Separation (The Kane Trilogy Book 2)

by Stylo Fantome

  “Nick, don't -,”

  “But, I really think we'd be good together, and I like you, a lot. Enough to wait,” he said.

  This all sounded horribly familiar, only in this picture, Tatum was Satan, and Nick was the poor fool in love. All they needed was a dark library and a roaring fireplace.

  I am going to one of the darkest recesses of hell. Good thing I've already been there once.

  “Nick, you don't know what you're saying. I'm not a good person. Just ..., just wait till I come home, and then we'll talk,” she urged in a quiet voice.

  “Get him out of your system,” Nick continued. “Whatever you need. And I will be here. I understand.”

  Tate felt like she was going to be sick, and as if that wasn't bad enough, the elevator doors at the end of the hall opened. A man in a dark suit stepped off. Strode towards her, his steps sure. Confident. She licked her lips, staring up at him.

  “I know. I just don't want to hurt you,” she said, watching as Jameson came to a stop next to her.

  “You won't. I know what I'm getting into – do you?” Nick countered. Jameson squatted down next to her, adjusting his cuff links as he did so. A suit. He was back in a suit.

  Ah, there's my Satan.

  “I haven't the faintest clue,” Tate whispered.

  “Time to go, baby girl,” Jameson said softly, holding his hand out.

  “Be smart, Tatum,” Nick warned on the other end of the phone.

  “Never am,” she replied, then hung up the phone. She put her hand into Jameson's, allowed him to pull her to her feet.

  “Important phone call?” he asked. She shrugged, dusting her hands off on her pants.

  “Nick. Checking up on me,” was all she said. Jameson snorted and took off back down the hall.

  “How is your boyfriend doing?” he asked as she trailed behind him.

  “Jealous?” she taunted, wrapping a scarf around her neck. Paris was a lot colder than Marbella. After they had settled in at the hotel, she wound up having to buy even more clothing to match the change in weather. She wasn't sure how she was going to get all her new stuff home.

  “Always jealous,” Jameson replied, pushing the down button for the elevator.

  “At least my boyfriend never broke in to your apartment and attacked Sanders,” Tate countered. He laughed.

  “I would like to see him try. Could he even find Spain on a map?” he asked as they stepped onto the elevator.

  “You don't even know him, have never met him, and you're insulting his intelligence? My god, Jameson, you are jealous,” Tate gasped. He cleared his throat, his eyes trained on the doors.

  “I don't like it when other people touch my things,” he explained in a low voice. She laughed.

  “That was almost sweet.”

  “Almost, huh. Close one.”

  They went to dinner. Once again, Tate felt a little dressed down. Jameson was wearing a suit that probably cost more than her first car. She was wearing low-rise skinny jeans and a racer-back tank top, paired with a slim leather jacket and scarf. They never quite matched, but Jameson never seemed to care, so she decided she wouldn't care, either. After seeing the name on the reservation, the maître d' didn't even look twice at her, anyway.

  Sanders was already at the restaurant, and they all ate together. There was actually a lot of laughter. Jameson had a very dry sense of humor, and half the time she couldn't tell whether Sanders was being deadpan or serious, but she cracked up anyway. They talked, they shared food. It was fun.

  After they were done, they headed back towards their hotel, but a different hotel was having some sort of event. Loud music was pouring into the street. Tate grabbed Sanders' arm and dragged him inside. Jameson eventually followed. She was pretty sure they were crashing a wedding reception, but she didn't care. She was two steps away from selling her soul to Satan, what could it hurt to crash someone's party?

  Sanders wouldn't hardly move, so Tate was forced to dance by herself for most of the time. She made friends with a bridesmaid, danced around with her for a little while. Jameson finally danced with her, after a slow song came on; she got shivers as he slid her hand into his, wrapped an arm around her waist. She hadn't danced like that since a cousin's wedding, when she was a lot younger. It was almost more intimate than dancing the way she was used to, arms wrapped around her partner's neck. Jameson stared down at the her the whole time, moving her around the floor. She found it hard to breathe.

