The Kane Series Boxset

by Stylo Fantome

  You're such a stupid girl – only you would fall for the devil. Only you would be stupid enough to think he'd fall for you, as well.

  Tate hadn't wanted to talk to him. The whole situation made her feel ill. Made her feel like passing out. Jameson. Petrushka. A pool. Everything. She had never been entirely normal, but Jameson had driven her straight to the center of crazy-town and dropped her ass off. How could a human being do that? Punish someone, just for liking him? Talking dirty to her in bed was one thing; hurting her soul was quite another. As slutty and masochistic as she was, even Tate had her limits.

  She knew she had to claw her way back to some semblance of normal, so she gathered as much courage as she could – which wasn't much – and waited up for him on her last night in the hospital. It hadn't gone well. She hadn't been able to handle the strange, sad look in his eyes. He wasn't allowed to be sad, not when he was part of the problem. Tate may have driven herself straight into that pool, but Jameson had driven Petrushka between them. He did not get to be sad. She pretty much just broke down in the middle of it all and screamed at him to leave her alone. To get out of her life. To stop existing.

  And for the first time ever, Jameson had respected her wishes.

  “I will if I want to.”

  It was the same old story, all these years later. Only much, much darker. The first time Jameson had said those words to her, she had secretly been delighted at the idea that he would want to see her again. This time around, not so much. It was a whole bevy of emotions, tangled together. He was bad. He was wrong. He was the devil. She never wanted to see him again.

  And yet it was a month before Tate stopped hovering over her phone, hoping for his call.

  It was so fucked up. Jameson had done something that was so horrible, she still couldn't even wrap her brain around it. Still didn't really understand it, understand why. And Tate knew, she knew, if he could do it once, he could do it again. Most likely would do it again. Had probably enjoyed doing it. Had probably laughed all the way back to his bedroom about it, right along side his gorgeous, fabulous, Ukrainian-Danish, supermodel, sex slave, homewrecker-slut-whore-mother-fucker-cunt-shit-fuck. Fuck.

  What is wrong with me!?

  One good thing did come out of her hospital stay, though. Tate was propped up in her bed one day, trying to gather the courage to rip out her IV so she could make an escape, when a nurse walked into her room. The lady fussed around her, put extra medical tape around the needle and smacked it down hard before standing back by the door.

  “You have a very special visitor today,” she had said.

  “Who is it?”

  “Only my favorite athlete! If you don't mind, I would love an autograph before he leaves. Think you could help me with that?” the nurse had babbled.

  Tate had stared at her in shock, her mouth hanging open. The nurse finally just walked away, and two seconds later, Nick Castille walked into the room. The first baseman for the Boston Red Sox. The guy she had slept with in her bar, after having only known him for two hours. Sure, they had become friends before her overdose, gone to dinner a bunch, the movies once or twice, but really, nothing more than that.

  Nick had gone looking for Tate at her apartment, and Ellie had told him she was in the hospital, though not why. Tate didn't want him to have anymore delusions about her being a nice, normal girl, so she had laid it all on him. Told him about Jameson, how they had “met”, how they had gotten reacquainted. Told Nick about the night she had spent with him, how she had been upset about Petrushka, how she had used him. Told him about the party – though she did leave out the parts with Dunn and Jameson paying her off. Told Nick about the crazy drive in to town, the xanax, and the pool. She had wanted to scare him off.

  It didn't work. Tate may have been a succubus, but Nick truly was a nice, normal guy. He didn't abandon his friends, and he considered Tatum to be a pretty good friend.

  What is wrong with him?

  When Tate finally realized she would have to move because she couldn't stand living somewhere Ang had complete access to, Nick offered for her to live with him. She made it very clear that she was in no way interested in a relationship; romantic, sexual, or otherwise. Nick assured her that his intentions were noble and good, and that it was just a place for her to stay, as long as she liked.

