Separation (3 page)

Angier Hollingsworth, Tatum's best friend, wouldn't answer his phone, either, but that wasn't a surprise at all. Ang had never liked Jameson, and chances were the younger man already knew about what had happened. Was probably already on his way to avenge Tate. Or was possibly already with her.

Jameson finally tried Tate's phone, but it didn't even ring – just went straight to voicemail. Kind of ominous.

Hospitals are not very generous with patient information. It was evening before he found where she had been admitted, and even then, it was only because he'd lucked out – the hospital she was staying in was one his New York offices had made substantial donations to; Jameson's name was on one of the wings. Upon realizing that, the nurse was ready to give him any kind of information he wanted.

Actually getting to her room proved even harder, though. Jameson wasn't family, and he wasn't her husband. He wasn't
anything
to Tate, technically.
They wouldn't even tell him what her room number was; he would have to wait till regular visiting hours, and even then, only if the patient requested to see him. He didn't really foresee that happening.

He saw Ang at one point, but Jameson kept his distance. He knew it wouldn't be pretty when they met up, and both of them had bigger things to worry about than defending her honor. The other man looked haggard. Tired. His clothing was rumpled and ruined. The cop had mentioned that there had been a man on the scene, someone who had seen her before she had started convulsing. Jameson had thought maybe it was Sanders. Now he was realizing it must have been Ang.

How else could Angier know she was here?

It was hours before Jameson found a nurse who would take a bribe in exchange for Tate's room number. Ang was nowhere to be seen, but it was well after visiting hours, so Jameson asked to be shown to the room. The nurse chattered away in a nervous manner, obviously a little awed by him. He ignored her, all his focus on one thing.

Tatum
.

“Is she still unconscious?” Jameson asked as they stood in front of the room door.

“Oh no, she regained consciousness earlier today. The pain meds put her to sleep a little while ago. Would you like me to wake her?” the nurse asked, and then pushed her way inside the room.

“No. No, that won't be necessary.”

Jameson stayed standing in the doorway while the nurse fussed around the room. Only one small, fluorescent light was on behind the bed. The rest of the room was dark. There was a curtain separating Tate's bed from the neighboring bed. He frowned. That wouldn't do. She needed a private room.

“I didn't get to talk to her myself, and I shouldn't be saying this, but the doctors said she's going to be just fine,” the nurse assured him, all the while checking different machines that flanked the bed. Jameson cleared his throat, but still didn't enter the room. Something about that doorway. He felt like he was walking through the gates of Hell.

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here ...,

“I thought she was in here because ..., because she ingested some Xanax. What does she need pain medication for?” Jameson asked, his eyes skimming over the foot of the bed. He still couldn't look directly at it.

Be a man, for god's sake. When has anything ever scared you? Go in there
.

“They had to pump her stomach. It can be quite a painful procedure, and from what I understand, they had a problem getting the tube down her throat. Nothing permanent,” again, the nurse's voice was comforting and reassuring. Jameson had an epiphany.

She thinks I'm a concerned boyfriend. How cute.

“So she won't wake up, if I sit next to her, or touch her?” Jameson asked. The nurse finally glanced at him, and then did a double take, obviously surprised that he hadn't even entered the room.

“I doubt it. I mean, if you don't want to disturb her, I wouldn't start a conga line or anything, but just sitting and holding her hand should be fine,” she told him. He nodded.

“Thank you. You can leave.”

“Would you like me to bring you -,”

“
No.
Just leave.”

He didn't enter the room till after the nurse had left. He was slow in making his way to the foot of the bed, his footsteps soft in the quiet room. Jameson stood there for a while, staring at her feet. Then he slowly lifted his eyes, following her form under the blankets. A form he had gotten to know very well. A form that he felt belonged to him, something he had molded,
created
, with his own two hands.

Tatum
.

She was ghastly pale. Jameson hadn't gotten a very good look at her the night before, and he hadn't seen her for a month before that, so it was very possible that she had lost her tan in the onset of fall.

Still. This wasn't a normal pale. She almost looked gray. Her lips were a neutral shade, blending into her face, and they were pressed tightly together. Her eyelids were twitching, and he wondered what she was dreaming about; wondered if it was a nightmare he had created. She had IVs in both arms and a hospital gown was visible, peeking out from under her blankets.

She looked small. Vulnerable.
Damaged.
Jameson tried to remember how angry he'd been at her, how mad he'd been when he'd first seen those pictures of her with the baseball player. He couldn't seem to recall it, though; all the anger was gone. All the jealousy, all the meanness. Tatum could be stupid sometimes, he wouldn't deny that, but Jameson was the goddamn devil.

And that was much, much worse.

He pulled up a chair and sat next to her, studying her face. He didn't like to say it to her, because he wasn't that sort of man, but Tate was a very beautiful girl. Even without makeup, she was still stunning. Seven years ago, she had occupied his fantasies. Now all this time later, she occupied his mind.

His heart.

I didn't want to like this woman.

He reached out and gently grabbed her hand, pulled it towards himself. She twitched once and Jameson held still, but when it was obvious that she wasn't going to wake up, he brought her hand closer. Ran his finger tips across her palm. She had long, delicate fingers. Almost graceful. The thought almost made him laugh – graceful wasn't normally a word he would have used to describe Tate.

“I'm so sorry, baby girl,” he whispered, before bringing the back of her hand to his lips and kissing it.

“I never thought I'd hear you say those words.”

