The Kane Series Boxset

by Stylo Fantome

  “If you ever touch him again, I will kill you!” Tate screamed, slamming Pet into the ground. The supermodel swung her arms, slapping Tate in the face.

  “Sie sind Müll!” Pet yelled. Tate slapped her back, then struggled to hold onto her wrists.

  “I DON'T SPEAK GERMAN, YOU DUMB CUNT!”

  Before she could land another blow, arms were around Tate's waist, plucking her into the air. With the weight off of her legs, Pet immediately started kicking, so Tate kicked right back, landing a solid blow to the other woman's thigh. She was rewarded with a shriek of pain.

  “Stop it,” Jameson's voice was low in her ear. She ignored him.

  “Don't you ever fucking come back here!” Tate screamed while Jameson hauled her backwards. “Don't you ever fucking talk to him again! Don't talk to him, don't touch him, don't come near him! Do you understand me!? He didn't come here for you! He came here for me!”

  At some point, the fight had stopped being about Sanders, and had become about Jameson.

  So when, exactly, did you lose to him? Stupid, stupid, girl.

  Luckily, Jameson had the penthouse apartment, so there was no one else to witness Pet's psychotic break. Or Tate's. As security spilled out of an elevator, Jameson pulled her back through the apartment's doorway, all while she and Pet were still screaming at each other. Sanders slipped out into the hallway, explaining the situation to the guards.

  “Calm the fuck down, Tatum,” Jameson urged. She yanked at the arms he had around her, tried to get a grip on the floor with her toes. There was so much adrenaline pumping through her body, she felt like she was going to have a heart attack.

  “No, no, I'm not done! Let me go! That bitch almost killed me once, I owe her!” Tate shouted, kicking her legs wildly. His arms only got tighter around her, twisting and pulling her t-shirt up so it bunched up beneath her breasts.

  “She didn't do that, I did that. Blame me,” he instructed her. Tate swung her whole body from side to side.

  “I already do! But you won't let me hit you!” she yelled.

  He barked out a laugh, which set her off, and suddenly she was caught in a bout of hysterics. There was a cough from the door, and Jameson turned them towards it. Tate figured she was quite a sight, only in a pair of tiny underpants and her shirt little more than a tube top, Jameson holding onto her like she was possessed by the devil.

  That happened a long time ago, baby girl.

  Sobering thought.

  “Mr. Kane, we're very sorry. The man downstairs, he got confused. She said she was your fiancée, said she lost her key. He gave her one. The owner of the building and the manager have been called, they are headed down here. I'm sure you'll want to speak to them,” a security guard said from the doorway.

  “My man out there, Sanders, can deal with it. His name is on the lease,” Jameson explained. Tate squirmed in his arms, but he still held onto her.

  “Very good. We are taking her away now. If you need anything, have any questions, don't hesitate to call my office, anytime,” the guard urged.

  “Give the number to Sanders,” was all Jameson said, turning away. The guard said goodbye and made his way back into the hall.

  “Let me down,” Tate breathed, digging her nails into his wrist.

  “No.”

  “Put me down,” she hissed again. He walked all the way down the hallway with her, carrying her back into his bedroom.

  “No. You need to calm down,” he told her.

  “Well, that's not gonna fuckin' happen, so you should just put me down,” she snapped. He let go of her abruptly and she teetered forward, a little shocked.

  “Quite a little show you put on, Tate. I particularly liked when you were on top of her, your ass in the air,” Jameson told her, his tone even and calm. She stopped breathing for a second, then shook it off. She grabbed a hair tie from off the nightstand, roughly yanking her hair up into a ball on top of her head.

  “I'm sure you did like it. I should've charged,” she growled at him before stomping over to her luggage. There was clothing strewn around, and Tate began picking stuff up, throwing it all into the suitcase.

  “Didn't know you were still into that. What are you doing?” he asked, moving to stand behind her.

  “Packing, what the fuck does it look like I'm doing?” she snapped.

  “And where, may I ask, are you packing to go?” Jameson continued.

