“I like the Weston house better. Sanders misses it, he's already started opening it up,” Jameson explained.
“No. No, I'm not going there. You can't make me,” her voice was getting louder.
“Oh, yes I can.”
“Why can't I just stay here?” she asked.
“Because I want you there.”
“You don't get to tell me what to do, Kane.”
“Oh, yes I do.”
“Stop it! Why? Why do I have to be there, in that house?” she demanded. He decided to risk it, and he stepped closer to her.
“Because,” he started, his voice soft. Gentling the blow. “It's our home, baby girl. And it's time to go.”
Houston, we have ignition. Prepare for blast off.
“That is not our home!” Tate yelled, a blush creeping across her chest. “That is your torture chamber! So fuck off, and go back to your fucking mansion in the country!”
“It's not much of a torture chamber without someone to torture,” Jameson pointed out. She looked shocked.
“Fuck you, then you shouldn't have let Pet get away from it,” she hissed.
Always about Petrushka. This is why I hate having girlfriends – it's the “ex” part that's a bitch.
“She didn't 'get away', I kicked her out.”
“That's your version of what happened.”
“It's the only version of what happened.”
“I am not about to go and sleep in the same bed you fucked her in, I am not some -,”
Play time is over.
Jameson grabbed her ankles and yanked her legs out from underneath her. Tate shrieked as she went down flat on her back. She had barely made contact with the mattress before he was jerking her forward, still holding her ankles, dragging her to him. He leaned over her, forcing her legs to part around him.
“We have been over this, so I am never going to say this again, understand? I did not fuck her,” he growled. Tate glared up at him.
“I'm still not going into that house,” she growled right back.
“Oh, you'll go. You'll go if I have to drag you there by your fucking hair,” he warned her.
“You'd probably love that,” she snapped.
“So would you.”
She sighed and some of the tension went out of her body. She rolled her head to the side and looked out the open doors. The moving men were visible at the end of the hall, boxing up odds and ends. Jameson stared down at her. Detachment. That's what was wrong with her. Tate had a way of detaching herself. Like she was present, could say all the right things, but she wasn't really there – she was somewhere he couldn't reach.
He hated that.
“I don't want to go there,” she whispered.
“Why?” he demanded.
“I don't like it there,” she answered.
“You used to love it there,” he reminded her.
“'Used to' being the operative term,” she pointed out.
“So what's changed? You keep claiming that everything is fine. Apparently, it's not fine at all. Apparently it's all completely fucked,” he called her out. She turned back towards him.
“That was a really interesting lunch you had, wasn't it,” she breathed.
Busted.
“They're concerned about you,” Jameson said softly.
“But you're not,” Tate finished his statement. He shooks his head.
“Don't be fucking stupid. I'm here. I'm doing this, for you. Stop asking questions you know the answers to. Now get the fuck up, and get dressed,” he ordered.
She sat up abruptly and he had to lean away. He had barely stood up when she pushed herself up as well, sliding against almost every inch of him. He stared down at her, waiting for her to argue, to whine, to try to bribe. The last one was fairly effective – he wasn't as immune to her charms as he liked to pretend.
“Fine. Fine, I'll go to that fucking hell house,” she said in a quiet voice.
“Good. We're leaving, now,” he snapped. She raised an eyebrow.
“So impatient,” she clucked her tongue at him.
“You should know that by now,” he replied. She sighed and stepped around him, slowly made her way towards the door.
“When they pack my clothes,” she started, “make sure they don't steal any of the expensive underwear.”
Then she disappeared down the hall. From where he was standing, Jameson couldn't see to the end of it, but he heard one moving man wolf-whistle. Another cat-called. Then the front door slowly creaked open, before slamming shut. Jameson chuckled to himself.
So feisty.
*
Goddammit.
Tatum sat in the back of the Bentley, chewing on her nail, trying not to show how nervous she was about where they were going. She hadn't been to the Weston house in a month. She hadn't actually been inside it since October, almost three months ago. She willed away the memories. Tried to think of happier times.
She glanced at Jameson out of the corner of her eye. He was leaning back in his seat, staring out the window. As if he knew she was staring, he reached over and rested a hand on her knee. But it wasn't to comfort. His nails bit into her skin and she sighed, resting her head back. His fingers dragged up higher, disappeared under the bottom of his overcoat. She had made it onto the elevator, wearing nothing but her bra and panties, when he'd casually stepped in behind her. By the time they got to the lobby, he had wrestled her into his overcoat. It was a peacoat, but it was large enough on her that it stopped above the knees.
“Scared, baby girl?” he whispered, still not looking at her. Tate concentrated on the roof of the car.
“No,” she replied.
She was fucking terrified. Over the past two weeks, Tate had perfected acting like she didn't care. Didn't care that Jameson was a sociopath who liked to cause her mental anguish, just to get off. Didn't care that Ang had slept with the person responsible for making her feel worthless, responsible for ripping her life in half. Didn't care that Ellie had stolen one of the last pieces of Tate's life that still felt safe, still felt right.
