Who would want to steal the Bentley? After Sanders had put in his “notice”, Jameson had kicked everyone out. Just walked into the main lounge and yelled at everyone to get the hell out of his house. Petrushka Ivanovic, his ex girlfriend, had argued to stay, but he had practically thrown her out onto the porch and then slammed the door in her face.
Then Jameson had locked himself in the library and drank himself stupid, cursing both Tate and Sanders while he destroyed all his crystal. Was it possible that one of his disgruntled party guests had stolen his car? Most of them were wealthy in their own right; they could buy their own Bentleys.
“Yes, last evening,” the cop continued. “We found it soon afterwards. There's some minor damage to the vehicle, but it was like that when we found it. We took pictures, but you'll want to contact your insurance company.”
At that moment, a tow truck started rumbling up the drive. Jameson stared in shock as his car was pulled around, right in front of the porch. The entire passenger side of the Bentley was scratched up, as if it had side swiped something and then dragged along it. The sideview had been ripped clean off.
“What the fuck happened? Did you find the person who stole it?” Jameson demanded, stepping out onto the porch. The cop flipped through some paperwork.
“Yes. Actually, that's how we found the car. An officer who had responded to a 9-1-1 call noticed the car idling in the middle of the road, he called in the plates,” the cop read off the notes.
“Did you arrest the thief?” Jameson asked.
“Not yet. From what I understand, it was a woman. She was found unconscious in a pool in the Beacon Hill Athletic Club,” the officer explained.
Tatum.
“Unconscious?” Jameson repeated, his voice soft. More pages flipped in the notepad.
“Um, that's how she was found, that's what the officer at the scene reported. Uhhh, let's see ..., okay, the report says that when paramedics arrived, she was having generalized seizures. A man on the scene said she had vomited prior to -,”
Jameson didn't hear any more. He turned around and walked back into the house without saying a word. Walked straight back in to his kitchen and opened a cupboard next to the fridge. Pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Twisted off the wrapper and cap, chugging as much as he could before he had to breathe again. There was a creaking noise behind him and he became aware that the cop had followed him. Jameson took one more drink before leaning against the counter.
“Is she okay?”
“Do you know the -,”
“Is she okay?”
“Uh, um,” the cop stuttered, and Jameson heard notepaper rustling. “I-I don't know. The last report I received was that she was checked in to an emergency room, still having seizures, and with an irregular, slow, heart beat and low oxygen levels. I haven't heard anything else, Mr. Kane.”
Mr. Kane. Someone should've told him my real name is Satan.
“Leave,” Jameson whispered, staring at his granite counter tops.
“Excuse me?”
“I said leave. Get out of my house,” Jameson snapped, finally turning around. The cop looked stunned.
“We have some paperwork, I need you to -,” he started to stammer. Jameson strode forward and pushed past the officer.
“The car belongs to Sanders, track him down,” he grumbled.
“But you -, sir! Sir, did you know you're bleeding!?” the cop exclaimed, hurrying after Jameson and pointing out the bloody footprints he was leaving behind him.
“Yes,” Jameson snapped back. A large man in coveralls was hovering in the open doorway, holding a piece of paper.
“Hey! Who gunnah pay for dis tow job? I need fiddy bucks,” the guy drawled in a thick Boston accent. Jameson growled again and stomped up to an end table that flanked the front door. He yanked open a drawer and pulled out a stack of money. Both the cop and the tow truck driver gaped at him.
“All of this is yours, just be off my property within the next five minutes,” Jameson said as he led them out onto the porch, all the while flinging hundred dollar bills to the ground.
“Ay, ay, no problem, buddy,” the guy said, quickly dipping down and picking up what had to be $800. He was a large guy, but he ran back to the car and had the Bentley unloaded and was driving off in his tow truck, well under the five minute time limit.
“We still have to -,” the cop started. Jameson glared at him and stepped back into his doorway.
“Call Sanders. He reported it stolen, not me. He can deal with this mess,” he snapped, then slammed the door shut.
