Separation (16 page)

Maid-lady didn't care one bit. She seemed excited just to be there. She moaned, hissed things in Spanish, put her hands all over his body, ignored the fact that anyone else was even in the room. It made Tate angry. That was
her property
the woman was touching. In a previous life, Tate could have happily imagined herself sitting on the sidelines, watching Jameson fuck somebody else. But not right now, not when she hadn't had a chance to reclaim what was rightfully hers.

God, I am so fucked up. Ang is right, I should seek therapy.

Tate slowly walked forward, keeping her eyes on Jameson's. Of course, he knew what she wanted. He
always
knew. He didn't say a word, just crawled over and off of the maid, till he was kneeling at the foot of the bed. When Tatum reached him, he didn't even pause to see what her intentions were, he just wrapped one arm around her waist and yanked her close. His other hand went in to her hair, pinning her in place while he kissed her.

Tate raked her fingers through his hair, digging her nails into his scalp, dragging them all the way down to his back. She felt like she was
starving
for that moment. She was well aware of the fact that the maid was now pressed against his back, licking her way across his shoulders. Tate couldn't decide whether it was a turn on, or just a nuisance.

She pulled him forward, pulling him off the bed. He took over, moving her backwards, and they fell across the room, her back landing hard against a wall. She gasped against his mouth, slid her leg up and down his, tickled her fingers down his sides. The maid reappeared then, and stepped up to his side. Tried to become part of the act. Wrapped an arm around his shoulders and kissed at his ear.

But when the maid's free hand slid onto Tate's hip, fun time was over. If she was going to be stupid enough to have sex with Jameson, it was not going to be in a threesome, not after having been denied his body for the last three months. She wanted him to herself. This was not an all-you-can-eat buffet. This was dinner for two. And it was suddenly over-crowded.

I'm so much worse than him. He knows what he's doing – I pretend to be ignorant. Poor girl. Shouldn't have been eye-fucking him in front of me. Tacky.

“She leaves,” Tate breathed against his mouth.

She didn't have to say anything else. Jameson pulled away and grabbed the woman by the arm, forcing her away from him. The maid seemed surprised, and she started speaking rapid fire Spanish, her hand sliding up Jameson's chest. He grabbed it, held it away from himself. Tate stepped away from the mix.

“
Vayasé, venga mañana y le pagare el doble de su salario,
” he told her. Tate understood “
salary
” and “
tomorrow
”, but that was it.

Maid-lady understood it all, and didn't like it, apparently. She gestured violently at Tate, her voice loud and rough sounding. She stomped back to the bed, grumbling and glaring, grabbing her jacket and slipping on her shoes.

“Hey, don't give me attitude. You saw me get on the boat with him,” Tate said, not caring whether or not the woman could understand her.

The maid stepped up close to her, and Tate groaned inwardly. Normally, she never had problems with other women. She got along great with most women. She had never once in her life fought over a man. Now, twice in one night, she was finding herself in heated “
discussions
” over Jameson.

I'm so pathetic.

Tate was fully aware that this little problem was her own doing, but she didn't care – the maid
knew
that Jameson had a female guest staying on the boat. Had seen her sitting on Jameson's lap, but that hadn't stopped the lady from hitting on him. Tate knew the rules, because she
was
the maid; she had been in the same position, had been the slutty-help. If she saw a man with another woman, and that man then hit on Tatum – first woman got first dibs. That's just how the slutty-cookie crumbled. Maid-lady could deal with it.

The Spanish woman got even closer, her eyes narrowed. Jameson was saying something in Spanish, his tone not happy. Maid-lady's voice was getting louder, her arm gestures violent. She was hissing at Tate through clenched teeth, and Tate didn't have to speak Spanish to know that none of it was good. She also knew what the words “
perra
” and “
puta
” meant; not exactly complimentary, and they were being said,
a lot
. Still, Tate wasn't going to do anything.

At least, not until the bitch touched her.

When the woman jabbed her pointed fingers into Tate's shoulder, she lost it a little bit. Her grasp on sanity was tenuous, at best. She pulled away from Jameson, yelling at the woman to fuck off. Maid-lady yelled back in Spanish, pushing again. Tate yelled some more in English, daring the woman to touch her again. Jameson snapped at both of them to shut the fuck up. But when the other woman shoved Tate hard enough to knock her back into Jameson's chest, it was over. Tate was done with being pushed around. By Jameson, by circumstance, by life in general, and by whory-maids in particular.

