She stared at the counter top. Of course she should talk to everyone else. The thought ran through her brain a million times. Every time Tate was with Jameson, it was on the tip of her tongue. If anyone would understand an uncontrollable urge to hurt people, it would be Jameson. But she couldn't talk to him – she wanted to hurt him, too.
She wanted blood.
“I get it. I really do. And I'll snap out of it, I promise. No more sneaking Ang into the house, no more dirty tricks while you guys are gone,” she promised. She hated lying to Sanders, so she kept her options open without being specific. He sighed.
“I honestly think you'd -,” he started to say, but then Jameson walked into the room.
“Think she'd what, Sanders?” he asked, moving to stand between them. Tate shrugged and put the brownie spoon in her mouth.
“I think if she keeps eating sweets the way she has been, her weight is going to balloon out of control,” Sanders replied, then marched out of the room. Tate stared after him.
Was that ..., did he just ..., was that a dig!? Did Sanders just snap at me, in Sanders-speak!? Good for you, Sandy.
“Am I getting fat!?” she exclaimed, turning to look down at her ass.
No matter what was going on in her life, she always tried to make it a point to exercise, in some fashion, at least twice a week. In Spain, she had jogged up and down the marina. In Weston, she used a small gym that Jameson had put into a spare room. She couldn't be getting fat! She turned in a circle, trying to judge.
“Your ass is perfect, he's being rude. You've upset him. What were guys talking about?” Jameson asked, leaning against the island.
“Ang,” she replied. Jameson hung his head.
“Fuck, I just cannot get away from that guy.”
“You're the one who blabbed all of our pillow talk to Sandy. Do you throw in the dirty stuff, too?” Tate asked, licking the spoon clean.
“Only if he's been very good. Let's get out of here,” Jameson suddenly said.
“But I just put brownies in,” Tate told him, gesturing to the oven. He moved to stand in front of her and ran his finger along the inside of the bowl she'd used to make the batter.
“So. Set a timer, Sanders will take them out. Let's go get lunch,” he suggested, licking his finger. She followed the movement with her eyes and he smiled.
“You take him for granted,” she warned him. He barked out a laugh.
“You are always so wrong. C'mon, fat ass, let's go,” he urged, roughly squeezing her butt before walking past her.
“I am not -,” she started to argue when he hooked a finger into her apron and yanked her backwards.
“I wasn't asking, Tate.”
They went to lunch in Weston, which surprised her. He was either at home, or in Boston. She couldn't remember him ever doing anything in Weston, but he drove them straight to a restaurant and walked right in, like he had been going there for years. He had ordered before she even sat down, and she had to wait for the waiter to come back before she could put in her own order.
Being alone with him in public was the worst for her. She couldn't seduce him in a restaurant, during the middle of the day. Well, she could, but it would be a little awkward, while he was stuffing his face and a family of four sat behind them. So she was subjected to his company. And sometimes, Satan was very pleasant company, indeed. It almost made her feel guilty about her plans.
Almost.
Because she loved it so much, he had taken the Jaguar, and then surprised her by cruising around with her for a while afterwards. It was freezing, but the sun was out, so he opened the sun roof. She leaned her seat back, enjoying the breeze.
“Tate,” Jameson started, his voice heavy. She groaned.
“No more talking. I feel like everyone keeps wanting to have 'talks' with me. I am a big girl. I make my own decisions, retarded as they may be, thank you,” she said quickly.
“I wasn't going to have 'a talk'. I was going to ask how much convincing it would take to get some road head,” he replied. She burst out laughing and glanced over at him.
“Jesus, Jameson, are you always fully erect?” she chuckled. He smiled.
“Not quite always.”
“Not quite, huh. What about when you're at work? What could possibly get you excited there?” she questioned.
“Well, we did hire a new secretary. She is particularly edible,” he said. She stopped laughing.
“Oh really. Fuck her yet?” she asked, trying to sound breezy.
“Despite what you may think, I don't just fuck every woman who steps in front of me. I do let some of them get away,” he assured her.
“What about this one?” she kept on.
“No, I haven't fucked her.”
“Yet.”
“Yet,” he agreed.
“Well, don't hold back on my account. I would hate for you to be uncomfortable at work,” she managed to joke.
Tate wasn't sure how to really feel about it. She was going to dump Jameson like a bad habit, as soon as the perfect opportunity presented itself. She shouldn't care who he slept with, really. But still ...
“You and I both know you wouldn't like that to happen, so I have restrained myself. For you, I would like to point out. I want brownie points,” he said. She snorted.
“You're still in the red on brownie points. And really, I don't mind,” she assured him.
“Yes, you do.”
“I don't.”
“Tatum.”
“Jameson.”
“Stop it.”
“You stop it.”
“Okay, how about I bring her home. You could cook us dinner, and I could fuck her on the table afterwards,” he suggested, his tone biting. The picture he was painting, the idea of him fucking someone else in their – correction, his – house, made her want to throw up. But Tate figured being flippant would be more beneficial to her cause. She took a deep breath.
