Degradation (28 page)

“Nope, Sandy, I'm good,” she replied, walking through the guest house front door.

“Alright. Are you looking for something?” he asked again while she stood there, her eyes roaming over the entry way.

“Keys.”

“Keys to what, may I ask?”

“The car.”

“Our car?”

“That's the one.”

“I'm sorry,” Sanders tried again. “Did you want to go somewhere? I'd be happy to drive you.”

“That's okay. I actually do know how to drive, you know, and where I want to go takes a while,” she told him, walking up to a small desk and pulling the drawers open, rummaging around in them.

“I don't mind a long drive. I would be very happy to take you anywhere,” he assured her. She glanced at him.

“Boston. I would like you to drive me to Boston,” she said plainly. He hesitated, and then nodded.

“Alright, ma'am. If you'll wait right here, I'll bring the car around,” Sanders said, and then took off back out the door.

Tate was a little stunned for a minute, and wondered if he was joking. But Sanders never joked, so she sat down on a decorative stool. She was too tired to stand anymore. It was taking every muscle she had to keep herself upright. She wanted to fold in on herself.

Waste of time.

“So we're leaving?” Jameson's voice was soft in the doorway. She laughed, not bothering to lift her head.

“Tattle-tale,” she whispered.

“He's my assistant. He's not going to drive to Boston without at least telling me he's going to be busy for a couple hours,
or seven,
” Jameson pointed out. She nodded.

“Yup. Should've thought of that,” she replied.

“I understand running away from your family. But trying to skip out on me,
that
surprises me,” he said, moving so he was standing in front of her.

“I wasn't in the mood to hear you gloat. Not today, not right now,” she explained. He sighed and put his hands on her knees. She still refused to look at him.

“How about, if you let me come with you, I promise to keep my gloating to myself until we get home,” he offered. She laughed.

“I don't trust you to honor that promise,” she joked. He tilted her head up to face him.

“You said you trusted me,” Jameson reminded her.

“I trust that you'll be consistent. You're consistently mean,” Tate pointed out. He laughed.

“Yes, but I also consistently keep my promises. Move your ass, we're out of here,” he said before turning and walking out the door.

Tate went and waited on the front porch. She saw Ellie peeking out a window, but she moved away before Tate could make any sort of motion. Sanders pulled the car up right afterwards and he hopped out, running around to open the door for her. Before she could climb in, though, he held out a fist. She raised her eyebrows.

“For you, ma'am. I assumed you were serious,” was all he said. She held out her hand and he dropped two pills in to it. She stared in to her palm, almost laughing. Xanax.

“Sandy, I think you treat me better than anyone I've ever known,” she chuckled, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek.

“I have no doubt of that, Ms. O'Shea,” he replied before helping her in to the car.

She dry swallowed the pills and waited for Jameson to appear. It took about fifteen minutes, and then he was striding out the door, carrying both their bags. Her mother trailed after him, saying something that Tate couldn't hear. Jameson just ignored her, climbed in to the back seat next to Tate. He didn't say anything, just nodded his head towards the rear view mirror. Sanders started up the car and pulled away.

“Did you talk to any of them?” Tate asked, staring out her window.

“Yes. I told your father that the only good thing he ever did in his life was produce a very fuckable daughter,” Jameson replied. She burst out laughing.

“You're not serious.”

“Dead serious. I also added that you're a very good person, sometimes. I told your mother that I would gladly pay for her rehab, and I warned Robert that if I came across Ellie anytime soon with another bruise, I wouldn't bother breaking his jaw again, I would just rip it clean off,” he told her.

They weren't his family. As far as she knew, Jameson didn't really have much of a family. Mother died when he was young, father died a couple years ago. No siblings. No close cousins. Only Sanders. And he seemed to like it that way. So she couldn't figure out why he was bothering with her family, when she didn't even bother with them. It had started out as a game, a dare for her to undertake, but he had gone above and beyond that – he had made a mess, and he had done his best to clean it up. She was impressed. She felt a little like crying.

And when he reached over and clasped her hand – something he had never done before – Tate couldn't hold back the tears from streaming down her face. She would have been embarrassed, but the xanax made her not care. All she could focus on was his hand. His strong fingers, linked through hers. She squeezed his hand, so hard it hurt. So hard, she wouldn't be able to let go, not ever again.

Why did everything feel so different?

Because
everything
is
different.

“
Tatum.
”

“
Yes, my liege?”

