Degradation

by Stylo Fantome

  “God, I hope so. Call that salon, tell them you won’t be coming in today. Call your temp agency, too. What was the figure we agreed on? Two-thousand dollars?” he asked, making his way back behind his desk.

  “Two thousand, five hundred,” she corrected him.

  “Clever girl. Now get out of here, you’ve wasted enough of my time and some of us have real jobs – not all of us can be whores. Be ready at eight,” he instructed her.

  “What’s at eight?” she asked.

  “You’re coming over to my house.”

  *

  Tate went for drinks with Ang first, to steady her nerves. She let him prattle on about his porn shoot, and then she spilled all the details on her dirty banter with Jameson. Ang had her repeat the “punish your mouth” story – it was one of her favorite parts, too. They agreed that she should play it cool, just see what Jameson’s deal was, what he was thinking. And then she could pounce. Blow his mind, see if he was able to blow hers, and then they would go from there. While drinking, she got a text from Jameson, giving her his address.

  “You’re so tense, it’s hilarious,” Ang laughed, massaging her shoulders while they waited outside for a taxi.

  “He makes me nervous.”

  “Did I ever make you nervous?”

  “Of course you did,” Tate replied.

  “Really? You never acted like it,” Ang pointed out, moving around to stand in front of her. She guffawed.

  “Ang – you’re frickin’ gorgeous, and the first thing you ever said to me was ‘you’ve got the perfect look for facials, wanna do porn?’; of course you made me nervous!” she chuckled. He shrugged.

  “Well, you always seem so comfortable around me. You never get all stupid and brainless, like you are for him,” he replied. She smiled and pressed her hand against his cheek.

  “Oh my god, Ang, are you jealous?” she asked. He tried to pull away and she put both hands on his face, following him as he moved backwards.

  “Shut up, you stupid cow. Go fuck your abusive billionaire, have a blast,” he snorted, batting her hands away.

  “You’ll always be my fave, you know that. C’mon, we can go have a quickie, real fast,” she laughed, backing him up against a wall. He grabbed her by her wrists.

  “I’m not jealous, Tate,” he said, staring down at her. She stopped laughing. Ang very rarely ever said her name. Baby, honey, sweetie, kitten, fuck-bunny, everything under the sun – when he said ‘Tate’, she knew it was time to listen.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. He sighed, pulling her hands to his chest.

  “Look, I’m very excited that you’re going to be fulfilling a fantasy tonight,” he said. She went to argue, but he squeezed her wrists. “I just want you to be very careful.” Tate frowned.

  “I’m always careful, you know that,” she replied, but he shook his head.

  “It’s all fun and games with the two of us, but this guy is new – he can say whatever he wants, but he doesn’t know you like I do. The way you’ve talked about him …, sounds like running with scissors. Play with him, hurt him, let him hurt you a little, but be careful,” Ang instructed her.

  “You’ve been psyching me up for this for the last couple days, and now it sounds like you’re trying to talk me out of it,” she told him. He shook his head.

  “No, I want you to have fun – but only fun. You’ve got this look in your eye, and it spells trouble. You think you’re playing a game. Don’t lose to him.”

  The cab driver whistled at her, but Tate stayed were she was, blinking up at Ang. He was staring down at her, his eyebrows drawn together. Not a natural look for him. She smoothed her fingers across his forehead and down the side of his face. She felt so comfortable with his skin, like it was her own.

  “I never lose,” she said with a smile before giving him a quick kiss. Ang rolled his eyes.

  “That’s the worst part about you, you know. You think you’re winning, when really you’re always losing,” he replied, and then spun her around, smacking her on the ass.

  She stumbled to the cab and got in the backseat, waving an arm out the window at him. He waved back and then wandered back in to the bar. She frowned after him. He had never shown concern like that before, and he had been present for many a pre-date-jitters drink. She hoped it wasn’t jealousy. She couldn’t handle that, not from Ang.