Tate went to shove the woman back, planting her hands on the maid's shoulders. Maid-lady apparently expected that, and began windmilling her arms. Tate ducked her head. She still wasn't much of a scrapper, hadn't been in many fights. But she could fight like a girl with the best of them, so she swung her arms as well, and it turned into an all-out shrieking, slapping, scratching, hair pulling, cat-fight.

It didn't last very long. One strong pull with one arm, and Jameson had them separated. Tate fell back onto the bed while he picked up the maid, carried her shouting form from the room. The door swung shut behind him, and Tate could only listen as he took the maid out onto the deck.

Tate covered her face with her hands, trying not to think about what she had just done, what she had just taken part in. She felt so stupid.
So stupid
. She wasn't going to do anything sexual with Jameson. She wasn't going to fight over Jameson. She wasn't going to embarrass herself over Jameson. Now, all three had been done in the span of a couple hours.

She heard the door open, but she didn't bother looking. She felt him start to kneel over her. His hands spanned her waist, pushing her. Sliding her back on the bed, over the covers. Then his knees came to rest on either side of her thighs, his hands planted on the mattress next to her head.

“Tate,” Jameson's voice was serious.

“
No,
” she replied, her voice muffled by her hands.

“Tatum, look at me,” he ordered. She shook her head.

“No.”

He leaned back and she felt his hands on her own. He peeled them away from her face, then moved them to the bed. Pinned them down. Hovered his mass over her own. She wanted him to let go. To feel his weight on her, pressing her down. She hated him. Hated herself a little.

“Why do you play these little games? You're not very good at them,” Jameson told her, his voice soft. She sighed, not meeting his eyes.

“Because I don't want to lose,” she replied.

“You
always
lose.”

“I know. Odds are, I have to come out on top, at least once,” she tried to joke.

“I don't want to hurt you.”

“You
always
want to hurt me.”

“No.”

“I'm just a game to you.”

“
No.
Tatum, it doesn't have to be a game,” Jameson's voice grew quiet, and he lowered his head, his breath hot against her neck. She struggled to remember how to breathe. Tried not to notice how amazing it all was, the things coming out of his mouth.

“I wouldn't be here if it wasn't a game,” she replied.

“Yes, you would. Just like you were at my apartment seven years ago. Just like you were in my office four months ago. This isn't going away,” he warned her. Tate stared at the ceiling.

“I want it to go away,” she whispered. Jameson shook his head, and she felt his lips on her chest.

“
Don't say that
.”

His mouth moved to hers, and there was nothing she could do about it. Sex between them had never been romantic, not even in the end – Tate was pretty sure she'd never had “romantic” sex. But when Jameson kissed her, she could feel it. However the love songs wanted to put it, that's how she felt it. In her heart, in her toes, in her spleen, in her hair follicles,
everywhere
. There was no stopping it. It was going to happen. So why not go with it? Why not just give in?

Just sink down, down, down in to that pool. Under, so deep, you won't want to come back.

“
Excuse me, sir.
”

Jameson pulled away, but he kept his eyes locked on hers. Tate stared, wide eyed, right back at him. She had been perilously close to the edge, and he knew it. He had been one step and a few articles of clothing short of winning their little game. He'd almost had her.

It was too close for comfort.

“
Sir.
”

It was Sanders, banging on the bedroom door. Jameson sighed and sat up, resting on his heels. Tate stayed laying down underneath him. Didn't move a muscle. Tried to blend in with the bed spread.

“What are you doing here?” Jameson barked out, running a hand through his hair.

“I assume you are aware that there is a very angry woman on the upper deck, throwing all of your furniture into the ocean,” came the reply. Jameson grumbled and slid backwards off the bed.

“It never ends,” he growled before prowling to the door.

Tate stayed laying down, long after he left the room. She could hear the shouting now, the lady cursing in Spanish. Then there were soft footsteps, and suddenly Sanders was sitting on the bed next to her. She heard movement, followed by his hand coming to rest on her knee, his touch light.

“Are you alright?” he asked. She shrugged.

“As good as I was the last time you saw me,” she replied.

“Pardon me, but that wasn't very good,” he pointed out. She finally laughed.

“No, I guess it wasn't, and I'm probably a lot worse now.”

“May I ask what happened?”

