Separation (The Kane Trilogy Book 2)

by Stylo Fantome

  “What are you doing here?” Jameson barked out, running a hand through his hair.

  “I assume you are aware that there is a very angry woman on the upper deck, throwing all of your furniture into the ocean,” came the reply. Jameson grumbled and slid backwards off the bed.

  “It never ends,” he growled before prowling to the door.

  Tate stayed laying down, long after he left the room. She could hear the shouting now, the lady cursing in Spanish. Then there were soft footsteps, and suddenly Sanders was sitting on the bed next to her. She heard movement, followed by his hand coming to rest on her knee, his touch light.

  “Are you alright?” he asked. She shrugged.

  “As good as I was the last time you saw me,” she replied.

  “Pardon me, but that wasn't very good,” he pointed out. She finally laughed.

  “No, I guess it wasn't, and I'm probably a lot worse now.”

  “May I ask what happened?”

  “Ran into Pet. Almost accidentally had a threesome. Got into a fight. The usual.”

  Sanders actually laughed at that, and it set Tate off. She snorted and chuckled, and he laid down next to her. While her eyes watered and she shook with laughter, she reached over and grabbed his hand. Squeezed it tightly.

  “You do have a knack for getting into trouble,” he told her. She nodded.

  “That I do. Sandy, tell me what I should do,” her voice fell into a breathy whisper.

  “You should stop playing games, both of you. Say how you feel, mean what you say,” he replied bluntly.

  “Anyone else would tell me that I need to figure it out on my own,” she told him. Sanders snorted.

  “Then it wouldn't happen. The solution seems very simple to me, I don't understand what the problem is,” he said. Tate sighed.

  “Because it's not simple, Sandy. I don't trust him.”

  “But you trust me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then trust me when I say this isn't a game to him.”

  She wasn't able to pick his brain anymore, though, because Jameson strode back into the room. He was still shirtless, and now had claw marks going down his chest. Sexy. Tate started laughing again, the hand pressed to her mouth doing nothing to hide it. Jameson glared at her, then at Sanders.

  “You. What do you want?” he demanded. Sanders sighed and sat up.

  “I was listening to my Bach. Petrushka showed up at the apartment,” was all Sanders said. Tate laughed even harder.

  “I can't catch a fucking break,” Jameson groaned, sitting down on the bed on the other side of her.

  “I will retire to my room here, for the night. Tomorrow, you can speak with the management of the building,” Sanders informed him before getting up and walking out of the room.

  “You can stop now,” Jameson said, but Tate still couldn't get herself under control. It wasn't until his palm pressed against her thigh that she came out of it. She scrambled out from under his touch, practically slithering sideways off the bed.

  “It's been a long night. Sandy's right, we should go to bed,” she said quickly, her nerves evident in her voice. Jameson chuckled.

  “Scared, scared, scared. You used to be so tough, baby girl,” he told her. She pulled at her clothing, straightening herself out, not wanting him to see how much his words affected her. How badly her hands were shaking.

  She hated being afraid.

  “Yeah, well, a week in a psych ward can cure you of just about anything.”

  Then she strode out of the room, not even giving him a backwards glance.

  ~7~

  Jameson was frustrated.

  He was horny, he was angry, and he was upset, but mostly, he was very frustrated.

  Things were not going well.

  He tried being nice. It was almost physically painful for him to do so, but he tried. For her. It didn't work. He tried impressing her, showing off for her, even ignoring her. He let her get away with murder, things he never would have tolerated in the old days. And still. Nothing. Tate still looked at him like he was the devil.

  For the first time ever, Jameson worried that he wouldn't be able to win her over.

  Her body, though, was a different story. It still reacted to him the same way it always had. Ready. Willing. He felt if he could just touch her enough, just taste her enough, her defenses would melt away and he could lay siege to her. Win her. Claim her.