  She gave the address to the driver and they took off. It was going to be a long drive. She tried not to think about the cost. She had been living on the fringe for so long, that buying a vehicle was something she didn’t even think about, it wasn’t even on her radar. She had kinda assumed Jameson might send a car for her, but no offer had been made to do that – maybe he was more of a liberal kind of guy.

  He lived all the way out in Weston, the wealthiest suburb in Boston. One of the richest towns in America. Figures. She lived in an apartment in North Dorcester, right in Boston. Kind of sketchy at times. She had been to Weston before, but with her parents, and since then, she’d never had a reason to go back.

  When the taxi started pulling down a long, wooded driveway, Tate tried to not to gag at the sixty dollar tab and began rooting around in her purse. There went some rent money. She wondered if Jameson would actually give her any money, or if it had all been play. She was just starting to uncrumple some twenty dollars bills as the taxi parked, when the front passenger door swung open.

  “Here you are, and thank you,” a crisp, cultured sounding voice said, followed by a hand holding out two one-hundred dollar bills. Tate and the driver stared at the cash, both a little shocked. The money was exchanged and then her door was pulled open, a hand reaching in for her. Tate took it and was pulled to her feet.

  A slender man stood in front of her, wearing an impeccable suit. Very expensive looking. He wasn’t a very big man in general; she was around five-foot-six, and he wasn’t that much taller than her. Maybe five-foot-ten, give or take an inch. His dark hair was gelled and styled, brushed to the side. He looked like something out of GQ magazine – very handsome, with fair skin and stormy blue eyes. He gave her a tight-lipped smile.

  “Hello, Ms. O’Shea. I am Sanders, Mr. Kane’s assistant,” he said in a polite voice. There was a hint of an accent there, but she couldn’t place it. Not Boston, but a distinct burr, something else East Coast-y, or maybe even European. His fricatives were sharp, his voice soft.

  He should do books on tape.

  “Hi, I’m Tatum,” she greeted him, holding out a hand. He clasped it briefly, not really shaking it, just pressing his skin to hers and then letting go.

  “Welcome. Please, follow me,” he instructed, and then turned to lead the way.

  She hadn’t gotten a good look at the house on the drive up. She gaped at it now. It was like something from a hundred years ago. Huge, and gorgeous. Lots of brick, with white pillars in the front. She wondered if Jameson had bought it when he moved to Boston, or if it had been in the family. It looked like something that would be on the National Historical Registry.

  “Were you with him at the office, today?” Tate asked as they crunched across the pebble stone driveway.

  “No.”

  “Do you go in to Boston a lot?”

  “No.”

  “I got the impression he travels a lot, do you go with him on those trips?”

  “No.”

  She smirked at the assistant’s back as he held open the front door for her.

  “I’m going to assume that living with Kane is what has given you this anti-social personality disorder,” she said in a sweet voice. The man didn’t even blink at her statement.

  “I had this disorder long before Mr. Kane. He’s in the library, through that door,” Sanders told her, gesturing along the wall.

  She gasped, taking in the huge entry way. Vaulted ceilings, original hard wood floors, a chandelier that probably dated back to the civil war. A huge sitting room opened off to her right, and two large, sliding doors were shut on the room to her left. Farther down the wal
l, just past a grand staircase, was another door, standing slightly ajar. She could see a glow, like candle light, spilling out in to the hall.

  Tate had come from money, grown up in a gorgeous home, but it had been a long time since that life. It felt strange now, to be surrounded by such opulence. The rug she was standing on probably cost more than everything she owned.

  “You know, Sandy,” she started, reaching out and grabbing onto his shoulder. He frowned while she steadied herself and bent over, undoing the straps on her shoes. “I think we’re gonna get along, just fine.”

  With her shoes dangling from her hand, Tate tip toed down the entry way and pushed through the library door. There was a roaring fire in a huge fireplace on the far wall; it was providing the only light in the room. Built-in bookshelves surrounded her, and there were two huge, over stuffed, wingbacked chairs pulled up close to the fire. Off to the right of them stood a ridiculously huge, ornate, gold-inlaid desk. Jameson was standing behind it, holding some papers, and he looked up at her entrance.