  He wasn't home much during the weekdays. It was the off season and he spent most of his time at a cabin on Lake Ontario. But during the weekends he always came down to Boston, first thing in the morning on Saturdays. Tatum couldn't cook at all, but he taught her how to make French toast and omelets. Nick was a good old country boy, from Iowa. His momma had raised him right. He took Tate out to dinners, stayed in and watched movies with her, and most importantly, he never, ever, once asked her how she was doing. He never looked at her like she was crazy.

  An invaluable gift to Tate, at that point in her life.

  “You're doing it again.”

  “Huh?” Tate snapped to attention. Ang was leaning close to her, looking into her face.

  “That thing, where you stare off into space. Are you thinking about him again?” he demanded. She frowned.

  “No.”

  “Tate. We talked about this,” Ang said, his voice full of warning.

  “Ang. Stop. You're not my dad,” she warned him right back.

  “But he's the one who -,”

  She reached over and singed his hand with her cigarette. Ang hissed and yanked his arm back, jumping out of her reach. She laughed and flicked the cigarette over the ledge before wiping her hands down the front of her skirt.

  “I wasn't thinking about him. Let's have a good night, just this once,” she pleaded, before grabbing his hand and leading him inside.

  “I can't stand all these yuppies,” Ang whispered under his breath as they made their way through a crush of people. Tate elbowed him.

  “They're not yuppies,” she mumbled back.

  “They all have more money than I'll ever have. In my opinion, that makes them yuppies.”

  “Snob.”

  “Why did you tell me to come to this thing?” he complained, pulling at the tie he was wearing. She stepped in front of him and batted his hands away.

  “I haven't seen you in a couple weeks, I thought it would be nice to hang out,” she replied, adjusting the Windsor knot for him.

  “What, so you can show off all your new friends?” Ang said, his tone snide. Tate glared at him and yanked the knot up high. He made a choking sound.

  “Shut up.”

  Nick had invited her to a party, some shindig that was being thrown for the whole team, in a fancy hotel suite. She hadn't really wanted to go, but even Nick was beginning to worry about her spending so much time at home. Tate had originally asked Sanders to go with her, but he didn't like parties. Or people. Or places. So she had figured what the hell, why not try to mend fences with Ang?

  It wasn't going too hot.

  “I gotta go soon anyway,” he told her as they made their way to a table full of food. She looked up at him.

  “Where? I told you this thing would be going for a while,” Tate reminded him, a little surprised. Ang shrugged.

  “I know, but I had other plans. Sorry, kitty cat,” he replied, rubbing his hand up and down her back.

  She frowned, but didn't argue. The same thing had happened the last couple times they had made an effort to hang out. Ang always had “other plans”; something he else had to do. It was frustrating. Hard to mend a friendship when one person was depressed, and the other was checked out all the time.

  “Hey! I was looking everywhere for you!”

  Tate felt a strong arm wrap around her shoulders, then she was pulled sideways into a solid chest. She smiled and looked up at Nick. There were many times over the last six weeks that she had argued with herself about him. Told herself that she should like him. Or at least fake it until it happened for real. He was really good looking, semi-famous, wealthy, nicer than any normal person should be, and it also didn't
hurt that she knew he wasn't bad in bed, either. Maybe not quite her tastes, but she was sure she could learn to live with it.

  But Tate hadn't been able to talk herself into it. She knew she was a horrible liar, and she didn't want to do that Nick, use him like that; at least, not yet. Maybe after a couple more weeks of feeling like she wanted to claw her skin off, she would be able to do it. She was working on hardening herself.

  “She's been with me,” Ang replied around a mouth full of hors d'oeuvres, not bothering to look at Nick. He didn't like the other man, though Tate couldn't figure out why. Nick was like a kitten, only in sexy-human-man form. Who wouldn't love him?

  Besides her, that is.

  “I'm glad you guys came. Tate said she didn't want a birthday party, so I thought maybe this could be like a substitute,” Nick laughed. Tate managed a smile. Her birthday was the next day. That meant Christmas was three weeks away. More depression.

  “Yeah, awesome birthday party. Tate just loves high rises and yuppies,” Ang grunted. Tate scowled and kicked him in the ankle.