  He just wanted to be absolved of his sins. He wanted his old life back. He didn't want to be obsessed with her, but he was, plain and simple. She ruled his senses. Tate hadn't learned how to do it yet, but Jameson knew when to call a spade a spade. He wouldn't waste time wallowing in denial, trying to convince himself that he didn't want her. Despite all appearances, he was much more of a go-with-the-flow kind of person.

  Now if only she could learn to do that, life would be so much simpler for both of them.

  So he was in a particularly dark mood when he made his way up top the next morning. Both Sanders and Tatum were already awake, dining at the table. He wasn't sure who had cooked – usually he had breakfast delivered. Tate had her mirrored sunglasses on, and she had contorted herself to fit her whole body, legs and all, in her tiny chair. She was laughing at something Sanders was saying, smiling broadly. Jameson's hand twitched, and he once again had to remind himself that she wasn't ready for him to touch her. Not in the way he wanted to touch her; not in the way she needed to be touched.

  “I was just going to wake you,” Sanders said, noticing his approach.

  “I'm sure,” Jameson grumbled, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  “Someone sounds cheery this morning,” Tate teased him. He glared at her.

  “Long night.”

  “Poor baby.”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Ooohhh,” she almost moaned. “You're going to be extra fun today, aren't you?”

  “Piss me off more than I already am, Tate, and I'll show you how 'fun' I can be,” he warned her.

  She kept her mouth shut, but she smiled to herself as she sipped her coffee.

  “If you are ready,” Sanders spoke up, “we could head to the apartment.”

  It was an offer of escape, and Jameson took it gladly. It was hard to be around Tate, sometimes too hard. He wanted to slip in to old roles, old habits. She wouldn't let him. It was like ice skating up hill.

  After they had grabbed jackets and other necessities, he and Sanders headed off the boat. Not a moment too soon – Tate was stripping off her clothing to reveal a bikini, and Jameson knew he was staring at her like a hungry wolf. He was about to follow her up to the top deck, where he would continue her efforts and help her take off the bikini, preferably with his teeth, but Sanders coughed loudly, dragging his attention away.

  “May I ask what happened last night?” Sanders asked, his voice casual as they walked to the Rolls-Royce. Well, casual for Sanders.

  “No,” Jameson replied, sliding into the passenger seat while Sanders got behind the wheel.

  “She mentioned a threesome,” Sanders continued, pulling the car out of its spot and heading into traffic.

  “No threesome, sorry to say.”

  “You tried?”

  “Jesus christ, Sanders, are you a girl now? What's with the gossip? No, I did not try to orchestrate a threesome. If I wanted one, I would have one. Tate laid out a dare. I called her bluff. I wouldn't have slept with that woman, and I knew Tate would stop it. That's it. No more questions,” Jameson explained.

  Sanders made a humming noise, but didn't say anything else.

  At the apartment building, Jameson had a chat with the manager. No one was to be allowed into his apartment, or even onto his floor. Only himself, Sanders, and Tatum were the exception. Though with the way things had been going, he wasn't entirely sure he'd ever get a chance to bring her there. The manager apologized profusely for the mistake – they were training an entirely new security team, and Ms. Ivanovic was very convincing. It was generally known that s
he and Jameson had been involved together. It wouldn't happen again.

  Jameson warned him that it had better not.

  He wasn't ready to deal with Tate quite yet, so he took Sanders to lunch at an outdoor cafe. It had been a long time since it had been just the two of them. Since well before Tate had entered the picture. It was quiet. Peaceful. Nice. Jameson sighed, feeling a little restored. He sat back in his chair, just people watching, while Sanders finished his salad.

  “Sir,” Sanders' voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “Yes?” Jameson asked, folding his arms.

  “Things do not seem to be progressing very well.”

  “I am well aware of this.”

  “She still thinks you're the devil. She thinks you did everything on purpose, planned it from the start.”

  “I am aware. I'm working on it.”

  “Doesn't look like it.”

  Jameson was a little shocked. Tate was a bad influence on Sanders.

  “You don't help, you know. You have become a very effective cock blocker,” Jameson snapped. A blush crept up Sanders' neck, but his face remained impassive.