“
Shut up.
”

“
How can I answer you and -,”

“
Why do you let me treat you the way I do?
”

“
I told you, I like it.”

“
I would kill another man for talking to you the way I talk to you.
”

“
That's very sweet.”

“
Do you think there's something wrong with me, treating you the way I do?
”

“
Not necessarily. It's consensual. Empowering.”

“
Empowering?
”

“
Yes. You have the power to hold me down, say things, call me names. Slut. Bitch. But I have the power to say stop. End it all. Your power is an illusion. Mine is real.”

“
Sounds kind of backwards. I could just make you do whatever I want, regardless of whether or not you say stop.
”

“
That's why I don't do all of that with just anybody. I trust you. You wouldn't do that.”

“
You're very trusting of me.
”

“
Look, I like it. You like doing it. That's why we fit so well together most of the time.”

“
Too well.
”

“
You want this to end? Just say the word.”

“
It's not that easy anymore.
”

“
Why not?”

“
You accomodate me too much.
”

“
How so?”

“
The things ..., the things I want to do to you.
”

“
What do you want to do?”

“
So many things.
”

“
So do them.”

“
That's part of the problem.
”

“
Jameson. I keep waiting for you to let go, to just do whatever it is you want to do.”

“
People say that, and then later change their mind.
”

“
Ooohhh, the mysterious ex. What did she go back on?”

“
She said she wanted me to do something. I did it. It got thrown in my face. I don't want that to happen again.
”

“
I, Tatum O'Shea, solemnly swear not to -,”

“
When Robert hit you, you were angry. You didn't like it.
”

“
There is a big difference between an abusive asshole knocking me to the ground, and you slapping me. You know me, I ask you to do it, we have sex. You don't want to hurt me, you want to fulfill me.”

“
Mmm, fulfill you. I like that.
”

“
Is this a game?”

“
No games, Tatum.
”

“
What are we, if we don't have games?”

“
Something else.
”

Jameson convinced her to stay with him for the next two weeks. That first night back, she had fallen asleep in the car, so he carried her up to his room. He stayed awake, watching her sleep. It was easy to forget while they played their little games, but she really was a very beautiful girl. Soft. Delicate.

Tatum woke up around three in the morning to catch him staring at her, and they started talking. They talked for a long time. It was the first time they had ever spent the night together and not had sex. Before, it would have seemed pointless.

It didn't seem so pointless anymore.

She didn't talk about her family, didn't really acknowledge that weekend at all. Though the next day, she did lock herself away in a guest room for about an hour, on the phone to Ang. When she emerged, she was smiling, but her eyes were puffy and red. Apparently she could discuss things with Ang, but not with Jameson. He tried not to let it bother him. They had gone to some different stage in their relationship, but they weren't quite ready to start sharing their feelings with each other.

It took her a while to get comfortable in her own skin again, but after a couple days, Tate was back to her old self. Running around in her underwear. Clipping coupons. Teasing Sanders. Begging Jameson to do unspeakable things to her. He spent most of his days in Boston, and she would go in to town with him, spend her days doing only god knew what with Ang and Rusty. But on the days she didn't work at the bar, she would always show up outside his office building at six o'clock. She
always
went home with him.

He wasn't sure exactly what was going on between them. Jameson hadn't been lying in the beginning, he didn't want a girlfriend – a girlfriend usually meant exclusivity, and he liked to have sex with other people. Though sometimes, knowing Tatum was at home and that she not only liked hearing about his one-night stands, but that they actually got her hot, made it even more enticing for him to go out and have sex with random women.

So point for her.

But he also wasn't in the market to get married, and say what she wanted, Tate was a chick, at her core. Sooner or later, she would want some sort of a commitment that he just wouldn't, and couldn't really, give her. Jameson liked his life exactly the way it was; every relationship he'd ever had, had ended on a sour note. If they tried to make their relationship in to something more, it would just end badly, too.

It was just fun and games between them, and it had to stay that way.

She and Sanders had also gotten ridiculously close, ever since the weekend get-away to the O'Shea compound. They would stay up till all hours, just sitting in the kitchen, Tate babbling on and onto him – as far as Jameson could tell, Sanders virtually never said anything back. But it seemed to work for them.

