“We'll see.”
He told her the flight would take about two hours, but that's all he would say. When they took off, they headed over land, so she knew they weren't going East. Somewhere West – back to Los Angeles? No, that would be way longer than two hours. How long did it take to go to Chicago? Did Jameson even like Chicago? She had no clue where they were headed, and his words started to get to her. She got nervous.
She talked Sanders into playing a couple rounds of gin rummy with her. Jameson produced a chess board, and beat her so quickly, it was embarrassing. Then he got Sanders to play, and that was actually interesting. They were both very good. She wondered if either had competed, and realized she knew almost nothing about either of their pasts. Jameson won, but it was a hard fought battle. Sanders made a noise in the back of his throat, and it took her about five minutes to realize it was a laugh.
This is going to be a hell of a weekend.
“Time to clip your wings, baby girl,” Jameson commented after the pilot announced their descent.
“Excuse me?” Tate asked as he dug something out of his bag. A long, black sash appeared in his hands.
“You said you trusted me,” he reminded her as he sat down next to her. She edged away from him.
“Yeah, with both eyes open. Not so much in the dark,” she joked, even though she was a little nervous.
“I'm not asking, Tatum,” he said in a stern voice.
The blindfold wrapped around her eyes, and she was left in darkness.
Tate had never really been into the whole bondage scene. Sure, it was fun once in a while, but she liked to touch, and she liked to be touched, too much for it to be a real thing. And blindfolding was the worst. She had said it once, she was a very visual person. She wanted to see everything. Ang loved it and was forever trying wrap things around her head. It was usually a battle that he won only after copious amounts of liquor.
After the plane landed, she stayed sitting in her chair, as still as a statue, while people and the crew moved around her. At one point, someone leaned close, and she jerked away, but then there was a hand covering her own. Sanders' voice assured her that everything would be just fine. She managed a smile and tried to grab onto his arm, her fingers trailing down his sleeve as he pulled away. Then Jameson was next to her, she recognized his cologne, and he pulled her out of her seat, led her down the aisle.
Her nerves abated a little when they had to figure out how to get down the stairs. She stumbled on the first step and refused to go down anymore while wearing the blindfold. Jameson simply picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, carried her all the way to a car. By the time she was ensconced in a back seat, she was laughing hysterically.
She made a mental checklist as they drove. They were somewhere that wasn't any warmer or cooler than Boston, really. Wherever they had landed, Tate could smell foliage, a heavy forest. Something familiar. She figured they were still in the Northeast. Maybe he was taking her to some getaway in Maine. Or Vermont – she remembered Jameson saying he owned a farm in Vermont. Her outfit wasn't very conducive to a weekend in a cabin, though. She hoped for a five-star hotel.
“I am going to take your blindfold off in a moment,” his voice was soft, after they had been driving for about an hour.
“Thank god,” she laughed.
“I want you to remember something, though,” Jameson said, at the same time the car took a slow, but sharp, right turn. Gravel crunched under the wheels.
“What?” she asked.
“You started these games,” he told her. Her nerves went through the roof at that statement.
This is not a romantic get away. This is something very, very bad.
The blindfold fell away and she blinked, trying to adjust to the light. The car they were in had tinted windows, making it hard to see outside. Jameson was sitting next to her, carefully folding the sash up and putting it in his jacket pocket. She scooted closer to her door, peering out the window. She didn't get it. All she could see were trees. A narrow, gravel road. She pressed her forehead to the glass, tried to see ahead of the car. Glimpsed a house in the distance.
Oh. My. God.
“You didn't,” Tate breathed, her heart stopping in her chest. She turned to look at Jameson, and he smirked at her.
“I told you, I always win,” he said, stretching an arm out along the seat behind her.
I am so. Fucking. Stupid. Goddamn Satan wins again.
She lost her damn mind. Screamed and slapped him across the face. He ducked the next blow and grabbed her wrist, but she was already throwing herself at him, grabbing his hair with her other hand and trying to kick at him. Her dress was too tight, she couldn't really reach, and had to settle for kicking him in the shin.