  “Winning her heart is one thing. Using her for sex is another. I won't allow it,” he replied.

  “Your sentimentality makes me sick, and the thing Tate and I do best is use each other for sex. Just let me do things my own way,” Jameson instructed. He took out his wallet and threw some money on the table before standing up. Sanders followed suit and they walked away from the cafe.

  “Are you sure that's a good idea?” Sanders asked, for the millionth time. Jameson rolled his eyes.

  “Am I ever not sure, Sanders? Just stay out of the way, let me reach her, and the rest of this month will be a cake walk,” Jameson told him. Sanders made a sound like a snort, only more dignified.

  “I think you are forgetting yourself. Forgetting the past,” he pointed out.

  Ego, down a notch. Sanders: 1

  “I have to, Sanders, if I want to function and move forward. I laid out the deal, she took it. It has to be this way,” Jameson replied.

  “Is this really about a deal? A game?” Sanders pressed.

  “Of course. It's what it's always about between us. Only bigger. With smarter players,” Jameson laughed. He stopped in front of a building, stretched his arms above his head. Yawned.

  “I have a question,” Sanders stated, standing at his side.

  “Yes?”

  “When are you going to realize it's not a game?”

  Jameson swallowed thickly. He wasn't a stupid man, he knew his ego wasn't entirely bulletproof. He was very good at hiding how he felt – so good, in fact, that even he didn't know what he was feeling half the time. But sometimes, just sometimes, Sanders could create a crack. Rip right through the layers to reveal a piece of Jameson that he hadn't known was there.

  “I need her to think it's a game, but I know it's not a game,” Jameson replied in a soft voice, refusing to meet Sanders' eyes.

  “Good.”

  They started walking again and were silent for a while. During that time, Jameson was able to cover himself back up. Don his armor. He needed to focus. He couldn't worry about anything besides what was in front of him: getting her back. Then he would worry about what all his fucking feelings meant.

  It was a little hard to have focus, though, when he was sporting a hard-on 90% of the time.

  Maybe I should hire a hooker …

  *

  Tate woke up with a start. Someone was touching her. She shoved her hat back off her forehead and looked down. Jameson was sitting on the edge of her lounger, running his fingers down her leg. She wondered how long he had been there.

  “What are you doing?” she asked through a yawn.

  “Touching you.”

  “Obviously. When did you guys get back?” she asked, her leg starting to twitch.

  “About an hour ago.”

  “An hour!? Why didn't Sanders wake me?” she snapped, sitting upright.

  “Because he isn't here. He's in town. It's just me for now,” Jameson told her. He still hadn't looked at her. His voice was calm, soft. Almost zen like, even.

  She had never been more nervous around him than she was right at that moment.

  What the fuck is he planning!?

  “Oh. Well. Are we going to go see him?” Tate asked, licking her lips. Jameson didn't answer, and she pulled her legs away from him, moved to sit cross-legged.

  “I hadn't planned on it. It's New Year's Eve,” he told her. She nodded.

  “I know. I was going to ask what the plan was, if there was a plan,” she replied.

  “There will be fireworks. I thought we could watch them together,” he said.

  “No swanky party? No dinner?” she laughed.

  “Well, the lobster plan didn't work out so well for me. I don't want to waste anymore of my money,” Jameson explained. Tate snapped her eyes to his, ready to be angry, but she realized he was teasing.

  “I told you it wouldn't happen.”

  “Yes. But I was very close.”

  Grrrrrr, this man.

  “Close doesn't count.”

  He got up and walked away from her, stood by a railing. They were on the very top deck, the roof of the boat. Standing over the wheel house. She had never been in the room, never seen any crew. She wondered if they would ever take the yacht out, if he would need to hire a crew to do so.

  “I thought we'd take the boat out. We can watch the fireworks from the ocean.”

  That's right, Satan's psychic. You always forget.

  “Sounds nice. I think last night was too much party for me,” Tate laughed. She had woken up determined to put on a bright smile about the whole incident. Old-Tatum would have laughed about the whole thing, so new-Tatum would, too.