  When they got back to the table they had commandeered, it was to find that Sanders had also made a friend. Unwillingly. He was standing next to the table, very tight lipped, as a very drunk woman leaned near him, murmuring in French. Tate laughed and walked up next to him.

  “What is she saying?” she asked. Sanders kept his eyes pointed straight ahead.

  “She likes my suit,” he replied through clenched teeth. Tate snickered and ran her finger under his lapel.

  “You like? Très bon, oui?” she asked the woman.

  “Oui, is est très, très beau – il ne danse pas?” she replied. Tate didn't speak a word of French, but she was pretty she understood “dance”.

  “Only with me,” Tate laughed, pulling on his arm.

  “No, I don't want to dance, Tatum. I don't ...,” Sanders tried to resist, but she'd already pulled him into the thick of the dance floor.

  “It's okay, Sandy. Just act like no one's watching. No one cares if you can't dance,” she assured him, holding his hands as she bopped from foot to foot.

  “I know how to dance,” he told her. She stopped moving.

  “Really?”

  “Just not like that,” he said, glancing around at the younger couples on the floor, who were all bumping and grinding.

  “Then like how?” she asked.

  Sanders sighed and pulled her close. She found herself in the same position she had been in with Jameson moments before, Sanders' arm around her torso, his hand pressed against the skin on her back, just under her bra. He took a deep breath and glanced around.

  “Just do as I do. Follow my movements, my body,” he instructed. She smiled.

  “Kinky.”

  He snorted, then he was pushing her backwards. If Tate had ever thought about it, ballroom dancing was right up Sanders' alley. Strict rules, stiff frames, precise movements – that pretty much described him. He all but carried her across the dance floor. She was surprised at how strong he was; in his suits, he looked so slender and trim. The arm around her, though, was like steel.

  She felt like a little kid. She was completely delighted. After she stepped on his toes a couple times he started counting. Very softly, almost under his breath. It took Tate a second to realize that he was counting the steps for her. After that, it got a little easier. He spun her around, and when the song came to an end, he even took her into a small dip.

  “I hope that was enough for you,” Sanders said as they broke apart. Tate clapped her hands together.

  “Are you kidding!? I wanna go again! Sandy, I think I just fell in love with you a little!” she laughed.

  “That would make things very awkward,” Jameson's voice came from behind her. She turned around and smiled up at him, but he was staring at Sanders.

  “It's a lie, anyway. I fell in love with Sanders the first time I ever saw him, when he was looking at me like I was a two-dollar-hooker,” she joked. Sanders nervously adjusted his tie.

  “I thought you were worth at least ten dollars,” he replied.

  Even Jameson laughed at that one.

  *

  Back at the hotel, after Tatum had fallen asleep, Jameson climbed out of bed. Put on some clothes. Made his way next door, to Sanders' room. The younger man was awake, sitting on a couch, a laptop open on the coffee table. He glanced up.

  “Good evening,” he said simply. Jameson nodded, heading over to some windows.

  “What time does Angier get here tomorrow?” he asked. Sanders glanced at a paper that sat next to him.

  “Noon. I have
arranged for a car to pick him up and bring him back here. I assumed he would want to rest after his plane ride, so I booked a late lunch for you and Tatum, then have arranged dinner, downstairs, for all of us,” he ran through the itinerary.

  “Sounds good.”

  “I must say,” Sanders started, “it was a very nice gesture, inviting Mr. Hollingsworth. I was very impressed.”

  “Were you?” Jameson asked, glancing down at him.

  “Yes. You did something nice, just for her. You normally don't do things like that; it is a happy improvement,” Sanders explained.

  “You like to see her happy, don't you?” Jameson questioned.

  “Of course I do. Why I wouldn't I?” Sanders asked, going back to his computer.

  “Sanders. Are you in love with Tatum?” Jameson asked bluntly.

