The Kane Series Boxset

by Stylo Fantome

  “I'm awake now,” her sister mumbled. Tate smiled and knelt next to the bed. Her sister sat up to take the coffee mug and Tate's eyes wandered down to her belly.

  “Have you picked out any names yet?” she asked. Ellie sighed.

  “Mathias if it's a boy,” she said. Tate had to laugh.

  “Good old Daddy probably loves that. What if it's a girl?” she asked. Ellie chewed on her bottom lip.

  “I was thinking maybe Tatum,” she whispered. Tate's eyebrows shot up.

  “You're fucking with me,” she spat out. Ellie shook her head.

  “I want her to be strong. Stronger than her mother. More like you. I always wished I could be more like you,” Ellie explained. Tate felt her eyes fill with tears and she forced out a laugh.

  “If this gets any sweeter, I'm going to have morning sickness, all over you,” she joked, and Ellie laughed as well.

  Sanders showed up later in the night. He didn't say anything to anyone, just breezed through the living room, giving his tight lipped smile to Ellie. Even though he'd never been there, he lead the way straight into Tatum's room. Tate followed after him and closed the door behind them.

  “What's up?” Tate asked, kind of surprised to see him.

  “Mr. Kane sent me. He wanted to know how you were,” Sanders answered. She laughed.

  “Mr. Kane could just call me, himself. Tell him I'm fine,” she replied. Sanders didn't laugh, though. If anything, his mouth got tighter.

  “We were worried that her husband might come here and try to seek revenge. We both feel it would be best if you went to stay in a hotel,” Sanders told her. She laughed even louder.

  “How would Robert even know where I lived? He thinks Ellie and I hate each other; she had to steal my address from my mom's contact book. I'm not leaving my home,” Tate informed him.

  “We would feel much more comfortable if -,” he started, but she held up a hand.

  “We? Let's tell the truth, Sandy. It's you, isn't it. Just you. Did you even talk to him?” she demanded. He nodded.

  “Yes, I did. He was very upset,” Sanders assured her.

  “But did he really say that? That he wanted me to go to a hotel?” she pressed. Sanders was silent for a while.

  “If he'd had a chance, I know he would have. I know him very well, I know what he would say in these situations. He was very busy when I called,” he explained. Tate started to get a little ticked off.

  “Busy, huh. Too busy to talk to you about my 'situation'. Too busy to talk to me. Has he said when he's coming home?” she asked, folding her arms over her chest.

  “Yes. The end of this week.”

  Tate was shocked.

  “Wow. Were you planning on telling me?” she demanded. Sanders looked away from her.

  Uh oh.

  “Yes. He wanted me to let you know, there is going to be a party at the house. Sunday. All the partners will be there, people from his offices in New York and Los Angeles and Berlin; everywhere. Black tie. He gets into town that same day,” Sanders said quickly.

  “Shit, that's cutting it a little close, isn't it?” she pointed out. He shrugged.

  “He has me taking care of everything. If his flight can't make it, the party will just go on without him. He told me to ask you to buy a dress,” Sanders told her. She laughed.

  “Of course he did. A fancy dress, for a fancy party. Is there something you're not telling me?” Tate demanded. Sanders usually had the best poker face of anyone she knew. But now, there was something off. He was back to not quite meeting her eyes.

  “Ms. O'Shea, I ... I've enjoyed our time together here in Boston. You are a good friend to me. I am going back to the house tomorrow and will be staying there. Would you like to join me?” he said quickly, his voice almost shy sounding. She was touched.

  “Why Sandy, are you inviting me to move in with you?” she teased. He blanched.

  “No. But your company would be greatly appreciated, as always,” he told her. She laughed and pulled him in for a hug.

  “Of course I'll come with you. Help me calm Ellie down, and I'll go anywhere with you,” she whispered.

  And then shockingly, his arms came around her and Sanders hugged her back.

  SOMETHING WASN'T RIGHT. Something most definitely, positively, wasn't right.

