Degradation (17 page)

“Not yet. You may be stupid and annoying, but you're one hell of a lay,” Jameson told her, his smile wide. She rolled her eyes and climbed out of the car.

Tate was mad, though she wasn't sure why. She knew that Jameson didn't care about her – why was she angry that he had said it out loud?
Because it made it real
. When they were alone together, lazing around his library, he made it easy to forget. He would just talk with her sometimes, laugh with her. Made it seem like he actually liked her, for more than just her abilities in bed.

Stupid girl.

“What are you doing!?” she demanded, when he got out of the car on the other side.

“You were right about one thing. I agreed to go, so I'm going. Can't have you holding it over my head later. Say a lot of things about me, but I'm not a quitter,” Jameson told her as she came around to stand next to him.

“But I don't want you here anymore,” she said. He shrugged.

“Don't really care. What's the apartment number?”

Her vision started turning a little red. Never had she dealt with such a stubborn man. If she wanted to go left, he went right. If she went right with him, he decided to go left. Sometimes it turned her on. Other times, it just made her want to kill him.

Her game had been a bad one, a bust. Jameson had spent the whole day doing her “normal” things, and he hadn't acted normal at all. Deep down, she had thought maybe it would all humanize him a bit.
Mistake.
Now she wanted to make him hurt. Make him bleed a little. She didn't know if it was possible, but when she looked over his shoulder, something gave her the idea to try.

“
Ang!
” she called out, waving her arm in the air. Jameson turned as she pushed past him.

“Kitty-cat, how're things? Haven't seen you in a while,” Ang called back, still a couple buildings down from her. She jogged the distance to him.

“Too long of a while,” Tate replied, throwing herself in to his arms.

“Well, you could -,”

She covered his lips with her own, swirling her tongue through his mouth. He sat her on her feet, clearly a little shocked, slow in kissing her back. She put on a good show, running her hands along his shoulders and clawing down his chest. He finally managed to break the kiss, gently pushing her away. She winked up at him.

“
You're my
best
friend,” she teased. He glanced behind her.

“
Oh, are we onto the '
make-him-jealous
' phase of the relationship?” Ang asked, eyeballing Jameson. She shook her head.

“
No, we're onto the '
make-him-piss-blood
' part. He hurt my feelings. I want to hurt his pride,” Tate explained.

“Glad to be of service.”

They walked up to Jameson hand in hand. The reception between the two men was cool, at best. Ang smiled his shit-eating grin, wrapping an arm around Tate's waist. He knew he was the more cherished between the two. Jameson smiled back in a lazy manner, letting his eyes wander over Ang's wiry frame and then over to Tate's smaller form. He knew he was the one she was going home with that night – and any other night. They
both
knew what she was like in bed. It was like being in the middle of a very loud silent-argument. She felt like her hair was going to stand on end from all the tension.

“Inside! Everybody inside, chop chop,” she ordered, scooting both men up the stairs ahead of her.

Of course it was super fucking awkward. Her friend Rachel – the girl she had covered for to cater the Kraven and Dunn event, thus the person responsible for the fucked up relationship Tate now found herself in – was the one throwing the dinner party, and it was mostly a bunch of twenty-somethings; all people who worked the same kind of jobs, led the same kind of lives. Jameson stuck out like a sore thumb. Originally, Tate had thought that would be part of the fun. But it just made things weird. He was quiet and taciturn, didn't even try to pretend to be interested in anything or anyone.

It didn't help that Ang took her statement very seriously and took every opportunity to touch her inappropriately. Jameson watched, that cool, disdainful look in his eye, but he didn't say or do anything. Just smiled. It made her a little nervous. She escaped in to the kitchen where most of the other girls were; Tate was normally a dude kind of lady, would rather hang out with the boys. Not that night. She chugged pinot grigio, wishing it was whiskey, and just hoped that Ang and Jameson would kill each other, curing all her frustrations.

Dinner was finally served. Jameson took a seat towards one end of a large table. They hadn't spoken a word directly to each other since she had kissed Ang, and Tate hesitated about which seat she should take. Jameson solved the dilemma when he yanked on her arm, forcing her in to the chair next to him. She didn't argue. Just drank more. Ang sat across from them and tried his hardest to flirt, but when she stopped responding, he turned his attentions to Rus, who became all giggly and red. Tate glared at her.

Stupid, normal girl. Bet she could just go out and have normal, boring sex. Bet no one calls her a dumb cunt – and if they did, bet she wouldn't be such a weirdo that she'd like it.

Jameson lightened up over the food, actually laughing and talking with some of the guys next to him. It made Tate feel a little better, up until he took her glass of wine away. Didn't even look at her, just reached out and grabbed it, moving it to the other side of his plate. Apparently, she was done drinking.

Asshole
.

She helped clean up, and while she and Rachel washed dishes, everyone gathered in the living room. Ang was telling one of his “
a day in the life of a wannabe porn star
” stories, and everyone was laughing. When she peeked her head out, even Jameson had a smile on his face. She smiled and ducked back in to the kitchen. At least he was pretending to have a good time. Maybe that would gentle the blow that would come later.

“Hey, Rach,” Tate said, pressing her wrist to her forehead. “Do you have any aspirin or anything? I have a killer headache.”

“In my bedroom, I have some tylenol in the bathroom – maybe some stronger stuff, I don't know what's all in there. Help yourself. Go lay down, if you want,” Rachel offered, rubbing her back. Tate smiled and wandered down the hall.