  “You made it. Quite a cab ride,” he commented as she walked towards him. She nodded.

  “Forty-five minutes. I won’t be doing that often,” she warned him. He laughed.

  “You’ll do it often enough. Drink?” he asked, setting down his work and coming out from around the desk.

  “God, yes. Your assistant gave me freezer burn,” she laughed, watching Jameson as he walked over to a small bar.

  She stayed near his desk and stared at him, letting her eyes wander over his form. Every time she had seen him, he had been wearing expensive suits – blazers, ties, trousers, shiny shoes, and shinier watches. Now, he was in jeans and a plain white t-shirt. No shoes. No socks.

  Tate had never once seen him so dressed down, not even when he’d been dating her sister. She was a little shocked. It gave him a whole different look. He almost – though not quite – looked approachable. He was too good looking to ever truly look like a mere mortal. But still. She found herself wanting to peel his shirt off so she could lick every inch of his skin.

  “Ah, Sanders. Yes. You’ll grow to love him, almost everyone does. What would you like?” Jameson asked. When she didn’t answer, he turned towards her. “What? What are you staring at?”

  “You’re barefoot,” she blurted out, staring down at his feet. He laughed, looking down as well.

  “Yes. So are you,” he replied. She wiggled her toes at him.

  “Yeah, but I expect that from me. Mr. Kane doesn’t walk around barefoot. He has people to walk around for him,” she teased, looking back up at him. He snorted.

  “Mr. Kane’s feet hurt after a long day. You look nice,” Jameson commented, his eyes wandering over her. She had put on a fitted black dress, for her cocktail hour with Ang – a little overdressed for an evening in the country.

  “Thank you. I went out for drinks with a friend, before coming here,” she told him. He laughed.

  “Pre-gaming? Scared of coming out here?” he asked, turning back to the bar and picking up crystal bottles.

  “No. Just drinks with a friend,” Tate replied, spinning in a slow circle and looking around the room.

  “The redheaded roommate?” he asked. She felt something cool, and turned to see him running a glass full of ice and liquid down the side of her arm. She took it from him.

  “No. Ang,” she answered, taking a sip. She tried not to make a face. Gin and tonic.

  “Ah, the half-man, half-donkey friend. How was the tripod?” Jameson asked, making himself a drink, as well. She laughed.

  “Careful, almost sounds like jealousy, and I got enough of that from him,” Tate joked, heading over and falling in to one of the chairs. She let her shoes drop to the floor and she tucked her feet up underneath herself.

  “Tripod-man is jealous? I’m flattered,” he replied, taking the chair next to hers.

  “Not really jealous, I guess. Just …, cautious. On my behalf,” she tried to explain.

  “Understandable.”

  “So, how did you find this place, Kane? Daddy’s will?” Tate asked. She knew Jameson and his father hadn’t had the best relationship.

  “Something like that. Had it almost completely remodeled a couple years ago,” he replied.

  “Oh wow. Were you here for that?”

  “For a little while.”

  “So you came to Boston a couple years ago.”

  “As my answer would imply.”

  She stayed silent, sipping at her drink. He had been in Boston a couple years ago, but hadn’t contacted her. She still thought it was strange. If he was so in to her, so obsessed with that one time they’d been together, why hadn’t he looked her up? He would’ve had to assume that she’d still be in Boston, still going to school. She let out a sigh, tried not to think about it.

  “Did you -,” she started, but then he cleared his throat.

  “I didn’t call you because I didn’t think about it. I had just acquired a shit ton of property and money, I was a little busy. You weren’t even on my radar. Women were the last thing on my mind,” Jameson said, reading her mind.

  “It’s probably a good thing – a couple years ago, I was even crazier than I am now,” Tate laughed.

  “Jesus.”

  “I had a rough patch there, from about twenty to twenty-three. Like I was making up for lost time, or something. I just did everything and anything I could think of,” she told him.

  “Hmmm, sounds interesting. Now I wish I had called you,” he responded, and she laughed again.

  “What about you? What have you been doing?” she asked. He took a deep breath.