“Alright. But I'm a shit cook, you should probably just skip to the fucking,” she warned him. He barked out a laugh.
“Baby girl, why can't you just admit, out loud, that you don't like sharing me,” he said in a soft voice.
“Because it's not true. You're the one who doesn't like to share his toys,” she reminded him. He nodded.
“There's only certain people I don't like to share with, and I'm okay with that fact,” he agreed.
“Maybe I'm not,” she countered.
“You want to sleep with other guys? Go for it. I never said you couldn't,” he told her.
“Really? I seem to recall a sharp pair of scissors telling me other wise.”
Jameson was quiet after that, and after a couple minutes, he pulled the car into a turn around area. They were deep in the country, surrounded by frosty fields. Boston was in the middle of a cold snap, and temperatures had been in the low-twenties. As he turned the engine off, Tate wrapped her sleeves around her fists and turned to look at him.
“I don't care if you sleep with other men. I do care if you fuck them and then rub it in my face; try to make me feel like shit about it. It doesn't work – it just pisses me off and makes you look like a stupid whore,” he told her bluntly.
My, my, Satan makes a daytime appearance.
“I have a game,” Tate started, undoing her seatbelt.
“What?” he growled, eyeing her warily as she moved her seat back.
“How about we both tell the truth,” she suggested, pulling her hair up into a ponytail.
“I never lie, so this will be pretty easy for me. You, on the other hand, haven't been acquainted with the truth in quite a while,” he called her out. She rolled her eyes.
“Yes, it would bother me if you had sex with your secretary,” she stated. His eyebrows went up.
“I already know that, though I'm surprised you admitted it out loud,” he replied. She crossed her eyes at him.
“It is one thing for you to sex up some random chick in a far away place. It is another thing for you to find some new fantasti
c lover that's better than me right here at home. As you once said, I'm not done playing with you yet,” she explained.
“I'm flattered.”
“So. Now you admit something, too,” she urged.
“Like what?” he asked. She took off her scarf, threw it into the backseat.
“Like the idea of me having sex with someone else makes your blood boil,” she filled in for him. Jameson snorted.
“Tatum, I couldn't care -,”
“He almost kissed me.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ang. In the bedroom. He almost kissed me. I was kneeling on your bed. He had his arms around me,” she painted a picture. Rage rippled across Jameson's features.
“Why are you telling me this?” he demanded.
“To point out how mad you are right now,” she replied.
“That's because I don't like Angier. A stranger is completely different,” he snapped.
“Oh really? So another man, some stranger, touching me, doesn't bother you,” she clarified, and slowly shrugged off her jacket.
“Not in the least,” he replied. She smiled.
“Another man fucking me doesn't bother you. So if I were to go downtown, and rent a hotel room for a weekend, and just sow some wild oats, you would be cool with that?” she clarified, putting her jacket into the backseat.
“Completely.”
“Ooohhh, I know what I'm doing next weekend. I'm going to get a room, and then I'm going to put on the tiniest skirt I own, and then I'm going to go bar hopping. I am going to find some devastatingly sexy guy. Fuck it, maybe I won't even need him to take me back to the room,” Tate said, shivering as she described it.
“You do love a good alley-fuck.”
“Don't I, though? Or a car. Cars are good. If he has a car, I'll just climb into the backseat and let him bend me over the console. Been a long time since I've had good car sex,” she sighed.
“You could be having it right now.”
“And ruin the fantasy? No, I'll wait. I'm very glad to know you're okay with all this, it's so exciting! If it's really good, then maybe I'll take him back to the hotel room, and let him touch every inch of my body, put his dick in any orifice he wants. Maybe, if I'm very lucky, I'll get some new bruises to bring home,” Tate said. Jameson's hand went into her hair and pulled, yanking her towards him.
“Sex is one thing. If I see a bruise, we have a problem,” he hissed.
“That's stupid. So I can have sex, just not good sex?” she asked. He glared at her.
“You can have perfectly good sex without someone leaving a mark on you. I get to leave marks – not other men,” he told her.
“Maybe you can have good sex that way, but not me. No, if I'm gonna go out and get nailed, then I'm gonna get fucking hammered by some guy. Like, can't walk right the next day,” she laughed.
“I think it's time for you to shut the fuck up,” Jameson informed her. She shook her head.
“But it's just getting good, and not like you care, right? I hope whoever it is isn't shy, cause I love going down on a guy in public. Just right there in some dark night club. I'll just slip onto my knees – men seem to love that, don't they? – and press him against a wall, then take every inch of his -,” her voice got softer and softer, all while his fist pulled harder and harder.
“Tatum,” Jameson interrupted, his voice sharp.
“Hmmm?” she purred, trailing a finger up his chest.
“You are not getting a hotel room this weekend.”
“I'm not?”
“And you are not going bar hopping.”
“Boring.”
“And you are most certainly not making every 'orifice' available to some random guy.”
“And why is that?” she asked.
“Because,” Jameson answered, his free hand undoing his belt buckle.
“Because why?”
“Because. If another man ever touches you, I will fucking kill him,” he replied simply. Tate smiled broadly.
