Hmmm, if that's not marriage material, I don't know what is.
It was ridiculous. They couldn't go two minutes without fighting. They had probably been “together” for a grand total of ... two months? Three months? What was she saying, she wanted him to propose? Jameson fucking hated titles, he refused to even think of her as his girlfriend. She was just Tatum. He was just Jameson. Why couldn't that be enough!?
As it got later, he had to get out of the hotel. Knowing she was downstairs, probably looking sexy as fuck, and hanging on some other guy's arm ... he couldn't handle it. Not even a little bit. He felt like he was going to kill someone. Most likely a baseball player.
Maybe Sanders, as well. Just for dragging him there.
He strolled down the street, walked a couple blocks. There were lots of restaurants and pubs, little shops full of stupid shit that no one ever needs. They were basically in U of A's backyard. He would never have chosen to stay in a hotel like that; he had wanted to stay somewhere else. Sanders insisted it would be easier. Jameson caved.
Only for you, Tatum.
She had acted strange. He was nervous. Scared. She hadn't been as angry as he would've liked. Anger meant she cared. Sure, she'd gotten mad. But in Spain, she had fought against him, almost killed him. That was passion, in his mind. In that hotel room, she had looked ... detached. That was the worst.
Sanders had said to work out how he felt, and what he was going say. Well, he felt like he wanted to be with Tatum, for as long as possible. For as long as both of them could stand. He wanted to tell her things, things he had never said to anyone ever before, but she wouldn't listen. He had to find another way to talk to her. A way she would hear him.
He didn't see the store on his way up the street, but after he'd wandered for about twenty minutes and then made his way back, he noticed it. Stared in the window. So much silver and gold glittered back at him. Jameson was accustomed to nice things, had been his whole life. He didn't see anything wrong with buying them if he could afford them. Tatum always thought he was trying to buy her – she never realized, it was just his way. He bought nice things for Sanders, because he wanted to do nice things. He bought nice things for her, because that was the way he showed that he cared.
She couldn't just let him be him. She was always trying to twist him into her stupid fairy tale Prince Charming. It seemed to him that his choices were to either walk away, or wear the crown.
He frowned and pushed his way into the little shop. Several young women looked up at his entrance. Perked up. They were all young, maybe early twenties. Or younger. Babies. He ignored their smiles – he could eat them for breakfast, and still be hungry. No, he was on a mission for one last meal.
She broke the last necklace. She will not break this one.
JAMESON FELT BETTER when he got back to his hotel room. He ignored all the rabble downstairs, the crowds of people everywhere. He took a long shower, almost forty-five minutes. Laughed to himself as he stood under the spray. Tatum always made fun of how long he spent in the shower. He had never really thought about it before – he just liked to be warm. That's why he liked his fireplace. That's why he liked her.
He changed into a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. His hair had reached ridiculous lengths, and when it was wet, it curled down his forehead, almost into his eyes. He grabbed a U of A hat that had come with the room, shoved it on his head. Made a drink, stood in front of the windows and looked out over the city. He almost felt at peace. So he was actually waiting for the interruption. It came on cue.
“You have to stop her!” Sanders shouted, bursting through the door. Jameson closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath.
“Life was so much simpler before her,” he sighed. Sanders stomped across the room.
“Excuse me?” he asked. Jameson finally looked at him.
“Nothing. What's wrong now? What do I have to do for her now?” Jameson asked.
“Mr. Hollingsworth called me. He talked to her earlier today,” Sanders said quickly.
“Yes. So did I.”
“You did!?”
“Yes.”
“When? What did she say? Is she here?” Sanders asked, glancing around the hotel room.
Sweet Sanders, always believing in that happily ever after.
“No. I bumped into her on the elevator. We talked. She is not happy. She wants all sorts of fairy tale promises, and she doesn't think I can give them to her,” Jameson explained.
“Can you?”
“I'm not sure. I'm not that kind of man, Sanders. I never asked her to change,” Jameson pointed out.