She spent so much time pretending like she didn't care, she'd almost forgotten what it felt like to actually care, about anything. Only Sanders grounded her, and she had to keep him at arms length. He was too clever, too close to her; he would figure out what she was plotting. And she would not be derailed, not this time. The house did scare her – she was worried she would take one look at it, and break down. Go back in time. Be stuck in that room. On that floor, looking up at him, just wanting him to see her. And she would not be that girl again.
For the last seven years, Tate had thought she was a bad girl. Not a bad person, but most definitely very naughty. She liked to have sex, she liked to have fun, she liked to do whatever she wanted. But she'd had an epiphany while she was in France. She was actually a good girl. She liked people, wanted to make people happy. She loved her friends, would do anything for them. She would never have done anything to hurt them, and whenever she accidentally did, she felt bad. She apologized. She did her best to make amends.
Tate felt like a sucker. All those years, running from her good girl image, and here she was, still the best fucking girl on the block. Didn't matter how many dicks a girl sucked, she was still good if she always said please and thank you. No more. She was over it. Over being so goddamn nice all the time. Jameson was the devil. Ang was disrespectful. Ellie was a bitch. When did it get to be Tatum's turn?
Yes, but what are you after you've alienated everyone, hmmm? What kind of creature then?
Tate shook those thoughts away. She was going to do whatever it took to get some fucking closure. What had Jameson said in Paris? What sugary sweet lie had he spun? Seven years? It was time to end it. Then she would just walk away. Start life, for real. Maybe a little later than most people, but hey, better late than never. Maybe she'd go back to school. Maybe she'd become a nice, normal girl, finally. Maybe she'd take Nick up on his offer and move to Arizona. Who knew?
She certa
“We are almost there. Are you alright?” Sanders called out. She smiled up at the ceiling.
You know you'll lose him. Is it worth it?
“I'm good,” she whispered.
“Excuse me?”
“Let's get this over with,” Tate growled, leaning her head forward.
They were pulling down the driveway. Jameson's house sat far back on his property – estate would be a more appropriate word – and a pebble filled circular drive led them to the large brick building. The driveway was long, and though there was none right then, she figured that when it did snow, it must have been a bitch getting the driveway plowed.
Well, for anyone else, it would've been a bitch. For Jameson Kane, all he had to do was snap his fingers and people probably cleared the snow away with their tongues.
Not me. Not anymore.
“Patience there, tiger. Wouldn't want you getting sick again,” Jameson teased her. Tate glared at the back of Sanders' head, watched his neck turn pink with a blush.
“You don't have to tell him everything, Sandy,” she grumbled. Sanders had brought her back in December, tried to cook dinner for her while Jameson was out of the country. She had barely made it onto the porch before she lost her cookies over the railing.
“Yes, he does. Unload the bags, will you Sanders?” Jameson asked, opening the door and stepping out before the car had rolled to a complete stop. Tate slid across the seat and got out behind him, refusing to take his hand.
She took a deep breath and started stomping forward. She walked up the steps and barreled through the front door, coming to a stop in the hall. There. Like ripping off a band aid. She stood in the entry way, staring at the stairs. Now if she could just get her feet to move forward, she would really be winning.
“Are you alright?” Sanders' soft voice asked again, and she turned her head to find him standing behind her.
“As I'll ever be. I can take that,” she started, reaching for a suitcase that had been packed for her. Sanders breezed past her, heading up the stairs.
“It's fucking freezing in here,” Jameson grumbled, walking up next to her. She glanced at him.
“Only because you're used to it always being so hot – you kept it like a furnace in here,” she snapped.
Like a crematorium.
“Well, you've always insisted that I'm the devil. Wouldn't want to break from character. C'mon, let's get a fire lit, and I'll have Sanders ...,” he rambled on, heading towards his library.
Tate couldn't move. She couldn't go in there. Her ghost was trapped in that room. She and Jameson had easily spent more time in that room than any other room in the house – including his bedroom. When he was at home, he worked out of the library, used it as an office. At night, he stayed in there, close to the fire. Reading. Drinking. Talking with her. Touching her. She could not go in there.
“No,” she said, her voice louder than she'd intended. He stopped just outside the library door, turned towards her.
“Excuse me?” he asked. She licked her lips and closed the front door behind her.
“I don't want to go in there. You have a million rooms here, why don't you actually go see some of them. Have you ever even been in the study upstairs?” she asked, trying to think of any excuse at all, without giving away her fear. Jameson narrowed his eyes.
“I don't give a fuck about my other rooms. I like this room,” he replied.
“That's stupid,” she rolled her eyes.
“You're stupid, but you don't hear me bitching about it every two seconds,” he pointed out.
“Yes, you do.”
“Shut up.”
“Or let's go to the conservatory,” she started to offer. “I wonder if my geraniums are still alive. Did you hire -,”
“Tatum, cut the bullshit. Why don't you want to go in there?” Jameson demanded.
She took a deep breath. Stared him in the eye. Jameson hadn't seemed to have caught onto it yet, but she had a very powerful weapon against him. Sex. He simply couldn't resist it, and he was easily distracted by it. His one weakness, if it could be called that. It was very handy for Tate, because she used it to forget. When she was lost in his heat and his skin and his fire, she could forget she wanted to hurt him, the way he had hurt her. Forget that she wanted to destroy a small piece of his heart, the way he had done to hers.
