Degradation (29 page)

Partner(s): Jameson Kane, American financier. Status: Engaged.

“
No, no, no, no, no,
” Tate whispered, and went back to Google.

She typed in their names together. A lot of the same pictures came up, but also ones she hadn't seen. A couple were pretty recent. She pulled the websites they were from – they were
very
recent. Like three weeks ago. Three weeks ago, he had gone to New York for the weekend – she remembered him mentioning it to her. They looked like they were arguing in the photographs, standing on a sidewalk. Another set of photographs were from two weeks ago, them walking down a street. One was from yesterday. He had just gotten back from New York, last night. They were sitting down across from each other in some sort of lobby, the picture taken through the windows.

Tate turned away from Ang, back towards the foot of the bed, and put her head in her hands. She wasn't going to cry, but she kind of wanted to hyperventilate. She kept reminding herself, over and over, that Jameson wasn't her boyfriend. Technically, he could do whatever
he wanted.
She
could do whatever she wanted.

But we had a deal. He couldn't be with her. We had a deal
.

She felt Ang move, slide down the bed behind her. His long legs went around either side of her and then his arms were around her, hugging her from behind, pulling her in to his chest. She took deep breaths and leaned against him, let him rock her back and forth. She felt horrible. She felt
angry.

“It's okay, Tate. It's just pictures, we don't know what they mean,” Ang said softly.

“I know. I know that. It's just ..., hard,” she replied, dropping her hands in to her lap.

“You really like him, don't you?” Ang asked. She sighed.

“Yeah, I think I kinda do,” she told him. He chuckled.

“Good girl Tate falls for Satan, who would've thought,” he teased. She rolled her eyes.

“I'm not a good girl,” she pointed out.

“Yes, you are. You've just gotten very good at hiding it,” he replied.

“I don't want to see him tonight,” she whispered. Ang's laugh was dark.

“Stay with me,” he whispered back, his lips against her ear. She shivered.

“No. He may be an asshole, but I'm not. When I confront him about this, it will be with a clear conscience. If it turns out he's a massive, lying, dickhole, with some secret supermodel wife, then I'll come fuck your brains out to get back at him,” Tate explained. Ang laughed.

“Cheers, thanks for that. Glad I have a say in this, that I'm good for something to you,” he snickered. She laughed as well.

“Shut up, you love it,” she told him.

“More than you know. I will happily be your revenge fuck, darling,” he assured her. She took a deep breath.

“You're too good to me. I have to go, thanks for letting me come over, and for horrifically depressing me,” she laughed, untangling herself from him and climbing off the bed.

“Where are you going?” he asked, standing up behind her. She bent over, pulling on her shoes.

“Home. Gotta get changed, head to work,” she replied. She felt his hands slide over her hips, pulling her back against him, and she glanced over her shoulder.

“Just getting reacquainted,” Ang told her. She stared at him for a moment, watched him as he looked down at her back, at her hips, his hands sliding back and forth. His voice was soft, but nothing else about him was.

Uh-oh.

“Save it for your porno, Ang. I'll talk to you later,” she said, managing a laugh as she pulled away from him. He gave her a tight lipped smile, but didn't say anything as she walked out of his room.

At home, she put on some tiny black shorts, and a cropped Red Sox jersey. Her knee high black wedge boots. Did her eye makeup extra heavy, pulled her hair up in to a “
just fucked
” looking ponytail. She wanted to look bad. Slutty.
Angry.

The Sox had played the day before, and her jersey got a lot of compliments – as did her stomach and ass. She slung drinks and flirted a lot more than she usually did, all while watching the front door. Sometimes, on a Saturday, Jameson would come to town early, sit at the end of the bar. Watch her in a way that usually had her squirming to get him alone.

He didn't show up, but while she had her eye on the door, another good looking man walked through it. Warm brown eyes. Shaggy hair. Open smile. Broad shoulders, thick arms. She recognized him, and suddenly a thought burst in to her head.

She couldn't sleep with Ang, and since she and Jameson had started sleeping together, she hadn't felt the urge to be with anyone else. Well, right then, the urge was upon her. The man was sexy as sin, and he was a baseball player. The first baseman for the Boston Red
Sox, Nick Castille, to be exact. Wealthy. Semi-famous. A challenge.

A threat.

She laid it on thick with him. Leaned over the bar to deliver his drinks, winked at him, touched Rusty inappropriately in front of him. He watched her with hooded eyes, obviously liking what he was seeing. He finally called her over.

“I like your jersey,” he commented. She spun around, showing him the back while shaking her hips.

“Good, I'm glad,” she laughed.

“But it's the wrong number,” he informed her. She turned back, sauntered up and leaned against her side of the bar.

“And what number should I be wearing?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow up.

“
Mine,
” he replied.

“
Ooohhh,
and how would I go about getting one of your jerseys?” she asked, lowering her voice.

“You could have it tomorrow, when you wake up wearing it,” he suggested. She laughed.

“Sounds like a plan.”

They chatted on and off for a while. He was actually pretty funny, and very nice. He left after about two hours, but came back when the bar was closing. She chased everyone out, locked up. Didn't even ask to go back to his fancy hotel room, or penthouse condo, or
whatever
. Just straddled him right on his bar stool. Gave him a lap dance. Let him carry her to a booth and spread her out on the table, like she was Sunday dinner.