“Ran into Pet. Almost accidentally had a threesome. Got into a fight. The usual.”

Sanders actually laughed at that, and it set Tate off. She snorted and chuckled, and he laid down next to her. While her eyes watered and she shook with laughter, she reached over and grabbed his hand. Squeezed it tightly.

“You do have a knack for getting into trouble,” he told her. She nodded.

“That I do. Sandy, tell me what I should do,” her voice fell into a breathy whisper.

“You should stop playing games, both of you. Say how you feel, mean what you say,” he replied bluntly.

“Anyone else would tell me that I need to figure it out on my own,” she told him. Sanders snorted.

“Then it wouldn't happen. The solution seems very simple to me, I don't understand what the problem is,” he said. Tate sighed.

“Because it's not simple, Sandy. I don't trust him.”

“But you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Then trust me when I say this isn't a game to him.”

She wasn't able to pick his brain anymore, though, because Jameson strode back into the room. He was still shirtless, and now had claw marks going down his chest.
Sexy.
Tate started laughing again, the hand pressed to her mouth doing nothing to hide it. Jameson glared at her, then at Sanders.

“
You
. What do you want?” he demanded. Sanders sighed and sat up.

“I was listening to my Bach. Petrushka showed up at the apartment,” was all Sanders said. Tate laughed even harder.

“I can't catch a fucking break,” Jameson groaned, sitting down on the bed on the other side of her.

“I will retire to my room here, for the night. Tomorrow, you can speak with the management of the building,” Sanders informed him before getting up and walking out of the room.

“You can stop now,” Jameson said, but Tate still couldn't get herself under control. It wasn't until his palm pressed against her thigh that she came out of it. She scrambled out from under his touch, practically slithering sideways off the bed.

“It's been a long night. Sandy's right, we should go to bed,” she said quickly, her nerves evident in her voice. Jameson chuckled.

“Scared, scared, scared. You used to be so tough, baby girl,” he told her. She pulled at her clothing, straightening herself out, not wanting him to see how much his words affected her. How badly her hands were shaking.

She
hated
being afraid.

“Yeah, well, a week in a psych ward can cure you of just about anything.”

Then she strode out of the room, not even giving him a backwards glance.

Jameson was frustrated.

He was horny, he was angry, and he was upset, but mostly, he was
very
frustrated
.

Things were not going well.

He tried being nice. It was almost physically painful for him to do so, but he tried.
For her
. It didn't work. He tried impressing her, showing off for her, even ignoring her. He let her get away with murder, things he never would have tolerated in the old days. And still.
Nothing
. Tate still looked at him like he was the devil.

For the first time ever, Jameson worried that he wouldn't be able to win her over.

Her body, though, was a different story. It still reacted to him the same way it always had. Ready. Willing. He felt if he could just touch her enough, just taste her enough, her defenses would melt away and he could lay siege to her. Win her. Claim her.

He just wanted to be absolved of his sins. He wanted his old life back. He didn't want to be obsessed with her, but he was, plain and simple. She ruled his senses. Tate hadn't learned how to do it yet, but Jameson knew when to call a spade a spade. He wouldn't waste time wallowing in denial, trying to convince himself that he didn't want her. Despite all appearances, he was much more of a go-with-the-flow kind of person.

Now if only she could learn to do that, life would be so much simpler for both of them.

So he was in a particularly dark mood when he made his way up top the next morning. Both Sanders and Tatum were already awake, dining at the table. He wasn't sure who had cooked – usually he had breakfast delivered. Tate had her mirrored sunglasses on, and she had contorted herself to fit her whole body, legs and all, in her tiny chair. She was laughing at something Sanders was saying, smiling broadly. Jameson's hand twitched, and he once again had to remind himself that she wasn't ready for him to touch her. Not in the way he wanted to touch her; not in the way she needed to be touched.

“I was just going to wake you,” Sanders said, noticing his approach.

“I'm sure,” Jameson grumbled, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Someone sounds cheery this morning,” Tate teased him. He glared at her.

“Long night.”

“Poor baby.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“
Ooohhh,
” she almost moaned. “You're going to be extra fun today, aren't you?”

“Piss me off more than I already am, Tate, and I'll show you how '
fun
' I can be,” he warned her.

She kept her mouth shut, but she smiled to herself as she sipped her coffee.