Sometimes, Jameson would come out of work to discover his car sitting alone at the curb, and the two of them would be at a restaurant somewhere. Or in a cafe. Milling around a shop. One time he couldn't find them at all, and it took forty-five minutes and eight phone calls to finally get ahold of Sanders – something that had never happened in the past. Sanders and Tate had gotten distracted by some live show in a park. When they came walking towards him down the street, arm in arm, he had a flash of anger and was shocked to realize something – he was
jealous
. Jealous of her easy going relationship with Sanders.

Jameson knew it was a ridiculous sentiment, especially since he knew he didn't make it easy for her to talk to him, or just be with him. And really, he knew he was the one she seemed to want to be with – he was the one who got tackled in the conservatory, he was the one who got violated in the pool, he was the one who woke up to blowjobs at two in the morning. Nobody else, she hadn't even talked about sleeping with other men. Hadn't even really mentioned Ang to him.

Winning.

*

“You never have time for me anymore,” Ang was whining. Tate rolled her eyes.

“I see you almost every day. If anything, I see you more now than I did before I started sleeping with him,” she pointed out. He pouted.

“You never have naked time for me anymore,” Ang amended his whine. She laughed.

“Hush. We talked about this.”

“But you're the only one who knows what I like, what I want, what I need.”

“Teach somebody else.”

“
Bitch
.”

She launched a pillow at him and he caught it, laughing. They were hanging out in his room on a Saturday night. She had to go to the bar in a little while, and she had swung by Ang's to use his laptop. She didn't have one of her own and they hadn't hung out, just the two of them, in a while. Two birds with one stone.

“Shut up, there are plenty of people out there wanting to ride the Angier train,” she assured him, sitting on the end of his bed and folding her legs up lotus style. He stretched out on the mattress behind her, kneading his toes in to her lower back.

“I am very train like, and you know, Rus has been lookin' mighty fine lately,” he commented, and she laughed again.

“You better not look twice, Ang. I'm serious, I don't want you to break her,” Tate said.

“I wouldn't break her. Just bend her a little. Fold her in half,” he replied. She looked over her shoulder.

“I'm dead serious, Ang. If you fuck her, she'll, like, fall in love with you. And it'll break her heart. I would be pissed,” she warned him.

“God, you're so boring anymore. I don't understand. You and Satan aren't boyfriend and girlfriend, but you spend all your time together, practically live together, and you aren't allowed to sleep with anyone else. Ummm ..., I'm pretty sure that's the basic definition of boyfriend-and-girlfriend,” Ang pointed out.

Tate already knew this, had already thought about it,
a lot
. Her relationship with Jameson was a strange one. It didn't have a label, but she kinda liked that – labels were boring. Labels could ruin things, made a person feel like they always had to be living up to it. She and Jameson, they just
existed
. It was easier. She tried not to think about it too much.

“We're allowed to sleep with other people,” she corrected Ang.

“Oh, that's right – just not
me,
” he grumbled, making a face. She laughed.

“Technically, it's just me who isn't allowed to sleep with you, so you could -,”

“Don't make me sick. You said he sleeps with other women all the time, but how many guys have
you
slept with?” Ang asked.

And that's where the “open relationship” aspect fell apart. Jameson had told her she could sleep with other men, and the independent-slutty-woman inside of her told her she could sleep with other people, but the desire wasn't there. She only wanted him.

And it was just her own thinking, just something inside of her, but Tate had the distinct feeling that though Jameson said it was okay, it was actually
not
okay. Not at all. Jameson Kane didn't like to share his toys, and Tate figured she was one of his better ones.

“Just because I haven't slept with anyone doesn't mean I can't, or won't. Besides, why go out for hamburger when I've got steak at home?” she offered as an explanation, trying to lighten the mood. Ang snorted.

“Sounds like bullshit. If your relationship didn't disgust me so much, I'd bug you more about it. Let's do something fun!” he proclaimed. She turned her attention back to the computer.

“Like what?”

“I don't know. What is Satan up to, anyway?”

“He's at home, going over some paperwork for some big to-do that's coming up in Europe,” she replied.

“Some big to-do? In Europe? Like what? Where?” Ang pressed. She shrugged.

“I don't know, I don't really ask. He has a house in Denmark,” she told him.

“Denmark? Odd, I would have figured him for a London man, or Berlin, or something. Why Denmark?” he asked. She shrugged again.

“I don't know. I told you, I don't ask,” she replied.

“Jesus, Tate,” Ang laughed, sitting upright. “He could be a serial killer, or a human trafficker, or a pedophile hiding from the law, or ...,” he kept listing stuff off. She turned to face him, smacking him in the leg.