  He wasn't sure which was more shocking, the fact that Sanders didn't laugh away the question, or that the fair skinned man suddenly turned bright red. Jameson couldn't remember ever seeing Sanders fully blush before; couldn't remember him ever really looking embarrassed. Uncomfortable, yes. Embarrassed, no. This was not good. If Sanders was in love with Tate, it would be a big problem.

  “No, I am not in love with her,” Sanders answered before getting up off the couch and hurrying away.

  Oh wow, this is interesting.

  Jameson had known Sanders since he was thirteen, and in all that time, he had never seen the young man show any interest in women. He had wondered if Sanders was gay for a while, but then it just seemed more like he was asexual. He didn't really show a sexual interest in anything. So the fact that Sanders was getting all red and fidgety over Tate ..., it was interesting. Jameson followed him.

  “Are you sure about that? Are we going to have to duel at dawn? Or maybe just ask her to choose between us,” he teased. Sanders turned around.

  “This is ridiculous. I am not in love with her, but even if I was, we wouldn't duel because you would never fight over her. And I wouldn't ask her to choose between us, because I know who she would pick. And it would not be you,” Sanders snapped. Jameson's eyebrows shot up.

  “Awfully sure of yourself there,” he said in a soft voice. Sanders let out a sigh.

  “It is easy to be sure of myself when I know I'm right. It's not modesty, or bragging, if it's the truth. I am not in love with her. I care about her, a lot. She talks to me, because I'm me. Not because of you. Most people ignore me when you're not around. I appreciate her. That is it, though,” Sanders explained.

  “Alright. It's a problem I never foresaw as happening, but I would hate for a woman to ever come between us,” Jameson said, and Sanders nodded.

  “Me, too. Luckily, I tend to find your taste in women appalling,” he added, and Jameson burst out laughing.

  “Really? I thought I had pretty good taste – Pet is a model, and Tate's a knockout,” he laughed as he headed towards the door.

  “They have all been very beautiful, but Petrushka is psychotic, and the first time Tatum came over, I thought she was a prostitute. She's lucky she is so nice and funny, it is her saving grace,” Sanders explained, and Jameson started laughing even harder.

  “Have you mentioned any of that to your bestie?” he cackled.

  “No. Unlike some people, I know what tact is and how to employ it.”

  Jameson laughed for a while at that one, even after he'd left Sanders' room. He had tact, he just chose not to employ it most of the time. Sanders was wrong on another note, too. Jameson would fight over her.

  It was a scary realization, but his instant, gut reaction to thinking that Sanders was in love with Tate, was to end his relationship with Sanders. That said something, right there. When Dunn had made a move on her, then later had sex with her, Jameson had wanted to kill him. Still wanted to kill him. That said something. Bringing her to Spain, said something.

  He would most definitely fight over her.

  Jameson crept back into the bedroom, careful not to disturb her. She was laying on her stomach, her arms stretched out to either side. As he crawled into the bed, she grumbled in her sleep and scooted closer to him. He laid on his side, his eyes wandering over her back. There was a bruise near her shoulder. They had gotten adventurous in the shower, wound up falling to the floor. She had gotten mouthy, and he knew there was now a bite mark on her breast. Fun times.

  What have you done to me?

  He pressed his palm flat against her back, feeling her warmth. She nuzzled even closer, pressing her face into his chest. She had evaded his questions about what they would do next, where they would go. He couldn't figure out why. She had to know it wasn't a game anymore.

  It occurred to Jameson that maybe, just maybe, he was done playing games.

  *

  Tate was very excited to see Ang. She wanted to go to the airport, but Jameson wouldn't let her. He'd already had some sort of breakfast or brunch-y thing planned. Ang was going to get to the hotel and be allowed to relax, did she understand? Jameson apparently didn't want to deal with a cranky Ang. Tate could understand. Happy, pleasant Ang was openly hostile towards Jameson. She didn't want to imagine cranky Ang.

  “Feels like it's been a while since it was just the two of us,” Jameson commented as they rode around in a hired car, after breakfast. She glanced at him.