  Tate could feel it in the air. Jameson's house felt like home to her, and she loved Sanders, but she could just tell; something was not right. Sanders wouldn't tell her anything, and she'd had no communication from Jameson. She even figured out the time difference and called him once – the first time she had ever called him, in the entire time they'd known each other.

  He didn't answer.

  By Saturday afternoon, she was a wreck. The house had been turned upside down by event planners. Sanders was running around, helping to get everything ready. Tate hovered in the background. Helped where she was needed, asked Sanders if there was anything she could do, but he had practically become a mime. He wouldn't speak, not if he didn't have to. Finally, she cracked and texted Jameson.

  Is this a game?

  It was hours before he replied. She was laying in his bed, ready to go to sleep, when her phone dinged.

  Yes.

  She sat up, turned on a light.

  What are the rules?

  No more rules.

  That sounds dangerous.

  I thought you liked danger.

  She chewed on her bottom lip, glanced around the room.

  What is going on?

  But he ignored her question and asked one of his own.

  Where are you, right now?

  Your room.

  In my bed?

  Yes.

  Good.

  What is going on?

  See you soon, baby girl.

  He wouldn't respond to anymore of her texts. She stayed awake for the rest of the night.

  THE NEXT EVENING, SOME of Jameson's colleagues showed up early for the party, made themselves at home in his library. Tate got ready, wandered around the house. She was coming out of the kitchen, struggling to open a jar of peanut butter, when laughter burst out of the library. She stopped by the door.

  “Clever man. Keeping girls on two continents,” one was guffawing.

  Tate's breathing doubled.

  “Which one do you think he likes better?” another voice.

  “Well, the girl here seems wilder, more his tastes. I bet she's an animal in the sack.”

  She nodded to herself. Sounded like her.

  “But Pet's more polished, more refined. You can take Pet to parties; you take the other girl to bed.”

  Tate pressed herself against the library door. Fuck being subtle.

  “Yes, but what do you do with both of them at once?”

  “Sounds like a hell of a party!”

  Bawdy laughter.

  “I guess we'll find out, they'll be here tonight.”

  “What's-her-name is already here.”

  “Jameson and Pet got in on the six o'clock flight. They should be here any time now.”

  There was a sharp ringing in her ear and Tate stumbled away from the door. Dropped the peanut butter. When she turned around, Sanders was standing behind her. They stared at each other. Just stared, for about a minute solid.

  Traitor.

  She took off running up the stairs. Sanders thundered after her, calling out her name. She had never heard him speak in such a loud tone before; any other time, and she would've been in awe. She ran down the hall, almost biting it in her heels once. She skated through Jameson's door just before Sanders and managed to shut it in his face, turning the lock. She dashed out onto a balcony that had been converted into a sun room. Jameson kept his computer out there. She had never bothered with it before, never had a reason to.

  Tate knew Sanders had keys to everything and would be in the room in no time, so she acted quickly. Typed Jameson's name into Google. More of the same info came up, so she just immediately went to the images tab.

  S
he was shocked to see a lot more pictures of herself – she had never noticed any photographers anywhere they went. Her and Jameson walking out of his office building; her and Jameson eating lunch; her and Sanders, laughing next to him outside of a movie theatre; her and Jameson kissing while he held an umbrella over her. She couldn't figure out why at first. Why were there so many all of the sudden? She clicked on one so it would take her to the website of origin, then gasped at the headline.

  Who Will Financial Mogul Jameson Kane Choose? A Sexy American or A Danish Beauty?

  Tate scrolled down. Several of the photos of them together were in the article. But the other pictures interested her more. There were a couple old ones of him and Pet together, but a couple of very new ones, too. Them entering a hotel together, exiting the same hotel together. Him holding a car door open for her. His arm around her waist as they entered a clothing boutique.

  It was a German tabloid. Tate learned that Pet lived part of the time in Berlin, that's why there was a lot of interest. Some small time rag-reporter had noticed that Jameson was tooling around Berlin with Pet, then discovered the photos of Tate and Jameson online. Boom. Story. Sex. Scandal. Intrigue. Hell, even Tate would want to read something like that.

