“Only when rent is late.”
Jameson grabbed her leg, stilling her, and he pulled the strap free.
“You haven't paid your rent, Tatum?” he asked in a soft voice. Only she knew better now – Jameson was only soft before he did something sharp.
“Well, someone wasn't being very truthful about paying me – I've only worked six days in the last two weeks. Not exactly raking in the dough, so I couldn't pay. I have to start temping again; I have to pay my rent, Jameson. Rus depends on me,” she told him. He snorted.
“I'm not just going to give you a thousand dollars -,”
“Four thousand dollars.”
“Any amount of money, in cash, to run around with – you're insane. You'd probably spend it all on hookers and cocaine.” She didn't deny it. “I'm going to set you up an investment portfolio. As fun as sucking dick for money at eighty probably is, I don't think you want to be doing that.”
“Doesn't change the fact that I need to make rent. I need to eat, I need to pay my bills. Three days a week just doesn't cut it, I told you that,” Tate reminded him as she smoothed out her skirt. It had climbed up to her hips during her struggle with her purse.
“I'll feed you, and don't worry about the rest,” was all he snapped before turning away, looking out his window. Subject apparently closed. She snorted.
“You're too extra. What's got you in such a sweet mood?” she asked.
“Your life is ridiculous. You were skipped ahead in school, graduated at the top of your private school, and you were accepted into an accelerated program at Harvard. Why are you fucking around? Such a fucking child,” Jameson growled.
She stared at him for a second. He sounded angry. Like, for real angry. It didn't make sense. Why did he care what she did? Since asking about Ellie that first night, Jameson hadn't asked her one single other thing about her life or family. She was kinda shocked he even remembered that she had been moved ahead in school. Tate frowned at him.
“You call it being a child. I call it living my life the way I want to,” she replied.
“But it's the wrong way,” he informed her, his voice dripping with disdain.
Who the fuck was he to judge her life!? She wasn't good enough to be his girlfriend, but he still got to boss her around and pass judgement on her life? She didn't think so. Her anger started to boil.
“Says who? The great Jameson Kane?” Tate snapped at him, her voice loud. “What, I should live a life more like yours? Why on earth would I want to do that? I get to be who I am, the real me, every single day. I say what I want, and do what I want. You hide behind your money, and your business, and your suits, and your intellect. Pretending to be this suave guy, when we both know you're two steps away from being a complete sociopath who -,”
She didn't get to finish her sentence. He turned around on her in an instant, grabbing her by the throat. She didn't miss a beat – Jameson Kane had yet to learn that Tate was usually capable of giving as good as she got. She knocked his arm loose, but by then he was halfway laying on top of her. It was a blur of hands and arms, her trying to push him back, him batting her away. They wound up stretched across the back seat, one of her arms pinned under his knee as he knelt over her. Her free hand pulled at his wrist, trying to yank away the hand that was back around her throat.
“You think I hide, Tate? You think I pretend?” he hissed, his face close to hers. She glared up at him.
“I don't think, I know,” she snapped back.
“And what is it you're doing, baby girl? Ran away from home. Ran away from your family. Ran away from school. That's all you do, run away. I'm counting down the days till you do it to me,” he told her. She sucked in air through her teeth.
“You call it running, I call it freeing myself.”
“Bullshit. If that was true, you wouldn't be so upset over what I said,” he pointed out.
“I'm not upset, I -,”
Suddenly he was shaking her. She dug her nails into his wrist and he let go of her, but only long enough to pin that arm between her body and his thigh. His hand immediately went back to the base of her neck and he lowered his face till he was directly above her.
“Don't ever fucking lie to me, Tate. Stupid fucking girl. Put your fucking hands on me like that again, and you'll see how mean I can really get,” he warned her, his lips so close they were brushing against her own.
She felt her temperature soar through the roof. Jameson had an uncanny gift that made it impossible for her to be truly mad at him – the angrier she got, the more she just wanted to have sex with him. He was blessed that way; or rather, she was cursed.
