Separation (18 page)

Wrong
. Not only had it been the warmest day in September, the sun blistering hot, but he had just gotten back from a business trip. Tate had wound up watching him sunbathe,
nude
, while he told her all about a particularly steamy encounter he'd had with a waitress in a bathroom at Tavern on the Green. Tate didn't even make it through ten minutes of him talking before she was on top of him.
All over him
.

He came home the next day with a slutty maid costume in tow. She hadn't expected it to last long, but Jameson had stronger will power than she did. Tate wound up cleaning the whole bottom half of the house before he ripped the outfit off of her.

Fun times.

“I had forgotten about that,” she laughed softly.

“I could never forget that day.”

“Why are you doing this?” Tate asked, glancing at him. Jameson kept staring ahead, but he reached out and pushed some buttons. Pulled some levers. The boat slowed, came to a stop.

“Because I want you to remember.”

“Remember what?”

“That things used to be good between us. They used to be fun,” he told her. “Remember that sometimes, just maybe sometimes, I wasn't the devil.”

She took a deep breath and stared out over the ocean.

“All I remember is a swimming pool,” she whispered.

“Excuse me?”

“This isn't going to work, Jameson,” she blurted out, suddenly jumping out of her seat. He looked totally caught off guard.

“Huh?”

“
This
. You can't just ..., bombard me with old, sexy memories, and ..., what?
Ooohhh
, swoon, I fall all over you? It doesn't work like that!” she snapped at him. He stood up as well.

“Then tell me how it does work, Tate. Because obviously nothing
I'm
doing is working,” he replied, standing close to her.

“But that's just it! There's
nothing
you can do. You ruined it, and now it's over. Do you really want to go another three weeks, just to hear that? It's over, Jameson.
It's over,
” she stressed. He stared down his nose at her.

“See, if I believed you, I would agree. It would be a waste of time. But you're still such a horrible liar, Tate. Things will
never
be over between us,” his voice was soft.

She let out a frustrated yell and stomped out of the wheelhouse. Stomped downstairs, all the way back into her bedroom. She didn't want to hear anything else he had to say. Fuck him.
Fuck Jameson Kane
. She hated him.

Hate it when he's right.

Of course, Tate knew that; somewhere, deep in her brain, she had always known that things weren't over between them. Which was why she had been a nervous wreck for the last two months. Her subconscious had known it wasn't over, and had just been waiting for him. Had always known it. Had known it the first time they parted ways. Had known it the second time. When would conscious-Tate clue in to the fact?

Pool. You were in a pool. He brought her into your home. Brought her between you. Didn't care.
He does not care
.

She grabbed her purse and steamed back out onto the deck. As she was digging something out, she saw Jameson coming down the stairs, so she scooted away, made her way to the bow of the boat. There was only so far she could go to get away from him – they were in the middle of the ocean, and none of the bedroom doors had locks.

No escape. Well played, Mr. Kane. Well played.

“You better leave me the fuck alone,” Tate yelled when she heard him approaching. “I need this right now.”

She lit up the cigarette and took a deep, deep drag. Closed her eyes and slowly exhaled.
There
. That burning sensation in her lungs, that's what she wanted. Smoking was still new to Tate. She didn't do it because she craved it, or because she liked it. She did it because it hurt a little, every time she inhaled.

Something is so very wrong with me.

“Tatum. Put out the cigarette and come talk to me,” Jameson ordered. She laughed and turned towards him.

“What's the point? You never listen. How about you have a conversation with yourself, then just answer the way you want me to answer, and we'll call it good,” she hissed, moving past him.

The deck on the bow of the yacht was large, and came to a sharp point. Shiny silver railings and glass panels surrounded it, except for two breaks, where ladders folded out down either side of the boat. She went to stand back away from the railing, under a slight awning. They glared at each other, her smoke curling up between them.

“I have been
trying
to listen. For the first fucking time ever. But you're not
saying anything
. Now put the goddamn cigarette out,” Jameson told her. Even though she was too far away, she blew a stream of smoke at him.

“
No
. And I don't have to
say
anything
, I didn't ask to be here. I was brought here, taken here, tricked in to coming here. I don't want to talk to you, I don't want to hear anything you have to say.
I don't want to be here,
” Tate replied. He narrowed his eyes.

“We had a deal. You agreed to play. You're not allowed to lie, or fake anything,” he reminded her.

“I haven't lied or faked -,”

He slammed his hand down on the railing, hard, making a gong-like sound. He was
angry
. It had been a long time since she had seen him that mad. She felt her insides turn to mush, her brain turn to putty.

“
Don't fucking lie to me
. You wanted me in that club, and you wanted that to happen in my bedroom. I have let you pretend like you didn't. You dared me into taking that maid. That was
all you,
yet I let you blame me. I am tired of taking your shit. My patience is running out,” he growled at her. She guffawed.

“You're tired of taking my shit?
My shit!?
Mister, you haven't even begun to eat shit for the things you did to me! And you're calling
me out
on breaking the rules!?
You fucked your psychotic supermodel girlfriend and then brought her into our home!
How's that for a broken fucking rule!?” Tate screamed at him.

Suddenly Jameson was storming towards her, thunder in his eyes. She pressed herself against the glass door behind her, trapped. He stood in front of her, and she swore she could almost see smoke coming out of his ears. He. Was.
Pissed.