  If it wasn't actually about me. At least they called me sexy.

  She was scrolling through another article when Sanders finally opened the door and strode into the room. He reached for the computer mouse and she batted his hand away. A minor slapping war ensued for a couple moments before she leapt out of the chair. He reached for her arm, but she pushed him away.

  “How could you not tell me!?” Tate demanded, circling him. He looked upset.

  “I couldn't. I'm very sorry, Ms. O'Shea,” Sanders replied.

  “Fuck you! We're supposed to be friends! How long have you known about them!?” she shouted.

  “For about two weeks. I advised him that it was a poor choice,” he told her.

  “Oh, you advised him, how kind of you. Did you know he was bringing her here tonight?” she asked. His look went from upset to pained.

  “Yes,” Sanders answered softly. She gasped.

  “How could you let me come here? I thought we were friends. How could you do this to me?” Tate whispered.

  “Because I told him to.”

  They both turned to see Jameson standing in the middle of the bedroom. He took off his suit jacket and then rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Took off his watch and threw it onto the side table. Sanders cleared his throat.

  “Sir, I think you owe it to Ms. -,”

  “Leave.”

  Glancing at Tate once, Sanders walked out of the room. Tate struggled to even out her breathing and entered the bedroom proper. Jameson was carrying his suitcase into his closet. There was a clattering of hangers and he walked back out with a new shirt in his hands.

  “Why?” Tate whispered. He lifted his eyes to hers. A pair of blue icicles. It felt like it had been longer than a month since she had last seen him. She felt like she was looking at a stranger.

  Did I ever know him?

  “What's that, baby girl?” Jameson asked, changing into the fresh shirt.

  “Don't call me that!” she snapped. He chuckled.

  “I call you anything I want.”

  “Not anymore. Why are you doing this? What did I do to you?” she asked.

  “It's all a game, isn't it? I thought you liked games,” Jameson said, throwing the worn shirt onto his bed.

  “Fuck your games,” Tate hissed.

  “See, now that sounds more like you. It was a very long flight, baby girl, and I could really use something to relax me. Feel like getting on your knees?” he asked. She guffawed.

  “Not fucking likely. Ask your girlfriend to do that for you,” she told him.

  “But I don't have a girlfriend.”

  “Really? Seems to me there is a five-foot-eleven 'Danish beauty' who would argue that point,” Tate pointed out. He sighed.

  “There you go again, making assumptions. Would you like to meet her? You'd probably get along,” he offered.

  “Why are you doing this!? What happened that made you so mad!? I waited for you! Just like you said! Why did you ask me to wait if you were just going to bring her home!?” Tate yelled at him.

  “You don't like seeing my picture in the tabloids, right? Well, I like it even less,” he suddenly said. She was lost.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I don't like being made a fool of, Tate. And that's what I feel like you did,” he informed her.

  “What the fuck are you talking about!?” she shrieked.

  “You're upset about pictures of me and Pet online? In the tabloids? How about pictures of you and a certain baseball player, in the fucking social pages of the goddamn Boston Globe!? How about seeing those on the fucking internet? You and him together, everywhere. Pictures of you and me are already out there, and suddenly I'm hearing from people I hardly know that a girlfriend I don't technically have is fucking a goddamn Red Sox!” Jameson yelled at her. Tate started laughing.

  “Are you fucking shitting me!? Fuck this, I'm getting the fuck out of here. Fuck your party, fuck your supermodel, and fuck you,” she swore, stomping past him. He grabbed her arm, his grip like a vice.

  “Oh, you're not going anywhere, baby girl. Because it's all a game, and if you walk away now, you lose,” he warned her.

  “Fuck your games. I don't want to play games. You're really upset about that? I can't believe it. The Great Jameson Kane, jealous. I can't fucking believe it,” Tate snarled at him.

  “Watch how you talk to me,” he warned her.