“No. But you will change, for her.”
“Probably.”
“Well,” Sanders took a deep breath, “you should probably start, right now.”
“Why? Where's the fire?” Jameson asked.
“Downstairs.”
“Excuse me?”
“She is downstairs, with Mr. Castille, at some event,” Sanders clarified. Jameson rolled his eyes.
“I know this, Sanders. I told you, I saw -,”
“He is going to ask her to live with him,” Sanders stressed. Jameson frowned.
“Well, she can't live in a hotel forever, I'm sure there will be time to -,”
“As his girlfriend. And she is going to say yes,” Sanders hissed. Jameson's eyebrows shot up.
“How do you know this? How can you be sure?” he demanded.
“She told Mr. Hollingsworth. Mr. Castille has been asking her for a while. Something happened a couple weeks ago. He has been trying to get her to move in with him ever since,” Sanders said. Jameson glared.
“What happened?” his voice was low and threatening.
“I don't know. Mr. Hollingsworth wouldn't say – just said that when she first got here, there was an understanding between her and Mr. Castille that she was not coming here to be his girlfriend. Something happened two weeks ago to change that,” Sanders told him.
“What are you telling me!? She's already his girlfriend!?” he snapped, disdain dripping from that word that he hated.
“I don't know. I think so,” Sanders said slowly.
“Goddammit!” Jameson yelled, and he stomped across the room. Grabbed a plastic bag that was sitting near the door. “So when the fuck is this momentous fucking occasion happening!?”
“They're in a conference room downstairs. Mr. Hollingsworth said they're going to be talking about it over dinner. Which was served, twenty minutes ago,” Sanders told him. Jameson groaned.
“Goddamn Tatum, always making me do things I don't want to fucking do,” he growled, and hurried out the door.
TATUM STARED AT HERSELF in the bathroom mirror. She looked good. She had on a heavy red lipstick. Light eyeliner. Her hair was down, but in soft waves. It had grown pretty long – she wondered if the sun had positive effects on it. It curled down almost past her breasts. When she swished it over her shoulder, she could feel it against her bare back.
She was wearing the dress Jameson had bought for her, the one she had worn to her parents' house. It was the only nice one she had brought with her to Arizona. It felt strange wearing it again.
It felt even stranger knowing Jameson was upstairs. He had been so different. Staring at her, so calm. Not angry. Not demanding. Almost laughing. Flirting. He hadn't run away. He hadn't dragged her down to hell. He had wanted to ... just talk.
She couldn't handle it. She felt like she was going to throw up. When Nick had met her at her hotel room, he had kissed her thoroughly, and that made her feel like she was going to throw up, too. She had hurried out of the hotel room ahead of him, laughing nervously. He thought he made her giddy. He had no idea it was Jameson making her giddy.
She'd made it through the meet and greet. Managed to laugh. What had Jameson said once? She could be cordial. She could be fucking polite. She had been raised in polite society, after all; she was good at faking it.
As Nick could tell anyo-, SHUT UP! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!
Whe
n dinner was served, though, she didn't have the protection of the crowd. Of other people. Nick sat close to her, rested his hand on her thigh as food was brought out. As they tucked into their dinners, he started bringing up how glad he was that she was there. How happy she made him. How much easier it would be if ...
She had jumped out of her seat. Practically out of her skin. This was the moment Tate had been waiting for, for him to ask her to move in with him. But now that it was there, she couldn't handle it. She laughed and asked where the bathroom was, and one of the players' wives pointed her in the right direction. She then spent ten minutes on a toilet seat, her head between her knees. When she felt like she wasn't going to pass out, she finally made her way to the sinks. Patted her cheeks with cold water.
What the fuck is wrong with you? You leave a path of destruction. Not Jameson. You. You are the devil.
She took a deep breath. If she could just get through dinner. Get through the next couple hours. Jameson would fade away, when he saw that she was serious about her wants and demands. He would never give them to her, she just had to be strong.
Even if that meant doing something she really didn't want to do.