The cop banged on the door for a while, but Jameson was very good at ignoring things. He took his stairs two at a time, his heart thumping louder than his footsteps pounding down the hall. He felt like he was going to explode. Like his heart was going to pound right out of his chest. Or rather, whatever organ it was he had in place of a heart.
Tatum.
He didn't know why he thought he'd find answers there, but Jameson went straight into Sanders' bedroom. A large walk-in closet stood open, all clothing gone from it. Sanders didn't mess around. Something had been left behind, though, and Jameson sighed as he walked up to the foot of the bed. Sitting there, stacked neatly and packed in even bundles, was $32,000 in cash. Jameson knew it was exactly $32,000 because the night before, he had taken the cash out of a safe in his own room and brought it in to Sanders' room. Brought it to her.
A note sat on top of the money. Only one word was written on it, in Sanders' neat script:
“Satan.”
At least he spelled my name right.
A light was on in the bathroom and Jameson walked towards it. Very little actually disturbed him, but the sight he took in kind of made him want to vomit. Not because it was too ugly, but because it showed him what a terrible person he really was deep down. Through and through, to his core.
Sometimes, he forgot.
All the drawers on the vanity had been pulled open, stuff hanging out of them. The mirror had a large spider-web crack on the right hand side, closest to the door. One crack shot off all the way down to the sink, and some blood and strands of hair were in the very center of the spider-web. Long, black hair. Bloodstains were smattered across the vanity top and what looked like bloody fingerprints were smeared down the whole length. Jameson closed his eyes. Took deep breaths through his nose. Went back in time.
Petrushka had cornered him in the kitchen. Said unkind things about Tate. Jameson had been angry at Tate at the beginning of the night – angry at her for over two weeks before that, but after confronting her, after seeing her reaction, his anger had started to fade away. Started to turn in to something else. Something unfamiliar. Something he hadn't felt in a long time.
Guilt.
Pet was a massive bitch who didn't even know Tate. She had come along with Jameson just to watch the fireworks. Petrushka was almost a bigger sociopath than he was; Tate didn't deserve it. Not from Pet. Jameson had treated Tatum poorly enough.
She had been so upset. Maybe, just maybe, there was the tiniest possibility that he had been wrong about her. Wrong about her relationship with the baseball player. It happened on occasion, sometimes even Jameson Kane was capable of making a mistake. He hadn't wanted to wait till the end of the night to find out; he'd sought Tate out the minute he shook Pet loose.
Jameson hadn't seen how it had started, just how it had ended. When he'd walked into Sanders' room and saw a man in a suit bent over Tate, he had thought it was actually Sanders, at first. Talk about upsetting. Sanders was like a son to Jameson, he didn't want to have to kill him.
But it wasn't Sanders. It was Wenseworth Dunn, Jameson's business partner. A man Jameson had gone to school with, a man he had known for a long time. Dunn knew that Tate was off limits. Tate knew that Jameson didn't want her to sleep with any of his friends or colleagues. Breaking rules was apparently par for the course that night. Jameson had wanted to murder them both, but he'd settled for beating the shit out of Dunn, and then kicking Tatum
out of the house. He hadn't bothered to look in the bathroom. He never bothered to look at anything, ever. He didn't have to – he didn't care. Right? Right?
She had bled. How could I not notice that she was bleeding? Even I never made her bleed.
Jameson pressed his back against the door, then slid in to a sitting position. Put his head in his hands. He was a Yale graduate. He owned multiple businesses, in multiple countries. He played the stock market like he'd invented it, and owned real estate so pricey, even Donald Trump was interested. He was considered by many to be a very smart, calculating man.
But suddenly he felt very stupid. Brought down by a woman with black hair and dark eyes. A sexy wit and a sexier body. A bartender, coupon clipper, temp worker. A college drop out turned party girl, with loose morals and legs that rarely closed.
So much better than him, in every way, shape, and form.
