Separation (The Kane Trilogy Book 2)

by Stylo Fantome

  “Ang. Is that your girlfriend?” she asked. He grumbled.

  “We're not talking about me, we're talking about -,” he started.

  “No, no, no. Your girlfriend is there! I can hear her! How does she feel, hearing you talk about flying all the way out here to fuck me?” Tate asked.

  “She doesn't care.”

  “I have to meet this woman. Put her on the phone!” Tate laughed.

  “No. Listen. This is all history repeating itself, Tate. I'm not trying to be a Debbie Downer, or a bossy boots, or whatever. I just ..., I would die if anything happened to you, and I'm not there to save you this time,” his voice grew quiet. Her heart cracked a little.

  I am such a horrible person, and my punishment is life with Jameson.

  “I know,” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “But I had no idea what I was dealing with last time. My eyes are wide open now. I know what I'm dealing with, and I have Sanders. I promise, I won't do anything I don't want to do.”

  “That leaves a pretty wide scope,” Ang snorted. She laughed.

  “Once upon a time. Honestly, Ang, am I boring now? Jameson kept calling me a Stepford-wife,” Tate told him. There was a pause.

  “Normally, agreeing with him would make me wanna puke, but he's got a point. You were like a Stepford-wife. All that boring clothing your sister bought you, I almost wondered if she was doing it to be mean,” he laughed. The girlfriend piped up in the background, but Tate couldn't hear what she was saying.

  “God. Well, you will be happy to know I have bought an entirely new wardrobe,” she told him, looking down at herself and plucking at the tight tank top she was wearing. “Most of it is see-through, and most of it is ridiculously tight. They probably won't let me through customs.”

  “Good. I've missed your tits.”

  She burst out laughing, and a shadow fell over her. Tate looked up and realized Jameson had joined her. He smiled down at her and her laughter died in an instant.

  “What's so funny?” he asked.

  “It's Ang. Talking about my tits,” she replied.

  “Don't say 'tits' to him, it'll probably make him all rape-y!” Ang yelled down the line.

  “May I?” Jameson asked, holding his hand out for the phone. Tate's jaw dropped open.

  “I don't think Ang wants to speak to you,” she said quickly.

  “No, Ang most certainly doesn't want to fucking speak to him,” Ang agreed. Jameson rolled his eyes and plucked the phone out of her hand. She groaned and turned away, leaning against the railing and looking out over the dark horizon.

  “Angier. How are you?” he asked. He always stretched Ang's name out, like a sneer. Tate couldn't make out the words Ang was saying, but she could tell they weren't nice. “That's lovely language, I'm sure my proctologist would get a kick out of that idea. Anyway, I have a question for you.” Jameson paused, and there was more yelling from the phone. Tate chewed on her nail. “If you're finished ..., if you're finished, I wanted to say – my birthday is in a week. I am taking Tatum and Sanders to Paris. I wondered if you'd want to join us.”

  Tate spun towards him so quickly, her foot slipped out from underneath her. She started to fall and he grabbed her by the waist, hoisting her up against him. She righted herself, but Jameson didn't let her go, staring down at her as he listened to whatever Ang was saying. She pushed at his chest, but he didn't move.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed. She vaguely remembered before they left Boston, Sanders had said something about them taking a weekend in Paris. But that was before his little Jameson-surprise-party. She figured it had been part of the ruse, to get her to leave.

  “Of course I'm serious. Very serious. She misses you. Despite what all of you think, I want to make her happy. So, I am offering you an all expenses paid vacation to Paris,” Jameson barked into the phone.

  He wanted to make her happy? Tate almost snorted. He wouldn't even begin to know how.

  He used to be very good at making you happy.

  “Give me the phone,” Tate demanded, reaching for it. He leaned his head away, but kept a grip on her waist. They stumbled backwards, her pawing at him, him pulling away.