“I win,” she whispered.
“It's going to be awfully hard to gloat with your mouth full of dick.”
“I'll manage.”
“Bitch.”
She was about to make a witty remark, but then he was forcing her head into his lap and she was a little busy.
If he doesn't want you fucking anyone else, that means he's jealous. And if he's jealous, that means he cares. And if he cares, then maybe he really never lied. And if he never lied, then you don't have to ruin everything. And if you don't have to ruin everything, then maybe you can admit out loud that you have most definitely, certainly, positively, absolutely, irrevocably sold your soul to Satan.
~4~
Tate could handle angry Jameson. She could handle mean Jameson. She could handle funny, smart, sexy, witty, foul mouthed Jameson. But there were two versions she had had trouble with, sadistic Jameson, and nice Jameson. Sadistic Jameson had only ever truly come out twice – when he had tricked her into visiting her parents, and big time when he had brought Petrushka home. He could push her around and call her all the names he wanted, but fucking with her mind or her heart, that was not okay.
Nice Jameson, though, he was the worst. She didn't trust him. He hadn't come out till so late in the game – she hadn't thought he even existed. When she was always expecting him to be bad, it was shocking to see good. It was like she was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, the other hand to swing. Hovering in a state of permanent wincing.
She hated it, and anymore, nice Jameson was around more than any of the others combined. Her conscience was being ripped in half. She would find herself staring at him, moon-eyed, practically worshipping every word that fell from his mouth, and then she would slap herself.
He brought Pet to America. He brought Ellie to Paris. Who's he gonna bring home next? Do you really wanna be here to find out?
It was torture. Sanders wasn't helping, always looking at her sideways, pulling her aside to chat, to assure her that Jameson's intentions were noble and pure. Bullshit. Jameson and nobility didn't dine at the same table, and he had probably been born with a dirty heart, so purity was out of the question.
Kinda like me ...
She was so fucked. She just wondered when she would finally throw in the towel and really admit it to herself.
*
“What are you doing?” Sanders asked as he walked into the library. Jameson didn't look away from his task.
“Trying to find the best place for this,” he replied.
Several people were standing in his library, all wearing white gloves. They were from a museum – Jameson had hired them to move and hang his original Mark Rothko painting. He had inherited it from his father, and for a long time, it had stayed at the house in Pennsylvania. When Jameson sold the house, he had the painting moved to the lobby of his offices in New York. He had never thought much about it, other than it was a good investment. But when he opened his firm in Boston, on a whim, he had the painting brought there and placed in his own personal office.
Tatum loved the piece, though she had only ever been in his office that one time, when he had basically propositioned her. She had commented once that she was a fan of Rothko's work, and was impressed that he had one. Very little truly impressed Tatum O'Shea.
She wouldn't go in his library. Too many memories associated with it. He didn't understand women, understand their stupid brains – all the memories were good memories, nothing bad had happened to her in there. It wasn't like he was trying to force her into Sanders' old room. No one went into that room. He was going to have the whole thing gutted and ripped apart. Have it turned into a fucking yoga studio for her.
Jameson liked his library, and he liked spending time in it. He didn't, however, like sitting in there and having to listen to her and Sanders galavanting around the house all day. Laughing in the conservatory, whispering in the kitchen, tumbling down the stairs. Well, really, that last one was just Tate. Still. He was ready to strangle somebody. Sh
e was there to entertain him, not Sanders, and she couldn't do that if she wasn't in the room.
So. He was going to bribe her, with her favorite piece of art.
I wonder if Angier has this much trouble with her.
“If I may – move the couch to the center of the room, move those bookshelves, hang the painting there. It will be a focal point,” Sanders said quickly, gesturing to the wall opposite the fireplace. Jameson blinked and looked around the room.
“The couch will cut the room in half,” he replied, turning around. The library was long, narrow. There was a lot of open space between the two walls. In the old days, Tate's preferred spot was stretched out on the floor. She had never used the couch and it had never occured to him to move it.
“Yes. You will need to buy a coffee table. Why are you bringing the painting here?” Sanders asked. Jameson nodded at the museum people and they began rearranging his furniture.
“Because it's one of her favorites. I thought it would entice her to come in here,” Jameson explained, walking out of the room and heading into the kitchen.
“You could just ask her,” Sanders suggested. Jameson laughed.
“Don't you think I've tried?”
“No, I don't. I think you've told her. I think you've commanded. But I highly doubt you've ever asked,” Sanders said.
Well then.
“Sometimes, I think you two are working against me,” Jameson grumbled.
“I would never, I assure you,” Sanders responded.
“She seems to be lightening up, doesn't she?” Jameson asked.
It had been two weeks since they had gone to lunch together. Since he had admitted he hated the idea of another man touching her. After she made him come down her throat, she had pulled him into the backseat. Went into graphic detail, again, about all the things she was willing to let other men do to her. It drove him insane. He had wanted to commit murder and fuck her as hard as he could. He settled for the latter.
Reparation (The Kane Trilogy Book 3) Page 5