  “Ang,” she hissed. Nick glanced down at her.

  “It's alright. I know it's not really your guys' scene. It's not really mine, either. I grew up in a town of less than 2,000 people – I still don't know how to put on a tie right,” he chuckled. She smiled up at him.

  “Good for you. I gotta go. Tate, walk me out,” Ang said, shoving a last sausage roll in his mouth before grabbing her hand and dragging her away from Nick.

  “Rude, much!? And you said soon! I didn't realize you meant right now!” Tate snapped as she was pulled out the front door.

  “I can't be around these people, that guy,” Ang replied, letting go of her hand once they were in the hallway.

  “What's with you and him? He is one of the nicest people I've ever met, what could you possibly not like about him?” Tate demanded. Ang frowned and stared down the hallway.

  “It's not him, he's fine. I mean, kind of boring, but yeah, nice. I just ...” his voice trailed off. Tate crossed her arms. She was fed up.

  “Just what, Ang? We never see each other anymore, and the few times we do, you're always rushing off somewhere – but not before being a complete dick. Is it me? Just say it. I'll stop calling. Is it him? Cause that's not -,” she started, but suddenly Ang stomped right up to her. Got in her personal space, forced her to back up into a wall. She pressed herself flat, staring up at him. He looked mad.

  “It is you. It's the way you dress now,” he gestured to the fancy skirt and blouse she was wearing. “It's this party, it's those people, it's the way you act – who the fuck is this person!? You didn't die in that fucking pool, Tate, but you sure fucking act like it. You don't have to become someone else!”

  Oh, Ang. I became someone else the moment I walked into Satan's house.

  “Look, I'm sorry I'm not that person anymore. I'm sorry that I can't go back. Don't you think I wish I could!? I wish I could just close my eyes and the last four months wouldn't have happened. I wish I could go back in time, back to when I first met you, and I could've told you 'Yes, I'll shoot that porno with you, why, I love facials!', and then you and I could be married-millionaire-porn-stars with a hundred babies, and I would've never met him again! But I can't go back, so get the fuck over it!” Tate screamed at him.

  They stared at each other for a second, breathing hard. Then Ang burst out laughing. Tate was right behind him, laughing so hard she fell into him, pressing her face into his chest. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her into a full body hug. It had been a long time. She laughed till tears were running down her face and she dug her fingers into his back.

  “God, I knew it. I knew you secretly loved getting facials,” he snickered in her ear. She snorted and pulled away a little.

  “Shut up, that shit's impossible to get out of your hair,” she told him, wiping at her nose.

  “Don't I know it.”

  She laughed again and looked up at Ang. Really looked at him. Took in his gray eyes and wild hair. She really did wish she could go back, to when things were easy between them. When she wouldn't think twice about curling herself around him and getting lost in his skin, in his touch. But it wasn't that way anymore. Tate hadn't had sex, real sex, since her little accident.

  Since Jameson.

  “I love you, Ang. Quite possibly more than I love myself,” she laughed, her eyes watering up. He sighed, pushing her hair off of her shoulders and then putting his hands on the back of her neck.

  “I know, sweetie pea. I love you, too. And I know I give you a hard time, and I know things can't be the same, I just ... I don't want you to give up. I can see it in your eyes. He's an awesome dude, I know, but I can practically feel you trying to talk yourself into, like, marrying him, or something. Nick's not the right guy for you. Don't settle,” Ang urged her. She sniffled.

  “I'm not settling. I'm just ...” she mumbled, staring at his chest.

  “And you don't need Satan,” he whispered. She shuddered.

  “I definitely know that. Look, I'll get out of my funk. I will. And I promise, I won't settle, or anything else. When I decide to jump back into the sea of men, you will be the first boat I choose to ride,” Tate assured him. Ang laughed and stepped away from her.

  “Baby, maybe this boat has already sailed,” he teased.

  Tate started to laugh, but then something clicked. Her eyes got wide. Ang was moody. He was never around. He always had to leave early. He was constantly checking his phone. Oh god. The unthinkable had happened. She gasped.