  “This is an expiring offer, Angier. Take it or leave it. I know she wants to see you. It's up to you,” Jameson said. She slithered around him, and he was forced to switch hands, trading off the phone. She almost nabbed it, but then he tightened his grip around her waist and picked her up with one arm, clutching her to his side. “Yes. Yes, you can. Of course. What? Don't fucking insult me, Angier. I'm offering you a gift, but I won't fucking ..., okay. Okay. Thank you.” Tate was squirming back and forth, making it hard for him to keep his footing, when he abruptly ended the call. He pressed a button on the phone and dropped it into a chair.

  “What the fuck was that all about!? I didn't even get to say goodbye!” she shouted at him.

  “I just agreed to pay for your best friend, a man you fuck on a regular basis, to come to Paris for my birthday. I think a little gratitude is in order,” Jameson informed her. She shoved at his chest, trying to pull away.

  “Fuck off. I haven't fucked Ang since you asked me not to,” she snapped, and they both paused. Tate hadn't meant it like that; she had made it sound like she still wasn't sleeping with Ang because of Jameson. But that wasn't true.

  Was it?

  “Very considerate, baby girl,” Jameson murmured, smoothing her hair away from her face.

  “Oh, get over yourself. I haven't slept with anyone since that night. The idea of sex kind of makes me want to puke,” she told him.

  “You didn't seem so adverse to it last night.”

  He let her go, and she stumbled backwards. She straightened out the bright maxi skirt she was wearing, adjusted her tank top. Glared at him. It wasn't fair. He was the reason she hadn't had sex in so long. He shouldn't get to have first go. Ang was right, she should go find someone else. Anyone else.

  “Yet it still didn't happen,” Tate pointed out. He quirked up an eyebrow.

  “You know, I find it hard to believe that you haven't slept with anyone. I know your baseball player is somewhat of a saint, but he's still a man. Is it still boring with him? Are you still holding his hand?” Jameson asked, disdain dripping from his words. Tate laughed.

  “Jealous. And nothing with Nick is ever boring,” she taunted. It dawned on her that he honestly thought she and Nick had some sort of actual relationship going on; Jameson was actually jealous. She wanted to laugh.

  Stupid Satan, don't you know you've ruined me for other men?

  “Somehow,” Jameson whispered, leaning close to her, “I highly doubt that.”

  And then he left her, making his way downstairs.

  Tate grabbed the phone and followed after him. She gave Sanders his cell phone back, then he said goodbye. She hung onto his sleeve, all the way down the plank. Pleaded with him. Begged him to stay. He refused. He was working for the devil, after all. She glared at him as he walked back to the car.

  She milled around below deck for a while, tried reading in her bedroom. She felt the boat move, knew when they had left the dock. She wondered if there was a whole crew of people wandering around, or if Jameson could really operate the whole thing on his own.

  After about an hour, her curiosity got the better of her. She wandered upstairs. Out the back of the boat, she could see Marbella, getting smaller and smaller. Just twinkling lights on a coast. In the distance, a couple other lights bobbed around. Other boats, barely pin pricks against the dark sky.

  She didn't see or hear any other people, so she made her way to the upper deck. It was barren – Jameson hadn't replaced the furniture that the scorned maid had thrown away. Tate thought about continuing on up to the very top deck, but instead she made her way into the wheelhouse. Jameson was leaned back in a large chair, one foot propped on the edge of it, the other leg stretched out so his foot was against the dash. Very relaxed. The lights were off in the room, and he was staring out over the sea.

>   “What are you doing?” Tate asked, moving to sit in another large chair that was next to him.

  “What does it look like I'm doing?” he countered, not looking at her. She smirked at him.

  “Is it safe, operating this thing all by yourself?” she asked. He nodded.

  “Safe enough. I'm not taking us out very far,” he replied. She leaned back.

  “Why don't you hire a crew? I was surprised that you didn't have a chef on board, or a full time maid,” she told him.

  “Same reason I didn't keep them at home.”

  Jameson didn't like people. Plain and simple. In Weston, he had a cleaning service that came out on the weekdays, every day after he left for work, but that was it. No full time, live-ins, though his house was built for it, had the room. So she wasn't too surprised that he refused to even hire a captain for his boat.

  “What time is it?” Tate yawned, leaning her head back. She saw him move, and then his wrist was held out towards her, his fancy watch facing her.

  “Just after ten,” he answered anyway.