They wrestled around for about a minute. Jameson could stop her whenever he wanted, she knew he was just letting her work out her frustrations – so she made the most of it, pulling his hair, pounding on his shoulders. When she scratched at his face, though, she apparently went too far. They were driving in an extended-back town car, and he slammed her onto the floor.
“This isn't a fucking game!” she screamed at him. He pinned her wrists by her head.
“Calm the fuck down!” he shouted at her. She used every muscle she had, swung her weight around underneath him. He didn't budge.
“How could you!? How could you!? You must really fucking hate me, Kane!” she shouted at him. His hand came down over her mouth, clamping it shut.
“Calm. Down. Take a deep breath. It's not that bad. This was going to happen some day, I just sped up the process,” he said. She shook her head and cursed at him from behind his hand. He pressed down harder. “Shut the fuck up and calm down. You made me go to that ridiculous dinner. You kissed Sanders in front of me. You kissed Angier in front of me. You owe me.”
She forced herself to go still, and he finally removed his hand. She breathed heavily, staring up at him. He was very close to her, his hair messy and hanging over his forehead. One, long, red, scratch mark went from under his ear to just under his jaw. Not too noticeable. Pity. She took a deep breath.
“This wasn't about you, you had no right to do this. I'm nothing to you, why would you do this?” she whispered. He frowned at her.
“You are not nothing to me,” Jameson replied. She shook her head.
“You're always telling me I'm nothing. Reminding me, over and over again. Nothing, nothing, nothing. You're the devil,” she said, moving her eyes away from his to stare at the roof of the car. She could feel tears at the back of her throat and she didn't want him to have the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
“I will fully admit to being the devil, but I have never said you're nothing. Look, if you can't do this, if you can't handle this, we will go right back to the airport and I will take you home. You never have to talk to me again. Just say the words. Admit you can't handle this,” he told her. She took a deep, shuddering breath.
“Move,” she snapped, and he got off of her. Pulled her onto the seat next to him.
She fixed her hair. Dug out a mirror and fixed her lipstick, which had smeared all over her chin. She straightened out her dress, pulled the stockings back into place, fidgeted with the jewelry. Jameson reached out and tried to place a hand over her own, but she pulled away from his touch as if he burned her, refusing to even look at him.
“Tate, we -,” he started, but she shook her head. The car was pulling up in front of a large, colonial style home. Not unlike Jameson's home in Weston, though this one was on a much grander scale. More pillars, more bricks, more rooms. She knew it had more rooms, because she had been in it many times. She took a deep breath.
“You'll never win, Kane. So how are we doing this? Is there an explanation, a back story? Are you my boyfriend? Am I your paid whore?” Tate asked.
“We ran into each other in Boston. We're friends,” he said in a slow voice. She cackled.
“Friends. We have never been friends, Jameson,” she snapped, listening as Sanders got
out of the driver's seat. Talked with someone who had come out the front door. Jameson put a finger under her chin and pulled her gaze to him. He looked angry.
“Baby girl, I might just be the best friend you've ever had,” he told her. She smiled sweetly at him at the same time Sanders pulled her door open.
“You better start smiling, Jameson. You know how my family loves a happy face,” she whispered, then took Sanders' hand, allowing him to pull her out of the car.
Her mother, sister, and some guy she didn't recognize, all stood on the porch of the house she had grown up in, the house she had been living in when she had first met Jameson; the house she hadn't been back to in seven years. She took a deep breath.
Show time.
HER MOTHER ACTUALLY cried. Like real tears, not drunk ones. Hugged her. Gushed over how beautiful Tatum was, how amazing she looked. Tate managed a smile, but she had a feeling that it looked more like a smirk, as that long ago phone call played through her mind. Her own mother, calling her a worthless whore, a good for nothing, a home wrecker. Telling her own daughter that she wasn't allowed to come home, ever again.
“Ever again” apparently only lasts seven years.