Her only downside was thinking she could use sex as a weapon. She'd always been too naive to realize that sometimes, weapons can backfire.
It had certainly backfired on him.
*
It took him a lot longer to find her than he would've thought. Sanders wasn't answering his phones calls, which was actually a surprise, even after everything that had happened. Jameson left several very angry, hostile voicemails. Regardless of his “work” position, Sanders was still family and this was an emergency.
Angier Hollingsworth, Tatum's best friend, wouldn't answer his phone, either, but that wasn't a surprise at all. Ang had never liked Jameson, and chances were the younger man already knew about what had happened. Was probably already on his way to avenge Tate. Or was possibly already with her.
Jameson finally tried Tate's phone, but it didn't even ring – just went straight to voicemail. Kind of ominous.
Hospitals are not very generous with patient information. It was evening before he found where she had been admitted, and even then, it was only because he'd lucked out – the hospital she was staying in was one his New York offices had made substantial donations to; Jameson's name was on one of the wings. Upon realizing that, the nurse was ready to give him any kind of information he wanted.
Actually getting to her room proved even harder, though. Jameson wasn't family, and he wasn't her husband. He wasn't anything to Tate, technically. They wouldn't even tell him what her room number was; he would have to wait till regular visiting hours, and even then, only if the patient requested to see him. He didn't really foresee that happening.
He saw Ang at one point, but Jameson kept his distance. He knew it wouldn't be pretty when they met up, and both of them had bigger things to worry about than defending her honor. The other man looked haggard. Tired. His clothing was rumpled and ruined. The cop had mentioned that there had been a man on the scene, someone who had seen her before she had started convulsing. Jameson had thought maybe it was Sanders. Now he was realizing it must have been Ang.
How else could Angier know she was here?
It was hours before Jameson found a nurse who would take a bribe in exchange for Tate's room number. Ang was nowhere to be seen, but it was well after visiting hours, so Jameson asked to be shown to the room. The nurse chattered away in a nervous manner, obviously a little awed by him. He ignored her, all his focus on one thing.
Tatum.
“Is she still unconscious?” Jameson asked as they stood in front of the room door.
“Oh no, she regained consciousness earlier today. The pain meds put her to sleep a little while ago. Would you like me to wake her?” the nurse asked, and then pushed her way inside the room.
“No. No, that won't be necessary.”
Jameson stayed standing in the doorway while the nurse fussed around the room. Only one small, fluorescent light was on behind the bed. The rest of the room was dark. There was a curtain separating Tate's bed from the neighboring bed. He frowned. That wouldn't do. She needed a private room.
“I didn't get to talk to her myself, and I shouldn't be saying this, but the doctors said she's going to be just fine,” the nurse assured him, all the while checking different machines that flanked the bed. Jameson cleared his throat, but still didn't enter the room. Something about that doorway. He felt like he was walking through the gates of Hell.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here ...,
“I thought she was in here because ..., because she ingested some Xanax. What does she need pain medication for?” Jameson asked, his eyes skimming over the foot of the bed. He still couldn't look directly at it.
Be a man, for god's sake. When has anything ever scared you? Go in there.
“They had to pump her stomach. It can be quite a painful procedure, and from what I understand, they had a problem getting the tube down her throat. Nothing permanent,” again, the nurse's voice was comforting and reassuring. Jameson had an epiphany.
She thinks I'm a concerned boyfriend. How cute.
“So she won't wake up, if I sit next to her, or touch her?” Jameson asked. The nurse finally glanced at him, and then did a double take, obviously surprised that he hadn't even entered the room.
“I doubt it. I mean, if you don't want to disturb her, I wouldn't start a conga line or anything, but just sitting and holding her hand should be fine,” she told him. He nodded.
“Thank you. You can leave.”
“Would you like me to bring you -,”
“No. Just leave.”
He didn't enter the room till after the nurse had left. He was slow in making his way to the foot of the bed, his footsteps soft in the quiet room. Jameson stood there for a while, staring at her feet. Then he slowly lifted his eyes, following her form under the blankets. A form he had gotten to know very well. A form that he felt belonged to him, something he had molded, created, with his own two hands.
