Reparation (The Kane Trilogy Book 3)

by Stylo Fantome

  There had been a lot of talk of them fucking other people. A lot of cursing, and biting, and scratching. Plenty of choking. The Jag was not big; he was pretty sure he still had a charley horse from their exertions. But for all that, she seemed ..., mellower. Like it had calmed something in her. Like some of her anxiety had been abated, though he couldn't figure out how. Had she really been concerned about him having sex with someone else? Or was it something else, something she hadn't ever told him? Something that maybe still bothered her?

  It made him nervous. And Jameson Kane didn't get nervous very often.

  Why so nervous? Afraid you'll lose her? You'd have to admit you want to keep her, first.

  There had been some light talk in Spain. Heavier in Paris. He wasn't a man of much feeling or emotion, but once in a great while, it bubbled to the surface. Tate had a knack for bringing it out of him. At any given time, if someone asked him how he would feel if Tate walked out the door and never looked back, he would probably say “fine”; but if they happened to catch him at a truly honest moment, the answer would be “fucking terrified”. He didn't want her to go away, ever. They fit together and that was that. He didn't delve into it, he didn't question it. He just went with it.

  God, if she would just do the fucking same.

  “Maybe. Slightly. Some of her anger is gone. But there is still no trust. She is waiting for you to strike,” Sanders answered, his eyes sliding away to look out the kitchen door.

  “She told you this?” Jameson was surprised. Sanders shook his head.

  “No, I just know it,” he said.

  “How?”

  “Because I listen. I pay attention. I know her,” Sanders replied.

  Ouch.

  “Maybe we just know her in different ways. You fulfill her emotionally and I fulfill her sexually. Maybe this is just how it works for us. Maybe we've been in a threesome this whole time,” Jameson suggested.

  “Sometimes, sir, you make me ill,” Sanders almost snapped, not keeping the disgust out of his voice. Jameson smiled.

  “Glad to know I've still got the touch. I listen to her, Sanders. I pay attention. But I can only go so far – she's knows what I am. What else can I do?” Jameson asked. Sanders finally turned to look at him again.

  “You could try asking her what's wrong,” he stressed. Jameson groaned and put his head into his hands.

  “All I wanted was sex. Just a little freaky sex, every now and then. When the fuck did it get so complicated?” he grumbled.

  “When you met your match, sir.”

  “Sanders?”

  “Yes?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Of course.”

  They stood in silence for a minute. One of the things Jameson loved about Sanders, they could be in complete silence. For long periods of time, sometimes for a whole day. And Sanders never minded Jameson's blunt, crass nature. It was heaven. If only he could train Tatum to be the same way.

  “Where is she?” Jameson asked, lifting his head. She had left that morning, but he hadn't bothered to ask her what she was doing; she had left him half dead in the shower, completely weak in the knees. The woman could probably suck a golf ball through fifty feet of garden hose. It was outstanding.

  “I believe she went to see Mr. Hollingsworth,” Sanders answered.

  “Fuuuuuuuck.”

  “I advised her not to do anything rash,” Sanders offered. Jameson snorted.

  “And how did she respond?” he asked. Sanders was quiet for a while, and Jameson looked at him pointedly.

  “She ..., she blew a raspberry. All over my face,” he replied. Jameson laughed.

  “Poor Sanders. Still in love with her?” he chuckled. The other man turned slightly pink.

  “I have lots of purell,” was all he said before walking out of the kitchen.

  *

  Tate was very nervous. She fiddled with the silverware at her table as she looked around the restaurant. It was evening, lots of couples were sitting around her, having romantic dinners. Perfect. She glanced at the front door and went back to fiddling.

  She felt like her brain was cracking apart. Jameson's words, Sanders' words, all ricocheting off her neurons and brain waves. Driving her crazy. Or making her sane. She couldn't tell which anymore. She wanted to make everyone pay. But she wanted to be normal. But she wanted to hate everyone. But she didn't want to hate herself.

  It was all too much.