It wasn't the most exciting sex she'd ever had, but it wasn't bad, either. He was different than what she'd been dining on lately, and that made it fun. He was more than capable and she really put on a show for him, coming loudly and hard. Then she backed him in to a chair, sat down on him, made him say her name like it was a swear. Slid under the table, wrapped her lips around him, and made him whisper her name like it was prayer.

I still got it.

Afterwards, he asked for her phone number. She laughed and said she didn't really plan on seeing him again. He shrugged and gave her his phone number, and then really did give her a jersey. She thought it was cute and put it on, gave him a lingering kiss goodbye at the door.

“You're a pretty amazing girl,” he mumbled, clasping his hands around the back of her neck. She laughed.

“No, just a huge Sox fan,” she teased. He rolled his eyes.

“You didn't even know any of my stats, or what my number was,” he pointed out.

“
Well, I'm a huge fan
now
. And I will
definitely
remember your number,” she assured him.

“
Most girls
want
to give me their phone numbers, you know. I usually have trouble getting away. You seem like you're pushing me out the door,” he told her with a laugh.

“I guess tonight's your lucky night. No strings attached, one night only, totally awesome sex,” she said, laughing as well. He raised an eyebrow.

“One night only, huh. So if I come back, I won't get a repeat?” he asked.

Now that was surprising. This guy really seemed to like her. She didn't know why. She was a succubus. Couldn't he tell when he was being used? That they were using each other? But as she let her eyes wander over him, she bit in to her bottom lip. He was very good looking, and it hadn't been a bad time at all. He was very nice to her. She wondered if he'd ever call her a waste of time.

“Not an
exact
repeat,” she started, pressing herself against him as her voice fell in to a breathy whisper. “I like to change things up, keep things exciting. There's a pool table in the back that is just the right height for -,”

He pushed back in to the bar and it was another hour before they said goodbye for real.

*

She could have gone to her apartment, but she took a cab to Jameson's. She wanted to get it over with, end her suspense. Confess to her sins. Find out if they even really were sins. It was after four-thirty in the morning, and she didn't expect anyone to be awake, but as the taxi rolled up to the porch, Sanders came outside.

“I can get it, Sandy,” Tate assured him, hurrying to dig money out of her bag. But he already had bills in his hand and she hadn't even fished out one twenty dollar bill before the cab was rolling away. Sanders turned towards her.

“I was worried,” he said very simply. She blinked in surprise.

“Really? I'm sorry. I should have called,” she replied quickly. She never wanted to hurt Sanders. Jameson was fair game, but Sanders was special.

“May I ask where you were?” he questioned. She turned and started making her way in to the house.

“At the bar, I got stuck behind,” she gave an evasive answer.

“A call would have been appreciated, ma'am,” he said in a terse voice, holding open the door for her.

“I'm really sorry. I will call you next time, I promise,” she assured him, leaning against him as she pulled off her boots.

“He's in the kitchen,” Sanders informed her. She stood upright.

“Really? You've both just been awake?” she asked.

“I waited up for you,” Sanders replied. She smiled.

“Ah, and he didn't,” she finished his statement.

“He has been ..., concerned,” was all Sanders would say.

Oooohhh, translation: pissed off.

As Sanders headed upstairs, Tate made her way in to the kitchen. Jameson was sitting at the island, a coffee mug in front of him. He glanced up at her entrance but didn't say anything, just went back to looking at his phone. She looked around the kitchen. A bunch of dishes and cups and bowls were stacked up next to the sink, sparkling clean. She frowned.

“Have you been cleaning!?” she exclaimed. There was a dishwasher that she and Sanders usually took turns working. Jameson never touched anything.

“Yes,” he replied.

“You cleaned them all,
by hand!?
I've never seen you wash
anything,
” she laughed, heading over to look at them. All white, porcelain dishes, so clean, they looked polished.

“It calms me down. Where have you been?” Jameson asked, and she turned around to see him setting his phone down.

“At the bar,” she replied, grabbing a mug and filling it with water.

“A call would have been nice.”

Tate was surprised.

“Aw, Kane, I didn't know you cared,” she teased.

“Fuck you,
O'Shea,
” he said back. “Now. The truth, please. Why are you late?”

“I was fucking the first baseman for the Boston Red Sox,” she told him bluntly. His eyebrows shot up.

“Really. Wasn't expecting that,” his voice was soft.

“Does that bother you?” she asked. He shrugged.

“Hmmm, not sure. Have you ever slept with him before?” Jameson questioned, standing up and leaning against the fridge behind him.

“Never met him before tonight,” she answered, sipping at her water.

“I see. Must have left quite a mark on him – that's his jersey, I presume?” Jameson asked, his eyes wandering over her clothing. She nodded.

“Yes. He gave me his phone number, too,” she told him.

“Are you going to call him?” Jameson continued. Tate smiled. He was cool, calm, and collected – but she could tell, he was actually a little nervous. Deep down.

Good.

“I told him I probably wouldn't. I don't plan on it,” she replied. Jameson nodded.

“Good.”

Tate laughed.

“You fuck other girls all the time. You came home the other day from Miami, with that crazy story about that ribbon dancer,” she pointed out.

“You love hearing those stories,” he reminded her. She nodded.

“Yeah, but I was under the impression I was allowed to do the same,” she said. He nodded as well.

“And so you are. So how was he? I want to hear all the details. Better than me?” Jameson asked, folding his arms across his chest. She shook her head.

“I don't want to talk about it right now.”

“Well, I want to know about it right now, so -,”

“I want to know about Petrushka Ivanovic,” Tate stated. Blunt was apparently the soup du jour that night.