Tatum.
She was ghastly pale. Jameson hadn't gotten a very good look at her the night before, and he hadn't seen her for a month before that, so it was very possible that she had lost her tan in the onset of fall.
Still. This wasn't a normal pale. She almost looked gray. Her lips were a neutral shade, blending into her face, and they were pressed tightly together. Her eyelids were twitching, and he wondered what she was dreaming about; wondered if it was a nightmare he had created. She had IVs in both arms and a hospital gown was visible, peeking out from under her blankets.
She looked small. Vulnerable. Damaged. Jameson tried to remember how angry he'd been at her, how mad he'd been when he'd first seen those pictures of her with the baseball player. He couldn't seem to recall it, though; all the anger was gone. All the jealousy, all the meanness. Tatum could be stupid sometimes, he wouldn't deny that, but Jameson was the goddamn devil.
And that was much, much worse.
He pulled up a chair and sat next to her, studying her face. He didn't like to say it to her, because he wasn't that sort of man, but Tate was a very beautiful girl. Even without makeup, she was still stunning. Seven years ago, she had occupied his fantasies. Now all this time later, she occupied his mind.
His heart.
I didn't want to like this woman.
He reached out and gently grabbed her hand, pulled it towards himself. She twitched once and Jameson held still, but when it was obvious that she wasn't going to wake up, he brought her hand closer. Ran his finger tips across her palm. She had long, delicate fingers. Almost graceful. The thought almost made him laugh – graceful wasn't normally a word he would have used to describe Tate.
“I'm so sorry, baby girl,” he whispered, before bringing the back of her hand to his lips and kissing it.
“I never thought I'd hear you say those words.”
Jameson chuckled to himself and looked up. Of course. Sanders was standing in the doorway. His hair was immaculately done, his suit looked freshly pressed; though if Jameson had to guess, he would say it was the same suit Sanders had been wearing since yesterday.
“How long have you known she was here?” Jameson asked in a soft voice, lowering her hand to
the bed and lacing their fingers together.
“Since right after she was admitted. I heard about the Bentley and the pool on my police scanner, then I called Mr. Hollingsworth,” Sanders explained, making his way into the room.
“Did you really?”
“Yes. He wasn't very nice at first. He told me to tell you that you can rot in hell. After I said I was no longer affiliated with you, he told me that she was here. I have been here ever since,” Sanders replied. Jameson nodded.
“Will you tell me what all happened?”
“Will you actually listen?”
“Just this once, I think I will.”
*
Jameson continued on as if nothing was wrong. He went to work like normal – no one even asked a single question when Dunn's name was taken off the building, and Jameson didn't respond to any questions about Tatum or Sanders. He went to work at eight in the morning, and was out of the building by six o'clock sharp, every evening. He was nothing if not meticulous.
But his nights he dedicated to her. Tate was kept in the hospital for observation. He would turn up around midnight, meet with Sanders in the cafeteria to get some coffee and discuss how she was, and then the two men would head up to her room, where they would sit in silence. Sanders would read. Jameson would work a little. Stare at her a lot. Think about her constantly. Think about what he was doing there, what it all meant.
This is not a game. She is so much more than a game. Maybe she always was ...
When she was moved to a psychiatric wing, it cost him a lot more money to get in to see her, and then even more to find out why she had been moved. They thought she had tried to kill herself and wanted to hold her pending a psych evaluation.
At least she's in a private room now.
Jameson wasn't sure who was more upset, Sanders, or himself. But Jameson wasn't there during the days, when the doctors were making their rounds. Sanders had to be angry in his place, and Sanders had never done angry very well. If Jameson had been there, she wouldn't have been moved. Not that he blamed Sanders – the younger man was sick with worry over Tatum, he didn't need accusations and anger.
Separation (The Kane Trilogy Book 2) Page 2