Jameson chuckled to himself and looked up. Of course. Sanders was standing in the doorway. His hair was immaculately done, his suit looked freshly pressed; though if Jameson had to guess, he would say it was the same suit Sanders had been wearing since yesterday.

“How long have you known she was here?” Jameson asked in a soft voice, lowering her hand to the bed and lacing their fingers together.

“Since right after she was admitted. I heard about the Bentley and the pool on my police scanner, then I called Mr. Hollingsworth,” Sanders explained, making his way into the room.

“Did you really?”

“Yes. He wasn't very nice at first. He told me to tell you that you can rot in hell. After I said I was no longer affiliated with you, he told me that she was here. I have been here ever since,” Sanders replied. Jameson nodded.

“Will you tell me what all happened?”

“Will you actually listen?”

“Just this once, I think I will.”

*

Jameson continued on as if nothing was wrong. He went to work like normal – no one even asked a single question when Dunn's name was taken off the building, and Jameson didn't respond to any questions about Tatum or Sanders. He went to work at eight in the morning, and was out of the building by six o'clock sharp, every evening. He was nothing if not meticulous.

But his nights he dedicated to her. Tate was kept in the hospital for observation. He would turn up around midnight, meet with Sanders in the cafeteria to get some coffee and discuss how she was, and then the two men would head up to her room, where they would sit in silence. Sanders would read. Jameson would work a little. Stare at her a lot. Think about her constantly. Think about what he was doing there, what it all meant.

This is not a game. She is so much more than a game. Maybe she always was ...

When she was moved to a psychiatric wing, it cost him a lot more money to get in to see her, and then even more to find out
why
she had been moved. They thought she had tried to kill herself and wanted to hold her pending a psych evaluation.

At least she's in a private room now.

Jameson wasn't sure who was more upset, Sanders, or himself. But Jameson wasn't there during the days, when the doctors were making their rounds. Sanders had to be angry in his place, and Sanders had never done angry very well. If Jameson had been there, she wouldn't have been moved. Not that he blamed Sanders – the younger man was sick with worry over Tatum, he didn't need accusations and anger.

All those nights she and Sanders had spent together, all those afternoons, Jameson had always assumed it was just Tate babbling on about anything that popped into her head. She was a smart girl and had a lot to talk about, maybe Sanders had been her sounding board. Jameson didn't know, and at the time, he hadn't cared.

It turned out they had been sharing their souls. Sanders knew every single one of Tate's dirty secrets, knew every vile thought she had about herself, or anyone else. Knew just about every single moment she and Jameson had ever shared. And Sanders was nothing if not fair, so he claimed he had told Tate everything. All about how he and Jameson had met, his life in England before Jameson, and even his time in Belarus.

Jameson didn't know what to think. Tate hadn't shared all her secrets with him, and he'd never pried in to Sanders' past. Two of the most important people in his life, and Jameson was suddenly painfully aware of the fact that he didn't know much about either of them. It had never bothered him before; or at least, that's what he had told himself.

Now it bothered him a lot.

So, of course, Sanders knew everything that had happened. Tate had told him. About how she and Nick really were
just friends
. She hadn't so much as kissed him. How she had waited all month for Jameson, had looked forward to him coming home. How betrayed she had felt by Sanders, when she found out Jameson had brought his ex girlfriend home. How
hurt
she was by Jameson. It hadn't been a game to her anymore. She had
genuinely
cared about him. Had been perilously close to falling in love with him.

Well, I certainly solved that little problem
.

She had gotten drunk to deal with the party. She had taken the Xanax to numb the hurt. She had been completely wasted when Dunn offered to sleep with her. She admitted to saying yes, but he had knocked her into the mirror and then held her down. She had regretted it before it had even started. Of all the things that happened that night, Tate said it was the thing she wished she could take back the most. Jameson paying her off and kicking her out; drunk driving twenty miles in to town; floating in a pool high on Xanax; well, that had all just been icing on the cake.

I should have killed him. Killed him, kicked everyone out, and just gone to bed with her.

Sanders had reported the Bentley stolen in hopes of finding her, maybe stopping her, before she could crash or something. He had a police scanner in his room, and it wasn't long before he heard a response to a 9-1-1 call where the cop mentioned a Bentley. Then Ang's name was put through for a background check. Bingo.

Tate couldn't say why she went to the pool, because she couldn't remember. Almost everything after she'd gotten in the car was a blank. She hadn't tried to drown herself. When Ang had found her, she'd been floating, holding onto her bottle of Jack Daniel's, barely clinging to consciousness. But not suicidal, she insisted. She had never once said anything about wanting to die, to anyone. She swore up and down that she hadn't tried to kill herself.

Jameson didn't need convincing. Tatum O'Shea, the woman he knew, would never give up so easily. That would be the worst kind of cheating, and she wasn't a cheater. Besides, their game wasn't over yet, he had more hands to play. She wouldn't ever check out like that. She was too strong. And she certainly couldn't leave him alone in the world.

Not until he said so.

*

“So when are you coming home?” Jameson asked as he strode down a hospital hallway, almost a week later.

“I am not going to work for you,” Sanders replied, walking next to him. Jameson snorted.

“I didn't ask when you were coming back to work. I asked when you were
coming home,
” he stressed as they got on an elevator. Sanders looked uncomfortable.

“I didn't have any plans to come home,” he replied.

“You're going to live at that hotel forever?” Jameson asked. Sanders glanced at him. “Oh, yes. I've known every move you've made since you left. Who do you think pays those credit card bills, hmmm?”

“I could get another job after -,”