“You keep promising to show me. Still waiting,” Tate whispered back. He chuckled, and the anger in his eyes cooled a little. There was a long pause while he stared at her, then there was a cough from in front of them.
“One block away, sir,” Sanders' voice carried into the back seat. Jameson glanced at him and then returned his attention to Tate.
“You just want to piss me off, I swear to god. You have no idea, the things I want to do to you,” he told her.
“The windows are tinted. Sandy would probably like the show,” she offered, sliding around underneath him, rubbing her body against his legs. Jameson quirked up an eyebrow.
“I doubt that. We'll go home, and I'll put a happy end to this argument,” he informed her. She narrowed her eyes.
“We can't go home – we're going to dinner,” she reminded him. He shook his head.
“Bad girls get sent to bed without dinner,” he stated. She began to struggle against his weight.
“No. You agreed to go, so you have to go. I told everyone we would be there,” she said.
“Do you really think I give a fuck?” he asked with a laugh.
“That's not fair. You agreed,” Tate stressed.
“Why is this so important? You want me to meet your friends? I don't care about your friends, Tate. If you think I care about your life, you're mistaken. Stupidity annoys me, whether it's you, or some guy down the street, or something on TV, doesn't matter. I think you're stupid, and that annoys me. Don't read into things. We are going home, and we will finish this discussion there. The only reason I'm not fucking you right now, is because I have too much respect for Sanders,” Jameson spat out at her.
But not for me.
The problem with playing her games, Tate had long ago learned, was the line between fun and bad was too blurry. For instance, Ang had called her just about every dirty name they could both think of, but one time, while just hanging out at his apartment, he made a sarcastic remark about her family hating her because she was a huge whore. She didn't speak to him for two weeks. Took him even longer to get back in her pants.
What was real, and what wasn't real? Calling her a “dumb cunt” was fine, as long as Jameson didn't really think she was one. Knowing and thinking she was a whore was fine, as long as she was treated with respect. Was he playing a game now? If he had said all those same words at another time, a different situation, she would have already been thinking of ways to get him naked in the car. But it didn't feel like he was playing. If he was, it wasn't fun anymore. Her feelings were hurt. She hated that.
“Get off of me.”
Surprisingly, he complied without hesitation. Tate pushed away from him, getting as much distance between the two of them as she could on the seats. Sanders was just pulling into a parking spot outside of her friend's apartment building. She refused to look at Jameson, just went about straightening her clothing.
“Oh my, I've struck a nerve. I didn't know Tatum O'Shea had those anymore,” he said, his voice quiet. She looked over at him.
“Fuck you, Kane,” she spat out. He laughed.
“Strike one. Let's go inside, get this over with.”
“I'm going inside. You can go fuck yourself.”
“I see. I've hurt you. Interesting,” his voice was quieter still, his eyes wandering over her face. She shook her head.
“No, just enlightened me. If I'm so fu
cking stupid, so fucking annoying, so not worthy of your fucking respect, maybe you should just find someone else to play with,” she told him.
“Not yet. You may be stupid and annoying, but you're one hell of a lay,” Jameson told her, his smile wide. She rolled her eyes and climbed out of the car.
Tate was mad, though she wasn't sure why. She knew that Jameson didn't care about her – why was she angry that he had said it out loud? Because it made it real. When they were alone together, lazing around his library, he made it easy to forget. He would just talk with her sometimes, laugh with her. Made it seem like he actually liked her, for more than just her abilities in bed.
Stupid girl.
“What are you doing!?” she demanded, when he got out of the car on the other side.
“You were right about one thing. I agreed to go, so I'm going. Can't have you holding it over my head later. Say a lot of things about me, but I'm not a quitter,” Jameson told her as she came around to stand next to him.
“But I don't want you here anymore,” she said. He shrugged.
“Don't really care. What's the apartment number?”
Her vision started turning a little red. Never had she dealt with such a stubborn man. If she wanted to go left, he went right. If she went right with him, he decided to go left. Sometimes it turned her on. Other times, it just made her want to kill him.