“I
did not
fuck her. I have apologized for bringing her home. Now stop fucking screaming, and put out the goddamn cigarette.
I will not tell you again,
” he hissed at her. She shivered and raised the cigarette to her lips. Took a deep drag.

“
Make me,
” she whispered, and then blew a smoke ring in his face.

Jameson grabbed her around the waist, and Tate shrieked as she was hoisted into the air. Thrown over his shoulder. She yelled at him to put her down, pounded on his back with her free hand. She was tempted to grind the cigarette into his shoulder blade, but she didn't think she was ready for that kind of punishment.

“
Goddamn Tatum
. Always fucking pushing me,” he growled.

“
Stupid fucking Jameson,
always where he isn't wanted,” she snapped back.

He didn't respond. He reached the edge of the bow, and she thought he was gong to put her down. Or spank her. Or fuck her senseless. Something. What she didn't expect was for him to throw her. Into the air. Over the railing. She screamed and hit the water, ass first.

“When are you going to learn not to push me!?” he called down to her, after she had resurfaced.

Tate hacked and coughed up salt water, bobbing along. It took Jameson a second to open the little compartment that hid the stairs, so it felt like an eternity before she hauled herself out of the water. She slowly made her way up the side of the boat. Her skirt, with all its excess material, weighed a ton. She flopped onto the deck like a fish, shivering and scrambling across the surface.

“
There is something ..., so very wrong ..., with you,
” Tate gasped for air, pushing herself onto her knees.

“Considering that there isn't very much
right
about you, either, I'm going to ignore that comment. C'mon, it's freezing, let's get you -,” Jameson started, grabbing her by the arm. She shrieked and slapped his hand away, hurrying to her feet. She skipped out of his reach, circled around till she was safely away from the railing, putting him between her and it.

“
Don't fucking touch me!
You don't get to touch me! You don't believe that I haven't slept with Nick? Why would I
ever
believe you didn't fuck her!? That's all you do, fuck people!
Fuck you!
” she yelled at him.

Tate could feel her sanity unraveling. He'd always had that effect on her. It was like they weren't in Spain anymore. They were in his house. It was that night. She wasn't high in the bathroom with Dunn. Jameson wasn't flirting in the kitchen with Pet. They were back in his bedroom. Only this time, he wasn't walking out on her. This time, he was holding his ground. He was talking to her. Fighting for her.

The way it should have been.

She felt ill.

“Baby girl, are you really worried -,”

“
Don't call me that!
You make me sick!
God
, fucking touching her, touching me. I want to be sick,” she hissed at him.

“I touched dozens of women while we were together,” Jameson reminded her. Tate narrowed her eyes and stepped up close to him, tilting her head up so he could see the anger on her face.

“And I only ever asked you
not to touch
one
. Just one. And you couldn't even manage that.
You're
the stupid whore. You loved calling me that. A slut, a whore; but really, you're a bigger
whore
than I ever was.
Whore,
” she swore at him.

He lifted his hand then. Slowly. Traced a finger down her neck, from under her chin to the hollow of her throat. It was a hint, a shadow, of what he really wanted to do. He was holding himself back. The air was vibrating with the tension between them. She could feel it. Someone was going to get hurt that night. Tate just had to make sure it wasn't her.

“You know, you should
really
watch the way you speak to me,” Jameson said softly, his finger taping against her collar bone.

“I'm not scared of you,” she whispered. He leaned close to her, pressing his hand flat against her chest.

“
Liar.
”

She shrieked and shoved him. As hard as she possibly fucking could. He lost his footing, stumbled backwards. Right into the gap in the railing Tate had crawled through only a moment ago.
Good
. She shouldn't be the only one to take a dip. She hoped he hit the water flat on his fucking back. Be bruised for a week.

Something wasn't right, though. Her eyes had recognized it instantly, but her brain took a second to catch up. Jameson wasn't a man that could easily be knocked off balance, especially when he had been ready and waiting for her to push him. He had taken a step back, to brace himself, and his foot had landed on a pile of chains. Slipped inside them, got tangled in them. He couldn't get any purchase, so he went over.

Tate suddenly remembered talking to Sanders that morning, him saying that someone would be working on the boat. Something was wrong with one of the anchors. In the wheelhouse, she hadn't seen Jameson release any. She didn't know much about boating, but she knew that most people dropped anchor when they stopped a boat. Jameson hadn't done it because the chain for one of the smaller, front anchors wasn't attached to the yacht. Now that same chain was wrapped securely around his ankle.

Jameson hit the water hard, on his back, just as she'd cursed him. Tate dropped to her knees, but she wasn't quick enough and the anchor was yanked out of its cubbyhole in the side of boat. It flew after him, falling into the water at the exact same spot he had, disappearing in the splashes.

She shrieked, laying flat. God, had it hit him!? It wasn't a big anchor, but it was big enough. And it was a long way down. Oh god, had she just killed Jameson!? Typical. That would be just like him – he finally talks to her,
really
talks to her, and then goes and dies.

Stupid dick.

Tate screamed his name, pounding her hand on the deck. He didn't resurface. She pulled herself to her knees, raked her fingers through her hair. He still didn't come back. She thought she was going to throw up. She had killed him. They were alone on a boat in the Mediterranean. Everyone knew they weren't getting along, that Tate was very angry at him. No one would believe it was an accident. She would go to jail for murder. Sanders would be an orphan.