Tate moved her hands to the buttons on the jacket she was wearing. Popped the top one open. Jameson cocked up an eyebrow. She worked the second one open, then trailed her fingers down to the third button. By the time she got to the bottom button, both his eyebrows were raised, and he had a decidedly mean glint in his eye.
Good, I need something to sting extra hard tonight.
“Because it's boring,” Tate breathed the word as she let his jacket fall to the ground. “Always in the library. You're so vanilla, Kane. A million rooms, and you only ever want to fuck me in one.” She clucked her tongue at him as she kicked the coat away from her feet.
“I get the very distinct impression you're trying to distract me,” he said. She smiled and took slow steps towards the stairs.
“Is it working?” she asked, reaching up to let her hair down.
“So far,” he replied, his eyes following her as she started up the stairs.
“Good.”
They didn't make it to his bedroom. They didn't even make it to a guest bedroom. It would've happened right in the hallway, if Sanders hadn't been somewhere in the house. As it was, Jameson pinned her against the wall in a linen closet, and he was sure to make it sting.
*
Tate sat outside, bundled up in an old sweater that used to belong to Sanders. It was a bright, shiny day out – and totally freezing. She wore a thick pair of wool socks over her knee socks and had tucked herself into a lounge chair. She sat next to the pool, which had been covered, and took out her cell phone.
“I was just thinking about you,” Nick said when he answered.
“Psychic,” she joked, pulling her knees up to her chest.
“How're things?” he asked.
Tate had kept him mostly in the dark about everything that had happened. He just knew that she was back in Boston, and that she and Jameson were “friends”; she never elaborated on what kind of friends, and thankfully he never asked. By the time she got back to Boston, he had already moved into his house in Arizona. Spring training didn't start till mid-February, but he liked settling in first.
“Good, things are good. Just kinda hanging out,” she responded.
“No job?” he asked.
“No, no job.”
“What about school? You mentioned once -,”
“No, Dad, no school either,” Tate said sarcastically.
“Well, I worry about you. When you don't keep busy, you either vegetate, or get into trouble. And if you're going to get into trouble, I'd like to at least be there,” he told her. She snorted.
“I'm not getting into trouble, or 'vegetating', I promise. Sandy and I went up to New York the other weekend, he took me to the Natural History Museum, all that good stuff,” she assured him of her innocence. Nick would be the last person alive who would buy it, by the time she was through.
“You and Sanders alone together for a weekend, huh,” he said. She smiled.
“Ooohhh, sounds like jealousy,” Tate teased.
“No, no, not at all. Sanders is a very fine man. When you marry him, can I walk you down the aisle?” he asked.
“Of course. Now if we can just convince Jameson to walk with Sandy, it'll be perfect,” she joked.
“Is there any way we could not invite Jameson?” Nick asked.
“Jameson isn't the kind of man you don't invite places – he just invites himself, anyway,” she assured him.
“Not exactly surprising. So, when are you going to come visit me?” Nick asked.
They had talked several times about her coming out there. Nick thought it was a great idea. Tate thought it was horrible. She was in a bad place, a bad state of mind. She didn't want him to see her like that, and she didn't want him to become a casualty on her path to becoming a bitch.
“I don't know, Nick. When does training end?” she asked, for the millionth time.
“End of March. Tatum, it would be really nice to see you, before I have to go on the road,” he said in a soft voice. She hated his soft voice. It could make her do almost anything.
“I'll try, I promise. Maybe in a couple weeks, before training really gets under way,” she offered.
“That would be nice. I mean, there's no pressure. I just want to see you. I'm not asking for anything else,” Nick told her.
“I know that. Thank you.”
Sometimes, Nick felt like the only person who wasn't asking her for something, or expecting her to be anything. It was nice.
“Though I wouldn't stop you if you suddenly felt like getting naked and climbing into bed with me,” he threw out there, and she burst out laughing.
“Good to know, good to know,” Tate tried to contain herself. Then she saw Jameson prowling through the conservatory, and her laughter dried up.
“So. End of March?” Nick asked. She nodded, watching Jameson.
“I'll try,” was all she offered.
“That's all I ever ask. I gotta go. Take care of yourself,” he instructed her. She nodded again as Jameson finally walked out of the house.
“I never do,” she replied, then hung up the phone.
Jameson was slowly making his way towards her, his hands in pants pockets. She sighed as she watched him. He was wearing a suit, this one with a vest. It killed her. She wanted to lick the fabric, he looked so good. He had everything tailored, so everything fit him like a glove. She loved it. She always loved the way he looked; he always took her breath away a little.
Sometimes, he made it very hard for her to hate him.
“Talking with your boyfriend?” he asked snidely as he approached her.
And sometimes, he made it very easy.
“He's lonely. Can I go visit him?” Tate asked. Jameson snorted.
“Abso-fuckin'-lutely not,” he replied, standing right over her.
“Scared you'll lose me?” she laughed. He laughed as well.
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