  “Anywhere. Anywhere that's not here, anywhere that's not around you,” Tate replied.

  “And why are you running away?”

  “Because! I don't want to be here when the next surprise visit pops up!” she yelled at him.

  “I did not plan this. You heard that guard, she lied to get in here. I can promise you, it will not happen again,” Jameson assured her.

  “I couldn't give two shits if it did. I'm gonna take Sanders and we are getting the fuck out of here, and you and Ms. Denmark can have your sick, weird, love-hate relationship on your own fucking time,” Tate swore, bending at the waist and shoving the last bit of clothing into her bag, trying to force the suitcase shut.

  “Awfully mean talk for someone who was just fighting over me,” he pointed out, and she felt his hand run over the edge of her hip. She wiggled away from him.

  “I wasn't fighting over you!” she yelled, straightening out her t-shirt, trying to regain some dignity.

  “Sure looked like it,” he called her out. She felt a blush creep into her cheeks.

  “Well, you weren't doing anything about her! One of us had to be a man,” Tate sneered at him. Jameson laughed and stepped up close to her.

  “Maybe I should take lessons,” he replied. She nodded.

  “Maybe you should.”

  “Tatum?”

  “What!?”

  He pulled her close, and she jumped on him. They fell to the ground, pushing and pulling at each others' clothing. He ripped her shirt, but she figured it didn't really matter, because it was actually his shirt. The panties, though, were slightly disappointing. She had spent a lot of his money on them.

  “I thought you were running away,” Jameson taunted while she yanked his boxers down his legs.

  “Shut the fuck up,” she snapped, dragging her teeth along his thigh as she crawled back up his body.

  “I think that's my line.”

  “You know, I can think of better uses for your mouth than being clever.”

  “My, my,” Jameson chuckled, laying flat on the floor and putting his hands behind his head. “Someone wants to wear my shoes, apparently. Go ahead, Tate. Be the heavy. Let's see how good you are at it.”

  Tate was angry, and she wanted to take it out on somebody. She was angry at Pet, and she was angry at Jameson, but most of all, she was angry at herself. She was still hyped up. It was like Petrushka was there in the room, and Tate suddenly had something to prove. She wasn't in the mood for his attitude or his smart-ass comments.

  “Please. You have it so easy,” she sneered at him, hooking her nails into his chest and then slowly dragging them down. He hissed.

  “You think so?” he whispered, his eyes falling shut. She scratched her hands back up to his shoulders and repeated the process.

  “All you do is say a couple dirty words, get grabby with your hands. Big fucking deal,” she pointed out. He managed a laugh.

  “According to your pussy, it's a very big fucking deal,” he teased.

  “You think that's so special? I can do what you do.”

  “Doubtful.”

  Tate glared at him and then paused for a second. Of course she was lying through her teeth. It was getting to a point where all Jameson had to do was breathe in her direction, and she had to change her panties. But he didn't really need to know that, she figured. She wanted to make him sweat. Make him nervous. Make him angry.

  “Fuck you,” she breathed. His eyes opened to look at her, and she smiled down at him. “That wasn't so hard. I can see why you like it. Fuck you, Kane.”

  “Watch your mouth,
” he warned her. She laughed and slowly dragged one of her hands up her body.

  “You watch your fucking mouth,” she threw it back at him. She scratched her way up past her breasts, across her clavicle, and then slowly wrapped her fingers around her neck. Of course it didn't feel the same – Jameson owned that part of her body, her hand was just visiting. But still.

  “What's your game, baby girl?” he said softly.

  “Mmmm, no game,” Tate whispered back, letting her eyes flutter closed while her free hand found its way between her legs.

  “Whatever this is, it isn't very fun for me,” he pointed out, moving his hands to her thighs. She snorted. It may not have been “fun” for him, but he was obviously enjoying it – she was straddling his hips and could feel his hard on pressing against her ass.

  “Stop talking, whore,” she cursed at him, and then gasped, moving her fingers between herself and his stomach. Sliding between her wetness and the sweat on his skin.