Her game had been a bad one, a bust. Jameson had spent the whole day doing her “normal” things, and he hadn't acted normal at all. Deep down, she had thought maybe it would all humanize him a bit. Mistake. Now she wanted to make him hurt. Make him bleed a little. She didn't know if it was possible, but when she looked over his shoulder, something gave her the idea to try.
“Ang!” she called out, waving her arm in the air. Jameson turned as she pushed past him.
“Kitty-cat, how're things? Haven't seen you in a while,” Ang called back, still a couple buildings down from her. She jogged the distance to him.
“Too long of a while,” Tate replied, throwing herself into his arms.
“Well, you could -,”
She covered his lips with her own, swirling her tongue through his mouth. He sat her on her feet, clearly a little shocked, slow in kissing her back. She put on a good show, running her hands along his shoulders and clawing down his chest. He finally managed to break the kiss, gently pushing her away. She winked up at him.
“You're my best friend,” she teased. He glanced behind her.
“Oh, are we onto the 'make-him-jealous' phase of the relationship?” Ang asked, eyeballing Jameson. She shook her head.
“No, we're onto the 'make-him-piss-blood' part. He hurt my feelings. I want to hurt his pride,” Tate explained.
“Glad to be of service.”
They walked up to Jameson hand in hand. The reception between the two men was cool, at best. Ang smiled his shit-eating grin, wrapping an arm around Tate's waist. He knew he was the more cherished between the two. Jameson smiled back in a lazy manner, letting his eyes wander over Ang's wiry frame and then over to Tate's smaller form. He knew he was the one she was going home with that night – and any other night. They both knew what she was like in bed. It was like being in the middle of a very loud silent-argument. She felt like her hair was going to stand on end from all the tension.
“Inside! Everybody inside, chop chop,” she ordered, scooting both men up the stairs ahead of her.
Of course it was super fucking awkward. Her friend Rachel – the girl she had covered for to cater the Kraven and Dunn event, thus the person responsible for the fucked up relationship Tate now found herself in – was the one throwing the dinner party, and it was mostly a bunch of twenty-somethings; all people who worked the same kind of jobs, led the same kind of lives. Jameson stuck out like a sore thumb. Originally, Tate had thought that would be part of the fun. But it just made things weird. He was quiet and taciturn, didn't even try to pretend to be interested in anything or anyone.
It didn't help that Ang took her statement very seriously and took every opportunity to touch her inappropriately. Jameson watched, that cool, disdainful look in his eye, but he didn't say or do anything. Just smiled. It made her a little nervous. She escaped into the kitchen where most of the other girls were; Tate was normally a dude kind of lady, would rather hang out with the boys. Not that night. She chugged pinot grigio, wishing it was whiskey, and just hoped that Ang and Jameson would kill each other, curing all her frustrations.
Dinner was finally served. Jameson took a seat towards one end of a large table. They hadn't spoken a word directly to each other since she had kissed Ang, and Tate hesitated about which seat she should take. Jameson solved the dilemma when he yanked on her arm, forcing her into the chair next to him. She didn't argue. Just drank more. Ang sat across from them and tried his hardest to flirt, but when she stopped responding, he turned his attentions to Rus, who became all giggly and red. Tate glared at her.
Stupid, normal girl. Bet she could just go out and have normal, boring sex. Bet no one calls her a dumb cunt – and if they did, bet she wouldn't be such a weirdo that she'd like it.
Jameson lightened up over the food, actually laughing and talking with some of the guys next to him. It made Tate feel a little better, up until he took her glass of wine away. Didn't even look at her, just reached out and grabbed it, moving it to the other side of his plate. Apparently, she was done drinking.
Asshole.
She helped clean up, and while she and Rachel washed dishes, everyone gathered in the living room. Ang was telling one of his “a day in the life of a wannabe porn star” stories, and everyone was laughing. When she peeked her head out, even Jameson had a smile on his face. She smiled and ducked back into the kitchen. At least he was pretending to have a good time. Maybe that would gentle the blow that would come later.
