders whirled around and left the deck. Disappeared inside, walking so fast, he was basically jogging. Jameson could see the shock on Tate's face, and then it fell away. Replaced by sadness. Guilt. He let go of her wrist.
“Whatever kind of relationship you think you have with Sanders, you should remember, I am practically his father. The only family he has got anymore, so of course he is going to help me when I need it,” Jameson warned her. Her bottom lip trembled, and she continued staring at the door Sanders had gone through. “But you should also know that Sanders would never do anything to hurt you, even if it meant disappointing me. If he brought you here, even under false pretenses, it's because he thought it was for your own good.”
Tate still refused to look at him. She strode towards the doorway, ignoring his existence. He let her go. There were only so many rooms on the boat, she would find her own.
Jameson sighed and sat down heavily in a cushioned deck chair. Things hadn't gone as badly as they could have, but they sure as shit hadn't gone well, either. Sanders had warned him that her feelings hadn't changed, that she was trying very hard to hate him.
It didn't matter to him. Two months was a long time. During the short amount of time they'd spent together, Jameson had grown ridiculously attached to the stupid girl. All his preaching and ranting and warning, telling her repeatedly that she should never expect him to be anything more than he was – he should've listened to himself once in a while.
While he had been so busy trying to warn her away, he hadn't even noticed himself falling into her. Now Jameson couldn't tell where she began and he ended. The thought of Tate dying, it hurt his heart. Being away from her for two months, not allowing himself any contact with her …, it had been difficult. Jameson was forceful and impulsive by nature – not tracking her down and simply demanding that she forgive him, demand that they go back to the way they were; it had all been hard.
He hadn't seen her in two months, but the moment he had seen Tate walking towards him, it was like no time had passed. Suddenly, he was right where he needed to be, and any questions he'd had about what he was doing, any doubts he'd had, flew out the window. Good or bad, wrong or right, Jameson needed Tate. He wasn't exactly sure when it had happened, but it had happened, all the same. No point in denying it.
Now, all he had to do was convince her that she needed him, as well.
No one ever said hell was an easy place to live.
*
Around two in the morning, Tate couldn't take it anymore. She threw back the covers. Her room was nice, with a queen size bed, but even better – it was one of the furthest rooms from Jameson's. It was the first one she had looked in, when she'd huffed off to go to bed.
But she hadn't been able to fall asleep. Guilt was eating her alive. She couldn't believe she had hit Sanders. She felt like she had hit her own child. She climbed out of bed and didn't bother to put on any pants, just tip toed out into the hallway in her tank top and underwear. It wasn't like it was something Jameson or Sanders hadn't seen before; if anything, it was actually like getting back to normal.
Tate had figured the big door at the end of the hall, the one that would lead to a room directly under the bow, was Jameson's quarters. She tried the room next to hers, but it was empty. She tried the room across the hall next. Turned the knob as slowly as possible, then pushed the door open an inch. Tried to peer inside to see if there was a lump on the bed.
The sound hit her first. She couldn't tell what it was for a moment, then it hit her. Right across the face. Someone was crying. Tate slid into the room and quietly shut the door behind her. Didn't even think about it, just went to the foot of the bed and crawled up it till she was right next to him. Sanders was laying on his back, so she pressed herself against his side. Wrapped her arm around his chest, her leg around his leg.
“I'm sorry, Sanders,” she whispered. “I'm so, so, sorry.”
“No, no, you don't need to be sorry, ma'am, I shouldn't have ..., I didn't realize you'd .., tomorrow, I'll -,” he started in a jerky voice, but when he said 'ma'am', reverted back to calling her by a stranger's title, her heart ripped in half. She pressed her hand over his mouth.
“I do need to be sorry. I really, really do. I never should have hit you. I love you, Sanders. I love you so much. I was just mad, I shouldn't have done it. I'm so sorry,” Tate breathed, pressing her face into his shoulder. She felt his hand come to rest on her arm, patting at it tentatively.
“It's okay, Tatum. Everything will be okay. I promise.”