The mystery man turned out to be Ellie's husband. He was tall, dirty-blonde, and handsome. He smiled a lot and stared at Tate's chest the whole time, even though there wasn't even a hint of cleavage showing. Asshole rolled off of him and Tate moved away quickly.
She had often wondered what meeting up with her sister would be like; would she be forgiving? Would she be angry? She wasn't necessarily either, she was just the same, old, hateful Ellie. Like no time had passed. Scowling at Tate like she was a nuisance, an interruption. Like she was lesser than. And when Jameson came down the line, shook Ellie's hand while standing what could probably be considered too-close to Tatum, Ellie's eyes looked downright murderous. Tate could read her thoughts, “you stole this from me, he was mine, and you ripped it all away.”
Funny that everyone had gotten so angry at her, but no one had seemed to care about Jameson's part in it all.
They all went inside and she was told that her father was out of town, but he would be back the next day. Her mother claimed that he was “looking forward” to seeing Tate, but the woman could barely get the words out through her painted on smile. Tate just nodded, following everyone into the kitchen.
Wine was poured and stories told. Jameson had called Mrs. Blanche O'Shea a couple days ago, explained how he had run into Tate, how they had developed a friendship of sorts. He just wanted to help, could he bring Tatum down for a visit? Tate's mom had been all over that idea, and got even more excited when he had invited himself along, as well. They were placed in rooms across from each other, neither of them Tate's old bedroom. That room had long ago been broken down and turned into a spare office.
Ellie's husband, Robert, talked non-stop. How he had heard so much about Tate, but he had no idea that she was so good looking. Mrs. O'Shea only made beautiful children, it seemed. Most of his speeches were made to her chest, and at one point she caught Jameson scowling at them, so she indulged Robert. Arched her back, stretched her arms, leaned into him. Made a big show of letting her hair down, shaking it out so it was wild and messy – a personal fave of Jameson's, she knew.
Ha, choke on it, Satan.
Ellie didn't even notice, she was so busy kissing Jameson's ass – Tate was just waiting for her to get down on her knees and make an offer to suck him off, right in front of everyone. It was ridiculous. In between flirting with Jameson, Ellie threw poison darts with her eyes at Tatum, who just rolled her own eyes and drank a little more. Finally, as if awkward small talk wasn't bad enough, they all sat down to dinner.
“So where do you live in Boston, honey?” her mother asked.
“North Dorchester,” Tate answered.
“Oh wow, you must be a tough little thing,” Robert laughed. Tate laughed as well, winking at him.
“You have no idea,” she teased.
“Tate's never had a problem getting down and dirty, have you?” Ellie snapped, sipping at her water. She was two months pregnant, and it was obvious by the way she eye balled the wine that sobriety was difficult for her.
“Oh never. In fact, I absolutely love it,” Tate drew out the words. Jameson cleared his throat.
“Tate has been working for me,” he offered up. The whole table went silent and stared at him. Tate wondered how truthful he would be.
“Oh? Doing what?” Ellie asked in a cool voice.
“Oh, just some work here and there, around my house. Making the place brighter, you could say. In exchange, I have been setting her up with a retirement account,” he explained, his eyes locked onto Tate's. She laughed at him.
“Making the place brighter - it's what I live to do, Mr. Kane,” she replied in a husky voice.
“Well, you are very good at it.”
Her mother interrupted then, not drunk enough – yet – to let the innuendos go over her head. Dessert was brought out and they ate mostly in silence, then retired to a drawing room. Mrs. O'Shea didn't last much longer before heading off to bed. Tate followed her to the stairs and gave her a hug goodnight. When she turned around, Ellie was behind her.
“I know what you're doing,” she snapped. Tate sighed. She was so tired.
“What am I doing, Ellie?” Tate asked.
“You stole Jameson from me. He was going to propose, and you ruined it all. Now that Robert and I are about to have a baby, you want to steal him from me, too,” Ellie replied, rubbing her hand over her belly. Tate laughed.