“Hey, Rach,” Tate said, pressing her wrist to her forehead. “Do you have any aspirin or anything? I have a killer headache.”
“In my bedroom, I have some tylenol in the bathroom – maybe some stronger stuff, I don't know what's all in there. Help yourself. Go lay down, if you want,” Rachel offered, rubbing her back. Tate smiled and wandered down the hall.
Rachel's room was small, but she had an en suite, which Tate would kill for in her own apartment – even a half bath. She found the tylenol, but on another shelf in the medicine cabinet, she found some vicodin. Thank god. She took one pill and washed it down with the glass of wine she had snuck out of the kitchen.
She had pushed the bedroom door mostly closed behind her, left all the lights off, but she didn't lay down. She wandered around Rachel's room, not prying, but peeking through the stuff that was out. Standard pajamas, no lace or leather. Her closest didn't show a hint of kink. There was a dresser along one wall, with a bunch of jewelry on top of it. Tate picked through it, holding up earrings and moving to a mirror that was on the wall at the foot of the dresser, looking herself over.
Tatum O'Shea, nice, normal girl. Pshaw, right.
The door creaked and opened, light from the hall spilling inside. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Jameson walk towards her. She didn't say anything, just grabbed a necklace off the dresser and moved back to the mirror. She struggled with the clasp and he walked up behind her, taking the necklace from her fingers.
“Too cheap,” he commented. Tate stared at his reflection while he clasped the necklace.
“You think?” she asked, pressing her hand against the jewelry. It was several strands of pearls, of varying lengths, all connected as one at the ends.
“Yes. They're fake. I remember you wearing another set of fake pearls, once. You need real ones,” he told her. She smiled.
“I'll put that on my to-do list. Rent, utilities, pearls,” she joked, reaching back and unhooking the necklace. As soon as she removed it, his hands took its place, his thumbs hooked around the back of her neck and his fingers splaying down to her collar bone.
“I hurt you,” Jameson repeated his stateme
nt from the car. She threw the necklace onto the dresser.
“A little bit. I'm mostly over it,” she replied.
“I don't think you're stupid, Tate,” he started, and she held her breath, her eyes locked on his in the mirror. Jameson, apologizing? No way. “I think the way you live is stupid. Maybe I hide a little, but you're running away, too. You are better than all of this, smarter than all of them, and you know it.”
“Those are my friends,” her voice was soft.
“Can you honestly tell me that sometimes you don't want something different?” he asked.
“Who doesn't?” she responded. “It's knowing the worth of what you have. Fake pearls are just as good as real pearls, if they're given with good intentions and love. If Ang gave me the gaudiest, ugliest, tackiest, strand of fake pearls ever, I would love them more than any set of real pearls my parents ever gave me. Ang loves me. So good or bad, stupid or smart, those people care about me. I care about them. I could go back to Harvard tomorrow, and I would still be friends with these people, Jameson.”
He stared at her for a while, his grip getting harder. Almost like he was pushing down on her shoulders. He looked a little angry, and she wondered if maybe honest candor could get to Jameson more than childish games.
“If Angier gave you pearls, huh. And what if I gave you pearls? What would they mean to you?” he asked. She scrunched up her nose. The metaphor was starting to get awfully convoluted.
“Depends.”
“Oh what?”
“On how much they cost. You don't love me, so to be impressed, that price tag better be huge,” she halfway joked. He smirked at her.
“So, if I got you a $50,000 strand of pearls, and Angier got you some shitty fake ones, his would mean more to you, because he 'loves' you?” Jameson clarified.
“There are pearl necklaces that cost $50,000!?” Tate almost shouted her response.
“There are ones that cost a lot more than that. At least I know I can aim a little lower if I want to impress you,” he smirked. She swatted at his leg.
“Shut up. And don't be jealous of Ang, he just likes to play with me,” she told him.
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