“If you are ready,” Sanders spoke up, “we could head to the apartment.”

It was an offer of escape, and Jameson took it gladly. It was hard to be around Tate, sometimes
too hard
. He wanted to slip in to old roles, old habits. She wouldn't let him. It was like ice skating up hill.

After they had grabbed jackets and other necessities, he and Sanders headed off the boat. Not a moment too soon – Tate was stripping off her clothing to reveal a bikini, and Jameson knew he was staring at her like a hungry wolf. He was about to follow her up to the top deck, where he would continue her efforts and help her take off the bikini, preferably with his teeth, but Sanders coughed loudly, dragging his attention away.

“May I ask what happened last night?” Sanders asked, his voice casual as they walked to the Rolls-Royce. Well, casual for Sanders.

“No,” Jameson replied, sliding into the passenger seat while Sanders got behind the wheel.

“She mentioned a threesome,” Sanders continued, pulling the car out of its spot and heading into traffic.

“No threesome, sorry to say.”

“You tried?”

“Jesus christ, Sanders, are you a girl now? What's with the gossip?
No,
I did not try to orchestrate a threesome. If I wanted one, I would have one. Tate laid out a dare. I called her bluff. I wouldn't have slept with that woman, and I knew Tate would stop it.
That's it
. No more questions,” Jameson explained.

Sanders made a humming noise, but didn't say anything else.

At the apartment building, Jameson had a chat with the manager.
No one
was to be allowed into his apartment, or even onto his
floor.
Only
himself, Sanders, and Tatum were the exception. Though with the way things had been going, he wasn't entirely sure he'd ever get a chance to bring her there. The manager apologized profusely for the mistake – they were training an entirely new security team, and Ms. Ivanovic was very convincing. It was generally known that she and Jameson had been involved together. It wouldn't happen again.

Jameson warned him that it had better not.

He wasn't ready to deal with Tate quite yet, so he took Sanders to lunch at an outdoor cafe. It had been a long time since it had been just the two of them. Since well before Tate had entered the picture. It was quiet. Peaceful. Nice. Jameson sighed, feeling a little restored. He sat back in his chair, just people watching, while Sanders finished his salad.

“Sir,” Sanders' voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Yes?” Jameson asked, folding his arms.

“Things do not seem to be progressing very well.”

“I am well aware of this.”

“She still thinks you're the devil. She thinks you did everything on purpose, planned it from the start.”

“
I am aware
. I'm working on it.”

“Doesn't look like it.”

Jameson was a little shocked. Tate was a bad influence on Sanders.

“You don't help, you know. You have become a very effective cock blocker,” Jameson snapped. A blush crept up Sanders' neck, but his face remained impassive.

“Winning her heart is one thing. Using her for sex is another. I won't allow it,” he replied.

“Your sentimentality makes me sick, and the thing Tate and I do best is use each other for sex. Just let me do things my own way,” Jameson instructed. He took out his wallet and threw some money on the table before standing up. Sanders followed suit and they walked away from the cafe.

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” Sanders asked, for the millionth time. Jameson rolled his eyes.

“Am I ever not sure, Sanders? Just stay out of the way, let me reach her, and the rest of this month will be a cake walk,” Jameson told him. Sanders made a sound like a snort, only more dignified.

“I think you are forgetting yourself. Forgetting the past,” he pointed out.

Ego, down a notch. Sanders: 1

“I have to, Sanders, if I want to function and move forward. I laid out the deal, she took it. It has to be this way,” Jameson replied.

“Is this really about a deal? A
game?
” Sanders pressed.

“Of course. It's what it's always about between us. Only bigger. With smarter players,” Jameson laughed. He stopped in front of a building, stretched his arms above his head. Yawned.

“I have a question,” Sanders stated, standing at his side.

“Yes?”

“When are you going to realize it's not a game?”

Jameson swallowed thickly. He wasn't a stupid man, he knew his ego wasn't entirely bulletproof. He was very good at hiding how he felt – so good, in fact, that even he didn't know what he was feeling half the time. But sometimes, just sometimes, Sanders could create a crack. Rip right through the layers to reveal a piece of Jameson that he hadn't known was there.

“I need
her
to think it's a game, but
I
know
it's not a game,” Jameson replied in a soft voice, refusing to meet Sanders' eyes.