  “Really? And I thought it stopped just short of being a real party,” Jameson replied, then abruptly walked away, heading down the stairs.

  Tate frowned after him. She wasn't sure what kind of game he was playing. He had been moody all morning, and now he was all quiet and introspective seeming; i.e., not normal. She didn't like it, not one bit. She could handle scheming Jameson. Conniving, cruel, sadistic, devilish Jameson. All-of-the-above Jameson. But confused Jameson? Troubled Jameson? Hurt Jameson?

  She didn't know that man at all.

  *

  Tate didn't see much of him for the rest of the day. If she hadn't known better, she would've thought he was avoiding her. Pretty ironic, considering she had finally come to terms with being in his presence. The crawl-out-of-her-skin feeling wasn't as bad anymore.

  Of course, it helped that while the men were gone, she had found a corner market and bought a pack of cigarettes. She had chain smoked until she thought she was going to pass out. She had even had one cigarette while lounging on the top deck. An act of defiance. Still counted, even if the devil wasn't present.

  Sanders came for dinner, but he was also oddly tight lipped. They made idle chit chat, but when Tate mentioned him coming on the boat to watch the fireworks, he shook his head. He really did get sea sick, he confessed. And he didn't care about fireworks or New Year's. It was just another day. He was working on a 3D puzzle at the apartment, and wanted to finish it.

  When she realized he wouldn't be there as a buffer, Tate's bravado deserted her. The puzzle started to sound like more fun than a ride on a yacht under fireworks. Tate chewed at her fingernails, desperate for a cigarette. But she knew she couldn't, not while Jameson was prowling around the boat. So she borrowed Sanders' phone and hid up on the top deck.

  She tried calling her sister first. They hadn't spoken since before Tate had left for Spain. They weren't exactly best friends yet, but they did check in with one another fairly often. But Ellie didn't answer. Tate tried calling Nick. His calm, happy-go-lucky nature usually settled any nerves she had – but he wasn't answering, either. She started to grind her teeth and dialed one more number.

  “Why hasn't she called me!?” Ang's voice barked the mo
ment the line connected. Tate smiled.

  “It's me,” she laughed. He snorted.

  “Oh. Well. Same question,” he said.

  “There was an ..., incident. I lost my phone. Happy New Year's,” she said quickly.

  “Yeah, yeah, same to you. Have you fucked him yet?” he snapped.

  “Jesus, Ang.”

  “What? I have a radar for that kind of shit with you. It's coming, I can feel it. Don't do it,” he warned her.

  “I don't exactly plan on it,” Tate replied.

  “But it's a possibility?” Ang read between her words. She chewed on her bottom lip, trying not to think about the night before. She rubbed her thighs together.

  “Not in my mind,” she answered evasively.

  “Enough of this bullshit. Tell me everything that has been going on, so I can tell you exactly why you're being stupid,” he ordered.

  “You're awfully bossy now. You used to be fun,” she told him.

  “Watching your best friend try to kill herself can do that to you. Spill.”

  Tate suddenly had a very acute sense of how Jameson must have felt, every time she threw that night in his face. Only her guilt was worse. Jameson deserved to be hassled for his part in everything that happened. Ang hadn't asked for anything, she had dragged him into it.

  So she told him everything. Told him about the first kiss, about Jameson throwing her purse into the ocean. Told him about the phone call with Nick, though she conveniently left out what a heartless bitch she had been, just said how Jameson had thrown her phone into the ocean, as well.

  Told him about her run in with Pet. It was the only part of the conversation Ang stayed entirely quiet for, and at the end, he congratulated Tate on how she had handled it. But then when she talked about making out with Jameson and practically giving him a lap dance on a VIP sofa, Ang's congratulations were gone and he called her a stupid slut.

  “If you're desperate for sex, I get that – it's been a while. It's probably grown over down there. But for god's sake, find someone else. Sanders, anyone, hell, I'll fly over there,” he told her. There was a sound in the background, then Tate could tell the phone was being muffled. Her ears perked up.