Sanders didn't handle any kind of contact well. She knew that; even handshakes were difficult for him. So a slap, she knew that must have been like a gun shot. A bullet, ripping right through his psyche. She knew his past, knew the kind of abuse he had been through, and still. Tate was the one who pulled the trigger.
I'm no better than Jameson.
“I don't want to be here, Sanders. But I'll do it. For you,” she whispered into his ear. She felt him nod and she let out a sigh. Kissed him on the cheek. Settled back into his side. He squirmed a bit. Now that he had stopped crying, it was clear that her closeness was making him uncomfortable.
So she held on tighter.
Finally, he gave in and wiggled his arm loose. Wrapped it around her shoulders. Held her even closer. She fell asleep against his chest, listening to his heart beat.
*
Jameson sat on his front deck the next morning, staring out over the ocean. He had a spot on the outside of the marina, so he didn't have to face any other boats. A must, for him. All that was between him and a view of the open ocean was a rock jetty.
He had gone to check on Sanders in the morning, and had been in for a little shock. Tate was in bed with the younger man, and they were spooning like it was something they did everyday, Sanders' arms locked tight around her waist. Even Jameson had never slept with her like that; had never even thought to try.
Now he felt left out.
The pair of them didn't emerge until after ten. By then, Jameson had showered and gotten dressed, even went to get a newspaper for himself. They didn't say anything to him, but it was obvious that whatever had transpired between them the night before, it had made up for the slap. Good. If the two of them didn't get along, then there was no hope for him.
“Hungry?” Jameson asked when Tate wandered up to where he was sitting. She shrugged and sat across from him, picking a piece of toast up off of his plate.
“How long do I have to be here?” she asked, looking out over the water while she nibbled at the bread.
“You're not a prisoner. You're free to go whenever you want. Sanders can drive you to the airport right now. I just thought you were tougher than that,” he told her. She snorted.
“You thought wrong.”
“Look,” he sighed, leaning forward and taking off his sunglasses. She kept hers on. “Whether or not you want to admit it, you and I do have unfinished business. I made a big mistake, yes. You made a mistake. It doesn't have to break us.”
“There wasn't ever an us,” Tate pointed out. Jameson shrugged.
“Whatever we were. Friends,” he suggested. She laughed.
“We were never friends,” she replied.
“We were something.”
“We were nothing.”
“Why do you need everything to be so clearly defined? Because society says A plus B equals C, then we're nothing? Sometimes X divided by 4.3 equals fuck all, Tate. Bad things happened, but there were moments of good,” Jameson reminded her. He needed her to remember. She snorted again and turned away so she was fully facing the water.
/> “I seem to have forgotten those moments. Probably when my oxygen supply was cut off, right after my seizures,” she snapped at him.
“That's not funny.”
“No, not even a little bit,” Tate agreed. He took a deep breath. Dug down deep in to his heart to find a shred of kindness. Of honesty.
“I'm very sorry for ever hurting you,” he said in a soft voice. It was obvious she was struggling not to cry.
“Someday,” she started, clearing her throat, “you will find someone who is better at these games. Better than you, and you will finally know how it feels.”
“How will I find this someone else if I'm not looking?” Jameson asked.
“Maybe you should start looking. You're not getting any younger,” she pointed out.
“I have the person I want,” he said bluntly. She choked on a gasp of air.
“You don't have shit,” Tate managed to cough out. He laughed.
“You're so easy to rile up now. This should be fun,” he said. She shook her head.
“I don't want to play your games,” she insisted. He leaned against the table, crossed his arms on top of it.
Finally, we can cut to the chase.
“How about just one last game. No-holds-barred, winner takes all,” he offered.
“How about that's a really bad idea,” she replied, but he could tell that she was intrigued.
“Give me a month,” Jameson started. Her eyebrows raised above her glasses and she turned towards him.
“A month to what?” she asked.
“One month to convince you that I'm not the devil,” he stated. Tate burst out laughing.
Separation (The Kane Trilogy Book 2) Page 8