  “We spent a whole week on your boat in virtual solitude,” she reminded him.

  “I know. I got used to it. Having Sanders meddling gets tiring,” he said.

  “Is that a joke?”

  “I know he chirps in your ear. He tells me everything, I hope you realize,” Jameson warned her. Tate held her breath a little.

  “He tells you what we talk about?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant. Probably failing miserably.

  “He tells me what he says. He is surprisingly tight lipped about what you say,” Jameson replied. She let out a sigh.

  “Good.”

  “Saying things I wouldn't want to hear?” he asked, glancing down at her. She shrugged.

  “Sometimes.”

  They got out at the Eiffel Tower. There were a million people around, and she almost thought Jameson would get back in the car, but he didn't. They surged through the crowd, Jameson leading the way.

  “Have you been here before?” Tate asked, standing next to him when he stopped to look up.

  “No, not really. I've only seen it from a distance. I'm usually working when I'm here,” he replied. She laughed.

  “I came here with a French class, we went all the way to the top,” she told him.

  “You took French, but you don't speak French?” he asked.

  “I only took it for the trip.”

  They didn't go inside, just walked around. Tate took a lot of pictures. Usually, she avoided taking pictures of Jameson. If things went to shit, which they always did, she didn't want memories captured to come back and haunt her. But she couldn't resist. He was wearing a heavy overcoat with a thick scarf tucked inside it. He hadn't gotten a haircut yet, and the wind was ruffling his thick hair. He looked very serious, and intimidating, and more than a little scary.

  He is so fucking gorgeous.

  “Stop taking pictures of me. Let's get out of here,” he finally snapped. She skipped after him.

  They walked around for a while, just taking in the sights. Went down to Napoleon’s tomb, and Tate took some more pictures. She could tell he didn't really give a shit about anything they were looking at and was just indulging her. It almost would have been sweet, if he hadn't glared the whole time.

  They were heading down the street, ready to call the car to take them back to the hotel, when Jameson stopped. Tate made it almost a block before realizing he wasn't next to her, and she looked back to see what was he was doing. He was standing in front of a window, looking inside it. Then he moved and went into the building.

  Huh?

  Tate went back and followed him inside. It was a jewelry store. She swallowed thickly, glancing around. A man behind a counter said something to her in
French, looking her up and down. He didn't smile. She rolled her eyes at him and continued forward. Jameson was nowhere to be seen, which was odd, because it wasn't a very big store. The man continued to chatter at her in French, then a door in the back of the store opened.

  “Mademoiselle! S'il vous plaît,” a woman came out, gesturing towards the door. Tate glanced around.

  “Me?” she asked, pointing at herself.

  “Get in here,” Jameson's voice carried out onto the floor.

  Tate got in there.

  He was standing in front of a large wooden desk, looking down at something. The woman came in, as well, and walked to the far side of the desk. Tate stayed near the door, wondering what was going on – was she really being sold into sex slavery? Jameson spoke in a halting sort of French, pausing to search for the right words. The woman nodded, then adjusted something on the desk.

  “This one,” Jameson said, pointing down. Then he looked over his shoulder at Tate. “Come over here.”

  She went and stood right next to him, taking in the sight before her. Several pearl necklaces were carefully laid out on the glossy, wooden desk top. Her breath caught in her throat. The woman was picking one up, and almost started to come around the desk, but Jameson held out his hand. Said something in French. The woman handed the necklace over to him.

  “What is going on?” Tate demanded.

  “I told you that you needed real pearls,” he said, turning her away from him and clasping the strand of pearls around her neck.

  “Yeah, and I also remember you telling me they cost like $50,000,” she reminded him.

  “I said some cost that much,” he corrected her, turning her back to face him so he could look at her. He shook his head and reached around her neck, took the necklace off. The woman held up another strand for him.

  “So these ones don't cost $50,000,” Tate clarified. Jameson nodded, holding the other strand up against her collar bone.

  “No. These ones are around €50,000,” he told her. She choked a little.

  “Euros!? That's like $70,000!”