“
Good.
”

They started walking again and were silent for a while. During that time, Jameson was able to cover himself back up. Don his armor. He needed to focus. He couldn't worry about anything besides what was in front of him: getting her back. Then he would worry about what all his fucking feelings meant.

It was a little hard to have focus, though, when he was sporting a hard-on 90% of the time.

Maybe I should hire a hooker …

*

Tate woke up with a start. Someone was touching her. She shoved her hat back off her forehead and looked down. Jameson was sitting on the edge of her lounger, running his fingers down her leg. She wondered how long he had been there.

“What are you doing?” she asked through a yawn.

“Touching you.”

“Obviously. When did you guys get back?” she asked, her leg starting to twitch.

“About an hour ago.”

“An hour!? Why didn't Sanders wake me?” she snapped, sitting upright.

“Because he isn't here. He's in town. It's just me for now,” Jameson told her. He still hadn't looked at her. His voice was calm, soft. Almost zen like, even.

She had never been more nervous around him than she was right at that moment.

What the fuck is he planning!?

“Oh. Well. Are we going to go see him?” Tate asked, licking her lips. Jameson didn't answer, and she pulled her legs away from him, moved to sit cross-legged.

“I hadn't planned on it. It's New Year's Eve,” he told her. She nodded.

“I know. I was going to ask what the plan was, if there was a plan,” she replied.

“There will be fireworks. I thought we could watch them together,” he said.

“No swanky party? No dinner?” she laughed.

“Well, the lobster plan didn't work out so well for me. I don't want to waste anymore of my money,” Jameson explained. Tate snapped her eyes to his, ready to be angry, but she realized he was teasing.

“I told you it wouldn't happen.”

“Yes. But I was very close.”

Grrrrrr, this man.

“Close doesn't count.”

He got up and walked away from her, stood by a railing. They were on the very top deck, the roof of the boat. Standing over the wheel house. She had never been in the room, never seen any crew. She wondered if they would ever take the yacht out, if he would need to hire a crew to do so.

“I thought we'd take the boat out. We can watch the fireworks from the ocean.”

That's right, Satan's psychic. You always forget.

“Sounds nice. I think last night was too much party for me,” Tate laughed. She had woken up determined to put on a bright smile about the whole incident. Old-Tatum would have laughed about the whole thing, so new-Tatum would, too.

“Really? And I thought it stopped just short of being a real party,” Jameson replied, then abruptly walked away, heading down the stairs.

Tate frowned after him. She wasn't sure what kind of game he was playing. He had been moody all morning, and now he was all quiet and introspective seeming; i.e.,
not normal
. She didn't like it, not one bit. She could handle scheming Jameson. Conniving, cruel, sadistic, devilish Jameson. All-of-the-above Jameson. But confused Jameson? Troubled Jameson?
Hurt
Jameson?

She didn't know that man at all.

*

Tate didn't see much of him for the rest of the day. If she hadn't known better, she would've thought he was avoiding her. Pretty ironic, considering she had finally come to terms with being in his presence. The crawl-out-of-her-skin feeling wasn't as bad anymore.

Of course, it helped that while the men were gone, she had found a corner market and bought a pack of cigarettes. She had chain smoked until she thought she was going to pass out. She had even had one cigarette while lounging on the top deck. An act of defiance. Still counted, even if the devil wasn't present.

Sanders came for dinner, but he was also oddly tight lipped. They made idle chit chat, but when Tate mentioned him coming on the boat to watch the fireworks, he shook his head. He really did get sea sick, he confessed. And he didn't care about fireworks or New Year's. It was just another day. He was working on a 3D puzzle at the apartment, and wanted to finish it.

When she realized he wouldn't be there as a buffer, Tate's bravado deserted her. The puzzle started to sound like more fun than a ride on a yacht under fireworks. Tate chewed at her fingernails, desperate for a cigarette. But she knew she couldn't, not while Jameson was prowling around the boat. So she borrowed Sanders' phone and hid up on the top deck.

She tried calling her sister first. They hadn't spoken since before Tate had left for Spain. They weren't exactly best friends yet, but they did check in with one another fairly often. But Ellie didn't answer. Tate tried calling Nick. His calm, happy-go-lucky nature usually settled any nerves she had – but he wasn't answering, either. She started to grind her teeth and dialed one more number.

“Why hasn't she called me!?” Ang's voice barked the moment the line connected. Tate smiled.

“It's me,” she laughed. He snorted.