Reparation (7 page)

“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.

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. She 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.

There had been a lot of talk of them fucking other people. A lot of cursing, and biting, and scratching. Plenty of choking. The Jag was not big; he was pretty sure he still had a charley horse from their exertions. But for all that, she seemed ..., mellower. Like it had calmed something in her. Like some of her anxiety had been abated, though he couldn't figure out how. Had she really been concerned about him having sex with someone else? Or was it something else, something she hadn't ever told him? Something that maybe still bothered her?

It made him nervous. And Jameson Kane didn't get nervous very often.

Why so nervous? Afraid you'll lose her? You'd have to admit you want to keep her, first.

There had been some light talk in Spain. Heavier in Paris. He wasn't a man of much feeling or emotion, but once in a great while, it bubbled to the surface. Tate had a knack for bringing it out of him. At any given time, if someone asked him how he would feel if Tate walked out the door and never looked back, he would probably say “
fine
”; but if they happened to catch him at a truly honest moment, the answer would be “
fucking terrified
”. He didn't want her to go away,
ever
. They fit together and that was that. He didn't delve into it, he didn't question it. He just went with it.

God, if she would just do the fucking same.

“Maybe. Slightly. Some of her anger is gone. But there is still no trust. She is waiting for you to strike,” Sanders answered, his eyes sliding away to look out the kitchen door.

“She told you this?” Jameson was surprised. Sanders shook his head.

“No, I just know it,” he said.

“How?”

“Because I listen. I pay attention.
I know her,
” Sanders replied.

Ouch
.

“Maybe we just know her in different ways. You fulfill her emotionally and I fulfill her sexually. Maybe this is just how it works for us. Maybe we've been in a threesome this whole time,” Jameson suggested.

“Sometimes, sir, you make me ill,” Sanders almost snapped, not keeping the disgust out of his voice. Jameson smiled.

“Glad to know I've still got the touch. I listen to her, Sanders. I pay attention. But I can only go so far – she's knows what I am. What else can I do?” Jameson asked. Sanders finally turned to look at him again.

“You could try
asking her
what's wrong
,
” he stressed. Jameson groaned and put his head into his hands.

“All I wanted was sex. Just a little freaky sex, every now and then. When the fuck did it get so complicated?” he grumbled.

“When you met your match, sir.”

“Sanders?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

“Of course.”

They stood in silence for a minute. One of the things Jameson loved about Sanders, they could be in complete silence. For long periods of time, sometimes for a whole day. And Sanders never minded Jameson's blunt, crass nature. It was heaven. If only he could train Tatum to be the same way.

“Where is she?” Jameson asked, lifting his head. She had left that morning, but he hadn't bothered to ask her what she was doing; she had left him half dead in the shower, completely weak in the knees. The woman could probably suck a golf ball through fifty feet of garden hose. It was outstanding.

“I believe she went to see Mr. Hollingsworth,” Sanders answered.

“
Fuuuuuuuck
.”

“I advised her not to do anything rash,” Sanders offered. Jameson snorted.

“And how did she respond?” he asked. Sanders was quiet for a while, and Jameson looked at him pointedly.

“She ..., she blew a raspberry. All over my face,” he replied. Jameson laughed.

“Poor Sanders. Still in love with her?” he chuckled. The other man turned slightly pink.

“I have lots of purell,” was all he said before walking out of the kitchen.

*

Tate was very nervous. She fiddled with the silverware at her table as she looked around the restaurant. It was evening, lots of couples were sitting around her, having romantic dinners.
Perfect.
She glanced at the front door and went back to fiddling.

She felt like her brain was cracking apart. Jameson's words, Sanders' words, all ricocheting off her neurons and brain waves. Driving her crazy. Or making her sane. She couldn't tell which anymore. She wanted to make everyone pay. But she wanted to be normal. But she wanted to hate everyone. But she didn't want to hate herself.

It was all too much.

“Tater tot! Sorry I'm late,” Ang called out, hurrying between the tables. Tate managed a smile, sitting up straighter. Tried to put on her best adoring look.

Sex hadn't worked, and now she knew for a fact that it would never work – Jameson had basically said that he wouldn't care. But love. Love was a different ball game. Jameson had told her that, a long time ago.

“... I don't really care about being the other man, as long as I'm
the
man. Can't be that, if you go off and fall in love with your best friend. ...”

Tate would convince Ang that she was in love with him. They had danced in and out of the friend zone for years – she was very confident that the temptation to call her his own, to win her from Jameson, would be enough to make Ang leave Ellie. Dump her, for Tatum. History, repeating itself. And Jameson hated sharing his toys, hated Ang, hated love. He had fought to win back his fuck-toy, but he wouldn't fight for her affections.

She had to believe that.

“No big deal. How are you? Haven't seen you in forever,” she laughed, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek.

“Yeah, well, ever since you pulled your weird, satanic, seduction act on me, I've been afraid for my soul,” Ang explained.

You don't know how close you are to the truth, Ang. Run far, far away from me.

“Oh shut up, you loved it,” she teased before they were interrupted by a waiter.

They chatted. They flirted. She made a lot of very direct eye contact. Felt a lot like throwing up.
Really
wanted to drink. But she kept on smiling. Kept laying it on thick. Ang would have no clue what hit him.

“So I gotta ask,” he started, after their plates had been taken away. Tate leaned across the table, smiling big. “What the hell is going on?”

Apparently he has a big fucking clue. You're as subtle as a baseball bat to the head, you dumb bitch.

“What do you mean?” Tate asked, trying to feign innocence.

“You're wearing your titty-mcgee shirt, flirting like it's an Olympic sport, and smiling like some creepy doll. What the fuck is going on?” Ang demanded. She swallowed thickly, shaking her head.

“Nothing, I don't know what -,”

“We have met, you know. Sometimes I think you don't realize that. I know you, bitch. I know what's normal, and what's not normal. And the way you've been acting lately, I'm pretty sure you couldn't even spell '
normal
' if I asked you to,” he stated.

Something snapped. She almost thought she could hear it, her sanity breaking. Echoing between her ears.

“You obviously don't know me that well,” she said in a loud voice. Ang's eyebrows shot up.

“Excuse me? Tate, I've known you for almost six years. We practically see each other every day. I'd say I know you pretty well,” he countered.