She took another deep breath, then squared her shoulders. Looked herself over, and didn't find herself wanting for anything. She walked out of the bathroom. She was holding herself so stiffly, she had a very distinct impression of how Sanders probably felt when he walked around. Roughly like she had a stick shoved up her ass. She tried to ignore everyone, the hum of the people in the hall, the din in the lobby, the sound of someone calling her name.
Huh?
Tate turned around and was shocked to see Jameson practically barreling through people. He was hurrying away from the bank of elevators, shouting her name. She was stunned into a standstill. He finally caught up to her, grabbed her by the shoulders.
“What are you doing? Are you drunk!?” she exclaimed, her eyes sweeping over him.
Her mind was blown. He was wearing a baseball hat. A hat. Crazier than him wearing sandals in Marbella. Was he trying to be incognito? She almost hadn't recognized him. He was wearing a plain grey t-shirt and jeans, and no shoes. A plastic grocery bag swung from his wrist.
He's gone crazy.
“No. What the fuck do you think you're doing!?” he demanded. It was weird, instead of hiding his eyes, the bill of the hat almost amplified them. Like a telescope, focusing all of her vision onto his blue, blue eyes.
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“You can't be with him, Tate. You're a part of me, you belong with me,” Jameson all but shouted. She was stunned.
“What has gotten into you?” she hissed, shrugging out of his hold. She grabbed his bicep and yanked him out of the flow of people, to the inside of a hall.
“You. Don't do this. Don't go be with somebody, some guy, just to not be with me,” he growled. She rolled her eyes.
“He's not 'some guy', and he likes me, Jameson! Really likes me!” she snapped at him.
“I really like you! Why aren't I good enough?” he asked. She groaned.
“You don't like me, Jameson. You like having someone around that you can feel superior to,” she told him.
“No. Since Spain, I have never made you feel that way – if that's how you felt, then it's something you did. Stop blaming all your shit on other people!” he yelled.
“I don't have to listen to -,”
“Yes, you do. I want to be with you. I want you to be with me. What else do you want!? Do you want me to beg? Is that the fucking problem?” he pressed.
“Oh, yes, I would love that. Jameson Kane, begging -,”
“Please. Please, don't do this,” he whispered, grabbing her arms and yanking her close. “Please. I'm begging you. Don't do this.”
The shocking just did not stop.
“Jameson, stop, you're making a scene,” she hissed at him. He shook his head.
“Do you think I give a fuck? Goddammit, Tatum, just listen to me, for once. You're willing to try out all this happy-home bullshit with him? Well, let me try it out with you,” he urged.
“You don't mean these things,” she breathed, shaking her head.
“Please. You haven't given me my chance, and I was here first. You want all these things, let me try to give them to you. You said you wanted a prince – I'm as close as you can get,” he told her.
“I said I wanted Prince Charming; you're the Prince of Darkness.”
“Still a prince, baby girl.”
Too much. This man is so much.
“Jameson ...” she breathed, closing her eyes.
“Here. I bought you something. Today,” he was suddenly saying, letting her go. She opened her eyes to see him digging something out of the plastic bag. He pulled out a large, square, velvet box. She glared.
“Is this a joke?” she demanded, yanking it out of his hands as he held it out to her.
“No. Just open it. You'll -,” he started. She smacked him in the arm with the box.
“You just don't fucking get it! For such a smart fucking person, you don't fucking get anything! You can't buy me!” she shrieked the last part, hitting him over and over with the box. He grabbed her wrist and the box fell out of her grasp, clattering to the ground at her feet.
“I'm not trying to buy you, you stupid bitch! Just fucking open it!” he yelled back. People were starting to stop and stare at them.
“Go fuck yourself. This is why I didn't want you here, why I don't want to see you. You ruin everything,” she growled at him. He glared back at her.
“You know what? Fine. Fine. I can't make you be with me, you're right. You wanna be fucking stupid, then go be fucking stupid. But don't be with him. Don't go be with him, just to not be with me. That's stupid. I can bear the thought of you being out there alone, without me. What I can't bear is the thought of you being out there with the wrong man.”