  There was a heavy silence between them. Something had happened that morning, though Tate didn't know what. It was almost as if Jameson had suddenly woken up with a conscience, and it was bothering him. He seemed upset, and she knew she was the reason.

  It wasn't fair. She should be upset. She was the one people looked at funny, like she was crazy. She was the one who spent a week in a hospital. She was the one who got ripped in half. Jameson was still in one piece. He wasn't allowed to feel upset. It wasn't fair.

  So why do I want to make him feel better!?

  Those were the thoughts Tate didn't like, the confusing ones. Sure, it was all a game, and she knew she should be rejoicing in the fact that she had gotten to him. If Jameson was actually upset, to the point of showing it, then he cared. That meant when she won his game, he might be ripped in half a little, as well. Finally. Happy days! She hadn't even had to try that hard, and her goal had been achieved.

  So how come all of a sudden, none of that seemed so important anymore?

  In fact, it all kind of made her feel sick.

  “Jameson,” Tate sighed, feeling very tired of their game. “Maybe we should just stop -,”

  “Do you remember the maid outfit?” he interrupted. She looked over at him.

  “Excuse me?”

  “That maid outfit you wore. Remember?” he asked.

  Oh, their little games. She had bitched about doing her own laundry. Sanders did Jameson's clothing, but refused to touch hers. Bras and panties gave him the vapors. Tate hated to do laundry. Jameson had made a deal with her. If she could go a whole day without touching him, he would hire someone to dry clean all of her clothing, every day. If she lost, she had to be his personal maid for a whole day, and clean whatever he wanted. Seemed like an easy win.

  Wrong. Not only had it been the warmest day in September, the sun blistering hot, but he had just gotten back from a business trip. Tate had wound up watching him sunbathe, nude, while he told her all about a particularly steamy encounter he'd had with a waitress in a bathroom at Tavern on the Green. Tate didn't even make it through ten minutes of him talking before she was on top of him. All over him.

  He came home the next day with a slutty maid costume in tow. She hadn't expected it to last long, but Jameson had stronger will power than she did. Tate wound up cleaning the whole bottom half of the house before he ripped the outfit off of her.

  Fun times.

  “I had forgotten about that,” she laughed softly.

  “I could never forget that day.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Tate asked, glancing at him. Jameson kept staring ahead, but he reached out and pushed some buttons. Pulled some levers. The boat slowed, came to a stop.

  “Because I want you to remember.”

  “Remember what?”

  “That things used to be good between us. They used to be fun,” he told her. “Remember that sometimes, just maybe sometimes, I wasn't the devil.”

  She took a deep breath and stared out over the ocean.

  “All I remember is a swimming pool,” she whispered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “This isn't going to work, Jameson,” she blurted out, suddenly jumping out of her seat. He looked totally caught off guard.

  “Huh?”

  “This. You can't just ..., bombard me with old, sexy memories, and ..., what? Ooohhh, swoon, I fall all over you? It doesn't work like that!” she snapped at him. He stood up as well.

  “Then tell me how it does work, Tate. Because obviously nothing I'm doing is working,” he replied, standing close to her.

  “But that's just it! There's nothing you can do. You ruined it, and now it's over. Do you really want to go another three weeks, just to hear that? It's over, Jameson. It's over,” she stressed. He stared down his nose at her.

  “See, if I believed you, I would agree. It would be a waste of time. But you're still such a horrible liar, Tate. Things will never be over between us,” his voice was soft.

  She let out a frustrated yell and stomped out of the wheelhouse. Stomped downstairs, all the way back into her bedroom. She didn't want to hear anything else he had to say. Fuck him. Fuck Jameson Kane. She hated him.

  Hate it when he's right.

  Of course, Tate knew that; somewhere, deep in her brain, she had always known that things weren't over between them. Which was why she had been a nervous wreck for the last two months. Her subconscious had known it wasn't over, and had just been waiting for him. Had always known it. Had known it the first time they parted ways. Had known it the second time. When would conscious-Tate clue in to the fact?

  Pool. You were in a pool. He brought her into your home. Brought her between you. Didn't care. He does not care.