  “Tater tot! Sorry I'm late,” Ang called out, hurrying between the tables. Tate managed a smile, sitting up straighter. Tried to put on her best adoring look.

  Sex hadn't worked, and now she knew for a fact that it would never work – Jameson had basically said that he wouldn't care. But love. Love was a different ball game. Jameson had told her that, a long time ago.

  “... I don't really care about being the other man, as long as I'm the man. Can't be that, if you go off and fall in love with your best friend. ...”

  Tate would convince Ang that she was in love with him. They had danced in and out of the friend zone for years – she was very confident that the temptation to call her his own, to win her from Jameson, would be enough to make Ang leave Ellie. Dump her, for Tatum. History, repeating itself. And Jameson hated sharing his toys, hated Ang, hated love. He had fought to win back his fuck-toy, but he wouldn't fight for her affections.

  She had to believe that.

  “No big deal. How are you? Haven't seen you in forever,” she laughed, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek.

  “Yeah, well, ever since you pulled your weird, satanic, seduction act on me, I've been afraid for my soul,” Ang explained.

  You don't know how close you are to the truth, Ang. Run far, far away from me.

  “Oh shut up, you loved it,” she teased before they were interrupted by a waiter.

  They chatted. They flirted. She made a lot of very direct eye contact. Felt a lot like throwing up. Really wanted to drink. But she kept on smiling. Kept laying it on thick. Ang would have no clue what hit him.

  “So I gotta ask,” he started, after their plates had been taken away. Tate leaned across the table, smiling big. “What the hell is going on?”

  Apparently he has a big fucking clue. You're as subtle as a baseball bat to the head, you dumb bitch.

  “What do you mean?” Tate asked, trying to feign innocence.

  “You're wearing your titty-mcgee shirt, flirting like it's an Olympic sport, and smiling like some creepy doll. What the fuck is going on?” Ang demanded. She swallowed thickly, shaking her head.

  “Nothing, I don't know what -,”

  “We have met, you know. Sometimes I think you don't realize that. I know you, bitch. I know what's normal, and what's not normal. And the way you've been acting lately, I'm pretty sure you couldn't even spell 'normal' if I asked you to,” he stated.

  Something snapped. She almost thought she could hear it, her sanity breaking. Echoing between her ears.

  “You obviously don't know me that well,” she said in a loud voice. Ang's eyebrows shot up.

  “Excuse me? Tate, I've known you for almost six years. We practically see each other every day. I'd say I know you pretty well,” he countered.

  “But not well enough to know when I'm pissed the fuck off.”

  “You're pissed off?” he clarified.

  “Yes.”

  “About what?”

  “I'm pissed that you're a complete asshole,” she blurted out.

  See. There's that filter problem again. Maybe you should see a doctor about it.

  “Me!?” he exclaimed, pointing at himself. She nodded.

  “Yes. A huge asshole. And that makes me mad. Like, so mad ... I can't ... I want ... you ...,” she began breathing hard, waving her hand as she searched for words.

  “What did I do!? Is this cause I wouldn't fuck you!?” he demanded. Several tables turned to look at them.

  She had gone too far. Couldn't pull back now. She had finally hit the bottom of the rabbit hole.
r />   One sip makes you big, and one makes you small. One makes you sane, and one makes you crazy. Time to make a choice.

  “No, no, that's not it,” she replied, nervously running her hands through her hair. Cold hearted revenge had been on the menu, not frank honesty. She wasn't quite ready for this meal.

  “Then what the fuck did I do!?” he threw his hands up. She took a deep breath. Tried to imagine Sanders' voice, telling her what to do. Telling her to just say everything.

  “You. Ellie. I am not okay with this,” Tate breathed quickly.

  “You're still upset about that!?” Ang all but shouted.

  “Yes.”

  “But ..., when we were on the plane! You cried! You said it was okay!” he reminded her, a bewildered look in his eye. She nodded.

  “I know. I lied.”

  “Why!?”