  “Fuck you. He and I were just friends, you asshole. We're friends. You go off to fuck the entire country of Germany, and I can't make a new fucking friend? You wanna know the truth? He asked me out. He didn't try to sleep with me. He wanted to see me. Date me. And I'm a stupid bitch, because I turned him down! I was stupid enough to think I had something better coming home!” Tate yelled.

  “I certainly won't argue with the stupid bitch part,” Jameson agreed.

  “Go fuck yourself, Kane.”

  “I think that's your job.”

  “You're jealous! All this elaborate planning, hiding from me, bringing her back here, making a scene. You're like a girl, Kane. A goddamn pussy,” she snapped at him, disdain dripping from her words.

  He roughly dragged her across the room, backed her up and slammed her against the wall by the door. She struggled to free her arm, shoving and pushing at him. He moved his hand to her throat and pinned her in place.

  “I told you to watch how you fucking speak to me,” Jameson growled, his face near hers.

  “Like I give two shits. Was it worth it? Is she still a good fuck? I hope so. I hope she's so good that she finally does trick you into marrying her. I hope she fucks you all the way into a horrible fucking marriage, and then takes all your goddamn money. I hope she's that good of a fuck!” Tate yelled, pulling at his wrist. His fingers squeezed harder on her neck, but she didn't show any reaction.

  “She was never even half as good as you. But maybe we should have Ang fuck her, really do a cross-comparison, get more feedback,” Jameson suggested.

  “Why stop there? How about we broaden the circle. There's an awful lot of men down there, and I haven't been fucked in a really long time. I'm sure I'll get rave reviews, much better than a psychotic supermodel,” Tate said in a quiet voice. He narrowed his eyes.

  “If you're fucking anyone at this party, it will be me,” he informed her. She laughed.

  “That's not going to happen, but maybe we can do the next closest thing. How about I fuck Sanders. I'm sure I could turn his world inside out. Hell, maybe even steal him away from you. Who knows, maybe he'll be a better fuck than you.”

  The words had barely left her mouth when Jameson put his fist through the wall, right next to her head. Clean through the sheet rock. She was glad he hadn't hit a stud – that would have put a damper on the party, real quick. He s
tared at her, his eyes blazing, a muscle ticking in his jaw, his fingers continuing to squeeze her neck. She glared right back, not moving a muscle.

  “Don't ever fucking talk about him like that again,” he whispered.

  “You don't get to tell me what to do, Kane. Not anymore. Not ever again,” she whispered back. Jameson squeezed her neck tight one last time, then let go, backing away from her.

  “We can talk about this later. Go downstairs. People are expecting you to be here. Be cordial. Be fucking polite. And don't say one goddamn word to Sanders,” he told her, then yanked open his bedroom door, striding into the hall.

  Tate gasped in air and choked on a sob. She brought the back of her wrist to her mouth, trying to hold it all in; it didn't work too well. She wasn't sure what to do. She couldn't go home, not without Sanders to drive her, and she didn't think he'd leave the party. Didn't trust him, anyway. A taxi would take forever to get there, and she didn't have any money. She sucked in another breath of air, held it in, then let it out slowly. She straightened out her dress, wiped underneath her eyes.

  You can do this. You're Tatum O'Shea. He didn't break you last time. He won't break you this time.

  She went downstairs. She was cordial. She was polite. She got a lot of sympathetic looks from women. A lot of lascivious glances from men. She caught a glimpse of the Danish beauty at one point, but the house was big and Tate knew it well. She fled to another room.

  She drank, a lot. She flirted with anyone who looked remotely male. Sanders tried to talk to her at one point, but she looked right through him and walked away. She chugged whiskey neat. Snuck the Johnny Walker Blue out of Jameson's personal liquor cabinet and finished it off. She laughed at everything everyone said. Kissed people on the cheek, toasted to good health, gave hugs that were way too intimate to people she didn't really know, though none of the men were complaining.

  She actually drank the bar out of Jack Daniel's, so she made her way towards the kitchen in search of more. Jameson usually kept some stocked for her. She wanted to get comfortably numb so she could pass out in the guest house, then hitchhike home in the morning, where she could cry until she died. Sounded like a great plan.