  She grabbed her purse and steamed back out onto the deck. As she was digging something out, she saw Jameson coming down the stairs, so she scooted away, made her way to the bow of the boat. There was only so far she could go to get away from him – they were in the middle of the ocean, and none of the bedroom doors had locks.

  No escape. Well played, Mr. Kane. Well played.

  “You better leave me the fuck alone,” Tate yelled when she heard him approaching. “I need this right now.”

  She lit up the cigarette and took a deep, deep drag. Closed her eyes and slowly exhaled. There. That burning sensation in her lungs, that's what she wanted. Smoking was still new to Tate. She didn't do it because she craved it, or because she liked it. She did it because it hurt a little, every time she inhaled.

  Something is so very wrong with me.

  “Tatum. Put out the cigarette and come talk to me,” Jameson ordered. She laughed and turned towards him.

  “What's the point? You never listen. How about you have a conversation with yourself, then just answer the way you want me to answer, and we'll call it good,” she hissed, moving past him.

  The deck on the bow of the yacht was large, and came to a sharp point. Shiny silver railings and glass panels surrounded it, except for two breaks, where ladders folded out down either side of the boat. She went to stand back away from the railing, under a slight awning. They glared at each other, her smoke curling up between them.

  “I have been trying to listen. For the first fucking time ever. But you're not saying anything. Now put the goddamn cigarette out,” Jameson told her. Even though she was too far away, she blew a stream of smoke at him.

  “No. And I don't have to say anything, I didn't ask to be here. I was brought here, taken here, tricked in to coming here. I don't want to talk to you, I don't want to hear anything you have to say. I don't want to be here,” Tate replied. He narrowed his eyes.

  “We had a deal. You agreed to play. You're not allowed to lie, or fake anything,” he reminded her.

  “I haven't lied or faked -,”

  He slammed his hand down on the railing, hard, making a gong-like sound. He was angry. It had been a long time since she had seen him that mad. She
felt her insides turn to mush, her brain turn to putty.

  “Don't fucking lie to me. You wanted me in that club, and you wanted that to happen in my bedroom. I have let you pretend like you didn't. You dared me into taking that maid. That was all you, yet I let you blame me. I am tired of taking your shit. My patience is running out,” he growled at her. She guffawed.

  “You're tired of taking my shit? My shit!? Mister, you haven't even begun to eat shit for the things you did to me! And you're calling me out on breaking the rules!? You fucked your psychotic supermodel girlfriend and then brought her into our home! How's that for a broken fucking rule!?” Tate screamed at him.

  Suddenly Jameson was storming towards her, thunder in his eyes. She pressed herself against the glass door behind her, trapped. He stood in front of her, and she swore she could almost see smoke coming out of his ears. He. Was. Pissed.

  “I did not fuck her. I have apologized for bringing her home. Now stop fucking screaming, and put out the goddamn cigarette. I will not tell you again,” he hissed at her. She shivered and raised the cigarette to her lips. Took a deep drag.

  “Make me,” she whispered, and then blew a smoke ring in his face.

  Jameson grabbed her around the waist, and Tate shrieked as she was hoisted into the air. Thrown over his shoulder. She yelled at him to put her down, pounded on his back with her free hand. She was tempted to grind the cigarette into his shoulder blade, but she didn't think she was ready for that kind of punishment.

  “Goddamn Tatum. Always fucking pushing me,” he growled.

  “Stupid fucking Jameson, always where he isn't wanted,” she snapped back.

  He didn't respond. He reached the edge of the bow, and she thought he was gong to put her down. Or spank her. Or fuck her senseless. Something. What she didn't expect was for him to throw her. Into the air. Over the railing. She screamed and hit the water, ass first.

  “When are you going to learn not to push me!?” he called down to her, after she had resurfaced.

  Tate hacked and coughed up salt water, bobbing along. It took Jameson a second to open the little compartment that hid the stairs, so it felt like an eternity before she hauled herself out of the water. She slowly made her way up the side of the boat. Her skirt, with all its excess material, weighed a ton. She flopped onto the deck like a fish, shivering and scrambling across the surface.