“Shut up!” she laughed.

“... or a drug smuggler, or a thief of rare art work, or secretly married with a family, or -,”

They both stopped at that idea. Tate stared at Ang. It was a secret fear of hers. Jameson went away a lot. New York for a weekend. L.A. For a week. Back to New York for a day. Miami for a day. Back to New York. The ex girlfriend lived in New York, Tate was pretty sure. Though she wasn't sure at all about the “ex” status.

“He's always been honest with me. He would have told me,” Tate said in a soft voice. Ang snorted.

“
Apparently you guys have more of a '
don't ask, don't tell
' relationship. Some people don't consider a lie by omission really a lie. Look him up,” he suggested, nodding at the laptop. She glanced down.

“What do you mean?” she asked. He groaned and took the laptop from her hands.

“What's Satan's last name?” he grumbled. She chewed on her bottom lip.

“This isn't right, Ang. He doesn't pry in to my stuff,” she mumbled. He guffawed.

“Are fucking serious? Tate, he blindfolded you and made you spend the weekend with your family from hell. You're right, he doesn't pry – he rips shit open and makes a mess. Full name,” he demanded.

Tate gave it to him.

After Ang typed it in to the Google search bar, he handed the computer back to her. She was shocked at how many things came up right away. Jameson was a lot more “famous” than she would have ever guessed. She clicked on the images tab, and there were tons of him, in paparazzi photos. Him two years ago, at an L.A. movie premiere, some actress on his arm. Him at New York Fashion Week, just last February, a famous singer on his arm. Him standing next to a pool in swim shorts, soaking wet, talking on a cell phone while some ridiculously beautiful girl floated in the pool underneath him – some model whose name she didn't recognize. Most of the photos were because he was with famous people. They were getting photographed, and he was just caught in the cross-hairs.

But there were some of just him. He was very wealthy, which made him an attraction in his own right. A lot of the photographs were from European tabloids, talking about his playboy lifestyle over the past couple years. Nothing too bad, nothing she hadn't already known about or assumed. None of it bothered her, and she could look at Jameson all day, so the pictures were fun.

She skimmed through the years, catching up on his past. Wondered if she'd ever been secretly photographed with him – and then she found one. She and Ang giggled over it, a grainy photo of her, Sanders, and Jameson, standing outside of some restaurant that they had gone to on its opening day. A pretty swanky place, with some local celebrities making appearances. She hadn't thought much of that night, but there she was, on Google. It was from a local newspaper, and they didn't list her or Sanders' names, didn't even mention them at all, just that Jameson Kane had been in attendance, but still. She felt giddy.

But then she began to notice a cluster of other pictures, all of Jameson with the same girl. Them walking down a street together in Paris. Them entering a tube station in London. Lots of them eating in restaurants. Posing, with their arms around each other, at fashion events and movie premieres and award shows. Leaving nightclubs together, Jameson pulling her by the hand.
Holding her hand
. It made Tate feel a little nauseous.

“Who is she?” Ang finally asked. Tate sighed.

“I think she's his ex.”

“What ex?”

“
The
ex.”

She was absolutely.
Drop. Dead. Gorgeous
. Some super-dooper-model, half Ukranian, half Danish.
Danish.
Tate's heart stopped a little. That must be why he owned a home in Copenhagen – he had bought it to be close to her. Shocking. The model was internationally famous and retardly beautiful. Jameson was so rich, it was obscene. A match made in heaven. There were pictures of them all over the globe together.

He barely leaves the house with me.

“She hasn't got anything on you. Look at those skinny hips, I would rip her in half,” Ang said quickly. Tate chuckled.

“
She's gorgeous, Ang. I can admit when someone is better looking than me,” she replied. Tate wasn't shy about her looks, she knew she was hot, knew she was downright sexy. But this woman, she was beautiful.
Stunning.

“No, you're just as pretty as she is,” Ang assured her. Tate snorted.

“No, I'm not. But I would put money on the fact that I'm better in bed,” she said back, and Ang laughed.

“That's my girl. How long did they go out for?”

They did some digging. The earliest mention of them together was two years before – it had been on and off, apparently pretty rocky. Rumors of crazy fights and wild sex. The model's name was Petrushka Ivanovic. They went to her website, but it wasn't very helpful. Just depressing. Then they went to her Wikipedia page, and the words on the screen slapped Tate across the face. And not in the good way.