  “What the fuck did you just say to me?” he demanded.

  “Whore. As in, shut your fucking mouth, whore,” she mimicked him, and then gasped again, raising up higher on her knees. She dug her fingernails into her throat, and while it still wasn't as good as Jameson, she could see the appeal of being him. She had wanted to play with him, make him as angry as she had been, but she wasn't angry anymore; she was too close to coming to really feel any sort of way.

  “Alright. Play time's over. Stop it, now,” he insisted. She groaned and let her head drop back, her fingers pushing harder against herself, inside of herself. It all felt so different. Angry, not angry. Her in charge, but not really in charge. With him, but not really with him. She just wanted to stop thinking for a second. Stop feeling. Just be numb.

  “I think you're forgetting who's in charge right now,” Tate panted, wiggling her hips against him. His hands moved to her waist and held her in place.

  “Stop. I'm not doing this just cause you're pissed off at her. You won. She doesn't matter, she's out there. I'm in here. With you.”

  Too nice. Nice words are always the worst.

  “Liar,” she moaned.

  “That's it. I'm not fucking around, Tate. Get the fuck off me, or -,” he started to threaten.

  “Stop fucking talking.”

  She may have taken the imitation too far, though, when she slapped him across the face, shocking herself a little.

  Hmmm, might have pushed it with that one.

  His reaction was instantaneous. Jameson's hand was in her hair, pulling so hard she was forced to look straight up and arch away from him. He sat up abruptly, and in a somewhat fluid motion managed to stand up, letting her slide to the floor. But he didn't let her stay there long; with his grip in her hair, he yanked her to her feet.

  “Just because you're angry doesn't mean I have to be; why the fuck do you always want to piss me off?” he hissed, pressing his face against hers.

  “Because then I know I'm dealing with the real you,” she gasped.

  “Shut the fuck up, Tate.”

  He bent her in half, slammed her down against the mattress. She was still trying to push the blankets out of her face when he slammed into her. She shrieked, dragging her claws down the covers. She felt one of his hands in the middle of her back, pressing her down. Holding her in place. His other hand gripped onto her hip, pushing and pulling her against his thrusts.

  Like my body even needs to be told what to do when it comes to him.

  “See? Better, so much better,” Tate groaned, closing her eyes and focusing all of her energy on feeling him.

  “Everything I give you is better. Is the best. When are you going to get that through your fucking head?” Jameson snapped.

  “Never,” she breathed.

  She wanted to taunt him, to tease him. Wanted to make him mad enough to step outside himself, mad enough to really treat her bad. But she couldn't get a word out. He was pounding so hard, she couldn't catch her breath. She wasn't sure what was going to happen first – orgasm, or fainting.

  If you're really lucky, both. Because if you needed any further proof that you're never getting away from him, you have it now – slamming into you, over and over again.

  Tate screamed when she came, beating her hand on the mattress, begging him to stop. Begging him for more. She was vaguely aware of voices outside the bedroom door, remembered that security was still wandering around the apartment, and she started coming harder. Gasping for air. Sobbing for it.

  “Who's the slut now?” Jameson growled, pressing flat against her back as his hips picked up speed. She managed a laugh. Choked on a sob.

  History just keeps repeating itself, on and on and on and on and on ...

  “For you, Jameson. Just for you,” she whispered, stepping back in time, to seven years ago. A lifetime ago. Not long enough ago.

  “Only for me,” he whispered back, and then he was coming, too.

  Houston, we're so far beyond having a problem that we're just completely fucked.

  ~11~

  Tatum had been to Paris before, when she was fifteen, on a school trip. Standard, touristy stuff. She liked the city, thought it was very beautiful. It was hard, though. The most romantic city on earth, and she was there with Jameson. Hmmm.

  The morning after her stint as an MMA fighter, she had woken up to him sitting at the foot of the bed, talking softly on his phone. His voice did not sound happy.