“I didn't steal Jameson – in seven years, I never even saw him, not until a couple weeks ago. He was never going to propose to you, he told me that night that he was going to dump you, so I didn't ruin shit. I just made it easier for him to end it. And trust me, in no way, shape, or form, do I want your husband, so you two can have all the babies you want,” Tate assured her. Ellie narrowed her eyes.
“You're just a slut, Tate. It's so disgusting. I can see what's going on between you two, 'doing work around the house'. Is that what you call screwing? And he pays you? Now you really are a whore. He doesn't care about you. Jameson Kane would never be with a slut like you. Some day sex won't be enough, and he'll need a real woman, and that's when he'll marry a girl like me. Not one like you,” Ellie hissed.
Her words were true, and they hurt because they were true, but before the cut could split open and bleed, Jameson walked into the room. Tate didn't even look at him, just kept her eyes locked on her sister. Tate was a little shocked, though, when he stopped next to her and coiled his arm around her waist.
“Clearly you underestimate good sex, Ellie. I could never have 'enough' sex with Tate, and I can guarantee that I will never get tired of her, and I would most certainly never marry a girl like you. She didn't ruin anything – what happened between us that night was just a happy accident; I was going to end things with you. I wasn't going to marry someone like you seven years ago, and I am definitely not going to now,” Jameson said in a cold, hard voice. Ellie took a step back.
“So you admit it, you're paying her for sex?” she demanded. Jameson lifted an eyebrow.
“Glad to hear you paid attention to the important part of that speech. Have I ever once given you cash for sex, Tatum?” he asked, looking down at Tate. She pretended to think for a minute.
“Does that time you made me bite down on a roll of money, to shut me up, count?” she asked. Ellie looked like she was going to be sick. Jameson smiled.
“No, I made sure to get that back when we were finished. I had to pay the taxi, after all,” he reminded her.
“Then no. I have never received cash for sex,” Tate agreed.
“You see, Ellie, some people don't need to get paid for sex. If anything, you expect more in return for sex than Tate ever has – all she wants is to get off, which I can provide for very easily. You, though, you require a husband, a name, children, acceptance, the right car, the right house. And you're not
worth that price, not at all,” Jameson explained.
If she had been the richest person in the world, Tate would have given every cent she had to have recorded that moment. Ellie's eyes bulging open, her jaw dropping down. Skin turning red. And hearing Jameson say that he would never get tired of Tate, even if it was an act, was priceless. She suddenly burst out laughing. Like hysterically. Like it was all the funniest thing she had ever heard, in her whole life. She bent over in half, stumbling forward.
“What's going on in here? Partying without me?” Robert laughed, joining them.
“I'm going to bed!” Ellie all but shrieked before stomping up the stairs.
“Life is always a party with the O'Sheas,” Jameson said in a dry voice before heading upstairs as well.
“Looks like it's just you and me, Tatum,” Robert's voice purred. She felt his fingers on her exposed back and she shuddered, stepping away from him.
“What are you doing?” she asked. He stepped closer to her again.
“Ellie's told me all about Jameson, about you and him. You got a thing for big sister's lovers? I'm cool with that,” Robert told her in a low voice.
Might have laid on the flirting a little too thick. God, rich people are way creepier than poor people.
“Well, I'm not, so no thank you,” Tate snapped.
“C'mon. She told me about Jameson, the crazy things he used to ask her to do for him. You must be a hell of a fuck, to keep a guy like him chasing after you,” Robert pointed out. Tate was a little shocked. This needed to end, now.
“Look, I do not have a 'thing' for Ellie's lovers – I didn't even have a thing for him, it just happened. It was an accident. I am not now, nor ever, going to fuck you, so you can fuck right off with that idea,” she told him, crossing her arms. He glared at her.
“You're a fucking tease. You and your sister. Fucking teases,” he snapped at her before pushing past her, checking her hard on the shoulder. She stumbled backwards and had to grab onto the banister, to keep from falling.
Mother fucker.
Tatum had been called a lot of things, but she was pretty sure that was the first time “tease” had ever been used.
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