Tate didn't know what to say to that – Jameson, willing to let her go. Jameson, simply begging her to not be with the wrong person. She was at a loss. It didn't matter anyway. She still hadn't found her voice when she felt an arm slide around her waist.
“Are you okay? Excuse me, mister, you can't just -, oh.”
Nick and Jameson stared at each other. She felt like she was going to melt into the floor. The two had never met. She had never wanted them to meet. They were from different spectrum’s of her life. Jameson was the dark. Nick was the light. The two weren't ever meant to meet.
“Tatum,” Jameson's voice was full of warning, but he kept his eyes on Nick.
“I didn't realize you were here,” Nick started, glancing at Tate briefly before going back to Jameson. “I'm Nick Castille.” He held out his hand. Jameson did not shake it.
“I know who you are. The question is, do you know who I am?” Jameson asked, his voice full of steel. Nick nodded.
“I am very aware of who you are. Is he bothering you?” Nick asked her, his arm getting tighter around her waist. She pulled away from him, moving to the side of them both.
“No, just give us a minute, he was about to leave,” she said quickly. Jameson snorted.
“I'm not fucking going anywhere,” he replied.
“She asked you to leave. You need to leave,” Nick stressed. Jameson moved his stare to Tate.
“Unfinished business, Tatum,” he told her in a soft voice. She shivered.
“Not anymore, Kane,” she whispered. Nick glanced between them and stepped forward.
“Alright, enough. You're obviously upsetting her. Time to go,” he told him. Jameson barked out a laugh and stood to his full height, a good two inches over Nick.
“I'm not going anywhere. Didn't she tell you? The whole point of my existence is just to upset her,” Jameson informed him. Tate actually laughed at that one. Nick just got angry.
He never did quite get my sense of humor.
“That's it. You need to leave, or I'll get security to kick you out of the hotel,” Nick warned him. Jameson laugh
ed again.
“Try it. I'll buy this hotel, then redecorate the interior with your small intestines,” Jameson threatened.
“Stop it,” Tate finally piped up.
“Wanna say that again? I didn't quite hear you,” Nick growled, stepping closer to him.
“I don't repeat myself to people like you,” Jameson growled right back.
“Probably because people like me are too far above you.”
“Yet not far enough above me that I couldn't make you regret ever touching her.”
“Stop it!” Tate shouted, pushing her way between them. She put a hand on each chest and shoved. Nick took a step back. Jameson didn't move a muscle.
“Tate,” Nick said, his tone no-nonsense. She glanced at him.
“Give us a minute,” she urged. Nick's eyebrows almost went into his hairline.
“Are you kidding me? After everything he's done!? Tate, don't let this guy ruin what we -,” Nick started to argue, when Jameson stepped forward, pushing into Tate so she was trapped between the two of them.
“Stop!” she hissed, trying to push them away from each other again.
“'This guy' was here long before you ever were, and he'll be here long after you're gone,” Jameson warned him. Nick glared and stepped forward as well. Tate was officially squished, her shoulders pressing against a chest on either side of her.
“Yeah, well, I'm the guy who's with her right now, not you,” Nick snarled. Jameson laughed demonically.
“You so sure about that?” he challenged.
“I was sure last night.”
It happened so fast, Tate didn't even see it coming. For a big guy, Jameson was pretty quick. He gave a sharp jab with his right arm, slamming his fist into Nick's nose. Tate shrieked as Nick stumbled backwards into a wall. She turned and hurried to his side.
“I didn't even see you yesterday! Why would you say that!?” she demanded, grabbing his head and forcing him to look up. Blood was coming out of both nostrils, and from his teeth, but nothing looked broken. He managed a chuckle.
“I wanted to piss him off,” he sighed.
“Mission fucking accomplished,” Jameson swore behind them. Tate glared over her shoulder at him.
The Kane Series Boxset Page 76