  “If you ever come to my home again, I will get a restraining order. If you ever touch Sanders again, I will have you arrested. And if you ever hit her again, I will be the one who hits back. She is here to stay, she is part of my life. You are not. Get used to it.”

  Tate was touched, but at the same time, she also felt kind of bad. Jameson had dragged Pet back into the mix. What had he said the other day? He hadn't slept with Pet since last June. Then he had wined and dined her in Germany during his little sabbatical. The woman was a raving lunatic, a complete psychotic bitch, no argument there, but Jameson was the one who had invited her back into his life.

  They didn't speak much about the whole situation the next day. The living room was magically clean, though Sanders looked suspiciously tired. He slept on the plane ride to Paris, and Tate leaned against him, hugging his arm to her chest. He also didn't say much of anything about the incident. There was so much silence going on, she felt like it was deafening.

  Their hotel room was amazing. Views of the Eiffel Tower, balconies, a sitting room. He hadn't gotten a penthouse suite, at Tate's request. She thought it was just too much, considering that whenever they were together anywhere, they spent most of their time in a bedroom. Plus, that way, Ang's room and Sanders' room could be on either side. Tate had a shoulder to cry on either way she turned, and she had a distinct feeling that a huge crying fit was imminent.

  She had spoken to Ang a couple times since New Year's, but only briefly. Short enough conversations that she was able to get away without confessing her sin to him, which she was grateful for. She spoke to her sister a couple times, as well. Her baby was due in a little over two months. It was going to be a boy. Tate wanted to ask her all about it, but her sister was surprisingly short on the phone, as well. They were still working on the whole let's-be-friends-because-we're-sisters thing, but it was obvious that it wasn't working out too well.

  Tate had only called Nick twice. In a lot of ways, he was the worst, because he would be the most understanding. They had never dated, but she still kinda felt like she had cheated on him. Why couldn't she have just liked him? Life would be so must easier, if she would just be a nice, normal girl.

  “Hi,” Tate said softly into the phone when he answered.

  “God, it's good to hear your voice. I feel like I haven't talked to you in forever!” Nick laughed. She smiled, stretched her legs out. She was sitting in the hallway outside of the hotel room.

  “I know, I know. It's been ... crazy. There was a whole supermodel-smack-down episode, it got weird,” she said.

  “
Oh god. What have you gotten yourself into now?”

  She gave him an abridged version of the fight. Nick laughed as Tate got heated up all over again, describing how she had tried to tackle Pet. He agreed that it sounded like the other girl had deserved to get her ass beat, but he didn't condone violence; though he did wish he had been able to see it.

  “It was most definitely a show,” Tate laughed.

  “Everything you do is a show,” he chuckled.

  “Hey!”

  “When are you coming home? I miss you,” he said plainly. She chewed on her thumbnail, glancing down the hallway.

  Italy, Austria, hell – pick a vacation, any vacation.

  “I'm not sure, but you'll be the first to know,” she assured him.

  “I hope so. Tate, I've been thinking. A lot,” Nick started. Warning bells went off in her head.

  “That's never a good thing,” she joked, trying to lighten the mood. He didn't laugh.

  “I know that you and Jameson have a history that goes way back. I know you and I haven't really known each other that long,” he began. She swallowed thickly.

  “Nick, don't -,”

  “But, I really think we'd be good together, and I like you, a lot. Enough to wait,” he said.

  This all sounded horribly familiar, only in this picture, Tatum was Satan, and Nick was the poor fool in love. All they needed was a dark library and a roaring fireplace.

  I am going to one of the darkest recesses of hell. Good thing I've already been there once.

  “Nick, you don't know what you're saying. I'm not a good person. Just ... just wait till I come home, and then we'll talk,” she urged in a quiet voice.

  “Get him out of your system,” Nick continued. “Whatever you need. And I will be here. I understand.”

  Tate felt like she was going to be sick, and as if that wasn't bad enough, the elevator doors at the end of the hall opened. A man in a dark suit stepped off. Strode towards her, his steps sure. Confident. She licked her lips, staring up at him.