  “Oh my god. Ang. Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked. His laughter died instantly.

  “What? Why would you say that? I just -,” he started, but she knew him too well. Even after all their problems, and everything they'd been through, Tate still knew him. Ang was a worse liar than she was, he got all twitchy and nervous.

  “You do! You have a girlfriend! Holy shit! Have you ever had a girlfriend!?” she exclaimed. He glared at her.

  “Of course I have, have you looked at me!?” he snapped back. She laughed and clapped her hands.

  “What is she like? Does she come to your movie sets? God, did you meet her on set!? This is amazing! Who is it!?” Tate demanded. He rolled his eyes and started to walk backwards down the hall.

  “I'm not talking about this right now. Someday, we'll get over our weird shit, and you'll throw yourself at me – naked – in some sad, desperate, attempt to get back in my good graces, and maybe then I'll tell you. But not now,” Ang said, backing into the elevator doors. Without looking, he reached out and hit the down button.

  “But I'm dying, Angie-wangy! Please!” she begged. He laughed.

  “Beg harder!” he yelled.

  “Pleeeeeeease!”

  He kept laughing as the elevator doors opened. He saluted her, then disappeared.

  And then she was alone. Tate glanced at the door to the suite, but she didn't want to go back to the party. She pressed her back to the wall and slid to the floor. Ang's words sat heavy in her brain. Don't settle. What was she supposed to do? Jameson had wrecked her a little bit. Wrecked her a lot. Ang didn't feel familiar to her anymore, and even if he had, now he had a new playmate. Nick was one of the only people she felt comfortable around anymore. Sure, she didn't feel like herself, but she couldn't win 'em all. Who else was left?

  As if to answer all her questions, her phone rang. Tate dug it out of the waist of her skirt and smiled when saw Sanders was calling. When she had practically been living in the same house as him, Sanders had never called her – back then, he wouldn't even use her first name, she was always “Ms. O'Shea” or “ma'am”. Now he called at least once every other day, like clock work. If she felt comfortable when she was around Nick, than she felt like she was home when she was around Sanders.

  “I miss you,” she breathed into the phone, in a Marilyn Monroe-style voice. She snickered when he cleared his throat.

  “I saw you yesterday,” his clipped voice responded. Tate laughed.r />
  “Sandy, I miss you whenever you're not next to me. How are you?” she asked, stretching her legs out and crossing her ankles.

  “I am well. And you?” he responded. So prim and proper.

  “Lonely without you. When are you going to let me move in with you?” she demanded. He cleared his throat again.

  Tate had been trying for weeks to get him to let her move into his hotel suite. Sanders lived in a large, two bedroom hotel suite, there would be plenty of room for her, and they got along ridiculously well. But he kept resisting, and Tate couldn't figure out why. Money couldn't be the issue – not only would Sanders give her the shirt off his back, but her sister had given her a hefty chunk of change as a sort of “get well” present. Ellie had made out very well in her divorce. Tate hadn't gone back to work since she'd gotten out of the hospital.

  “It's your birthday tomorrow,” Sanders stated. Almost like she might have forgotten.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner with me,” he asked. Tate laughed again.

  “Sandy, you don't even need to ask. What should I wear?” she asked back.

  Tate had learned very quickly that the way a person looked was very important to Sanders. It wouldn't necessarily stop him from going somewhere, but she knew it made him a lot more comfortable if she looked like she matched him. Which meant it always had to be something nice.

  “A nice dress, but no tall heels,” he informed her.

  “Ooohhh, there's that vanity,” she snickered into the phone. It bothered him when she wore heels that made her taller than him.

  “I don't know what you're talking about, I'll pick you up at seven.” Then he hung up the phone. Sanders never said goodbye at the end of his phone calls, just cut the line. It didn't really bother her, but it did remind her very much of someone else. She held the phone cradled in her hands, staring down at the screen.

  What's wrong with me? How can I miss someone who only wanted to hurt me?