Rachel's room was small, but she had an en suite, which Tate would kill for in her own apartment – even a half bath. She found the tylenol, but on another shelf in the medicine cabinet, she found some vicodin.
Thank god.
She took one pill and washed it down with the glass of wine she had snuck out of the kitchen.

She had pushed the bedroom door mostly closed behind her, left all the lights off, but she didn't lay down. She wandered around Rachel's room, not prying, but peeking through the stuff that was out. Standard pajamas, no lace or leather. Her closest didn't show a hint of kink. There was a dresser along one wall, with a bunch of jewelry on top of it. Tate picked through it, holding up earrings and moving to a mirror that was on the wall at the foot of the dresser, looking herself over.

Tatum O'Shea, nice, normal girl
.
Pshaw, right.

The door creaked and opened, light from the hall spilling inside. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Jameson walk towards her. She didn't say anything, just grabbed a necklace off the dresser and moved back to the mirror. She struggled with the clasp and he walked up behind her, taking the necklace from her fingers.

“Too cheap,” he commented. Tate stared at his reflection while he clasped the necklace.

“You think?” she asked, pressing her hand against the jewelry. It was several strands of pearls, of varying lengths, all connected as one at the ends.

“Yes. They're fake. I remember you wearing another set of fake pearls, once. You need real ones,” he told her. She smiled.

“I'll put that on my to-do list. Rent, utilities, pearls,” she joked, reaching back and unhooking the necklace. As soon as she removed it, his hands took its place, his thumbs hooked around the back of her neck and his fingers splaying down to her collar bone.

“I hurt you,” Jameson repeated his statement from the car. She threw the necklace onto the dresser.

“A little bit. I'm mostly over it,” she replied.

“I don't think you're stupid, Tate,” he started, and she held her breath, her eyes locked on his in the mirror. Jameson, apologizing? No way. “I think the way you live is stupid. Maybe I hide a little, but you're running away, too. You are better than all of this, smarter than all of them,
and you know it.
”

“Those are my friends,” her voice was soft.

“Can you honestly tell me that sometimes you don't want something different?” he asked.

“
Who doesn't?” she responded. “It's knowing the worth of what you have. Fake pearls are just as good as real pearls, if they're given with good intentions and love. If Ang gave me the gaudiest, ugliest, tackiest, strand of fake pearls ever, I would love them more than any set of real pearls my parents ever gave me. Ang
loves
me. So good or bad, stupid or smart, those people care about me. I care about them. I could go back to Harvard tomorrow, and I would still be friends with these people, Jameson.”

He stared at her for a while, his grip getting harder. Almost like he was pushing down on her shoulders. He looked a little angry, and she wondered if maybe honest candor could get to Jameson more than childish games.

“If
Angier
gave you pearls, huh. And what if
I
gave you pearls? What would they mean to you?” he asked. She scrunched up her nose. The metaphor was starting to get awfully convoluted.

“Depends.”

“Oh what?”

“On how much they cost. You don't love me, so to be impressed, that price tag better be huge,” she halfway joked. He smirked at her.

“So, if I got you a $50,000 strand of pearls, and
Angier
got you some shitty fake ones, his would mean more to you, because he '
loves
'
you?
” Jameson clarified.

“There are pearl necklaces that cost $50,000!?” Tate almost shouted her response.

“There are ones that cost a lot more than that. At least I know I can aim a little lower if I want to impress you,” he smirked. She swatted at his leg.

“Shut up. And don't be jealous of Ang, he just likes to play with me,” she told him.

“I'm not jealous. And it looks more like
you
like to play with
him
.”

“It's a mutual kind of thing.”

“So I played your game. I came downtown. I came to your dinner. I watched you kiss
two
guys. Do I win?” Jameson asked, his fingers massaging her skin. She sighed.

“Do you ever lose?” she replied.

“I keep trying to tell you that, I
never
lose,” he said.

“We'll see about that, I still have some -,”

“Do you trust me, Tate?” he interrupted.

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. He looked a little surprised.

“Really?”

“Yes. You've never done something to me I didn't ask for, or didn't want. As far as I can tell, you've never lied to me. You have been upfront about everything and anything. Sometimes I don't like you very much; sometimes, I think you're the biggest dick I've ever met. You're rude, and mean, and spiteful half the time. But you never said you weren't – you've always claimed to be those things. So yes, I trust you,” she explained. He laughed.

“The things you say, Tate. Sometimes it's like talking to a man. I wonder if that's why you're so easy to talk to,” Jameson wondered out loud. She raised her eyebrows.

“I'm easy to talk to because I'm like a man?” she asked. He nodded.

“A little bit,” he told her.

“I have awfully nice tits for a dude,” she laughed, putting her hands over her breasts. He leaned close, his mouth against her ear.

“Stop talking. I came to dinner. I win. I get to extract payment,” he said.

With an abrupt shove, he pushed her to the side. She fell against the dresser, catching herself with her hands before she could face plant on the wood. She went to push herself up, but his hand pressed down on the center of her back, holding her in place.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Whatever I want. You said you trust me,” he pointed out, and she felt his other hand brush against the fabric of her skirt.

“I do, but I don't want to have sex in my friend's bedroom,” Tate told him with a laugh.

“Why not? And what makes you think we're going to fuck?”

“Um, I was in a similar position last week, and you fucked the hell out of me,
that
makes me think we're going to fuck. And I don't want to be disrespectful. This is her house, her party; she thinks I'm laying down with a migraine. The door is open, anyone can see us,” she told him.