  “I started my own brokerage firm, not long after I left Harrisburg. Invested in a start up film company, made a bundle. Sold my firm, moved to Germany for a year to head a new firm there. My dad died, and I inherited all of his businesses. Moved back, lived in Los Angeles for a while. Then Manhattan. Made a lot of investments. I do a lot of consulting work, now,” he summed everything up.

  “Wow. I moved from one bad neighborhood to another, while you were moving across the globe,” she laughed. Jameson nodded.

  “Your life story is much shittier than mine,” he agreed. She glared at him.

  “But probably a lot funner,” Tate countered, finishing off her drink.

  “I highly doubt that. Have you ever had sex with a supermodel while sailing through the Mediterranean on your 250 foot yacht?” he asked. Tate thought for a second.

  “No. I gave a handjob in an Arby’s bathroom once, though. Kinda like the same thing,” she told him with a bright smile.

  “I stand corrected. Your life leaves me in awe,” he chuckled, rubbing a hand over his face.

  “Tired?” she asked, leaning back in her chair and getting comfy.

  She had expected to be a lot more nervous around him. For the two years he had dated her sister, Tate had always been a nervous mess around Jameson. She was surprised to find that she felt almost comfortable. Something about knowing she was with someone that she could say absolutely anything to, anything at all, and he most likely wouldn’t be shocked or offended, comforted her.

  “Very tired. It was a long day. I’m also involved in mergers and acquisitions. Sometimes people are not so eager to give up their stuff,” Jameson said in a gruff voice.

  “Poor baby,” she cooed at him. He snorted.

  “Shut up. How is Ellie?” he asked.

  She went still. She hadn’t expected him to ask about her family. Sure, Tate had asked about his house and life, but in a general, “let’s make conversation before I explode and rape you”, kind of way. She knew he didn’t care about her, or her family.

  “Fine, I guess. We don’t speak. My mother gets nostalgic after a couple bottles of wine, calls me, keeps me updated on the family. Last I heard, Ellie’s pregnant,” Tate replied, turning to stare in to the fireplace.

  “First child?”

  “Yup.”

  “Married, I assume.”

  “Within a year of you two
splitting up.”

  “She was always ambitious.”

  Tate didn’t respond, staring at the flames. She got lost in thought. She hadn’t seen or spoken to her sister in seven years. Most of the time she didn’t think about it, but once in a while, the realization slapped her in the face. She hadn’t spoken to her father, either, and the only times she spoke with her mother was when the woman was drunk off her face. God, she hated thinking about them.

  There was coldness against her arm again, and she looked up to see Jameson handing her a fresh drink. She hadn’t even heard him move. She smiled up at him, taking the glass. He didn’t move away, though; just kept staring down at her. She kept her eyes trained on his while she took a drink.

  “Ambitious, but boring as fuck. I think I started hating her, long before you and I happened,” he said. Tate chuckled.

  “Same here,” she agreed.

  “But you. You were always something else,” he continued. She laughed.

  “Me? You never even noticed me. You were Jameson Kane. My family practically worshiped you. I was always shoved in to the background. You didn’t even know my age, that night, and you had been with Ellie for two years,” she pointed out. He shrugged.

  “So. I knew you were sexy. That first time I ever saw you, when Ellie brought me home to meet your parents. You walked in the front door. I can remember it so clearly – you were in tight running shorts, arguing with someone on your phone. I can remember thinking that I wanted to peel your shorts off of you and wrap them around your neck,” he told her.

  Who knew?

  “Huh. That would’ve been an interesting introduction,” Tate joked.

  “And then the night you and I slept together. Ellie and I’d had a big fight. She never told me you were coming over. You walked in, in those preppy sweaters you always wore, and your tight skirt. Long, black hair. So different from her. Sitting at the kitchen table, trying to be an adult with me. You had no idea, but I knew then that something was going to happen,” Jameson said. She laughed.

  “No way, Kane. I was whining and complaining like a little girl. You were probably annoyed with me. You didn’t even try anything, till you caught me with my shirt off,” she reminded him. He shrugged.