  “Because, I wanted to hurt you back,” she mumbled, looking down at the table. He leaned forward.

  “I'm sorry. Wait. Back up. Please explain exactly, what the fuck, you're talking about,” he told her. She took another deep breath.

  Just say it. Get rid of the poison. Word-vomit it up.

  “I was so mad at you. I felt ..., lied to, and betrayed. Why her!? I mean, I know, I can't tell you who to sleep with and who not to, and the heart wants what it wants, all that bullshit, and I can't stop you, but why her!? You knew how I felt about her, but you did it anyway. I couldn't ..., I couldn't believe it. Not from you. I always thought you were better than me, better than him,” she laid it all out.

  “Do not compare me to him,” Ang's voice was hard.

  “I'm not. But in that moment, you didn't seem a whole lot better,” she whispered.

  “Jesus, Tate, we've been back for a month, and you've been keeping this bottled up? The whole time? The three of us have been to dinner, for god's sake,” he pointed out. She cringed.

  Yeah, and I wore a low-cut top and you stared at my tits and I thought her head was going to explode. Stupid boy.

  “Sorry. Sanders has been bugging me to talk to you. I just ... I had it my head ... I wanted ...,” she let her voice trail off. It should have been enough, finally admitting out loud that she was upset. But her guilt was suddenly making itself known, knocking at the door to her conscience.

  Helloooooo, you're a vile, evil bitch, and you owe it to him to tell him! Remember that swimming pool, hmmm!?

  “Sanders knows about this, but I don't!? You talk to that fucking weirdo about our shit?” Ang snapped. She cut her eyes to him.

  “Do not talk about him like that. Sanders is the best goddamn person I've ever met, in my entire life, and neither of us are even worthy of knowing him. Call him another fucking name, and I'll stab you with this fork,” she threatened him, holding up said fork.

  “Christ, you have gone crazy.”

  “Keep talking shit, and I'll show you crazy.”

  Ang burst out laughing, and she eventually followed suit. Stab him with a fork!? Up until a month ago, she had never so much as hit anybody. Now she was brandishing flatware as weaponry.

  I have gone crazy.

  “I shouldn't have said that, Sanders is awesome. I'm just mad. You used to tell me all your secrets,” Ang sighed. She nodded.

  “I know. I always tell you everything, hence why you should've known that fucking my sister would probably piss me off. You're my best friend with whom I've had sex with on multiple occasions. I've hated her for most of my life. What kind of sad, daytime soap opera were you trying to recreate?” she asked.

  “A lame one. I don't know what to say, Tate. I didn't know it was still bothering you, that it even bothered you this much,” he told her. She took a deep breath. Being a bad girl hadn't worked; maybe she should shoot for sainthood and be completely honest.

  “I know. I hid it really well, because I wanted ..., I wanted ...,” she kept trying to start.

  “If it's something even you're nervous to say, then I am really scared,” he commented.

  “I wanted to break you up. I wanted you to have sex with me, so I could rub it in her face. I was mad at Jameson, too, so I figured doing it in his bed would be like killing two birds with one stone. Tonight, I was going to convince you that I was in love with you, so you'd leave Ellie for me and Jameson would let me go. And then I was going to dump you. I wanted to make all of you regret fucking with me,” she explained quickly.

  There. That wasn't so bad. And you only kinda-sorta sounded like the worst person ever.

  “That is so fucked up,” Ang breathed. She nodded.

  “I know.”

  “I think you need help.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I can't believe it. That is so fucked up. After everything we've been through, last fall, the last five years, everything, and you would do that to me!?” he snapped.

  “I had a very similar thought, when I walked in on you fucking her,” she snapped back.

  “I didn't do that on purpose!” he practically shouted. “I have never done anything to intentionally hurt you!”

  “Oh really? Remember that time you accidentily anger-banged Rusty? Cause I haven't forgotten that – she still texts me about you, you know. Pretty 'intentional',” Tate hissed at him. He turned a little red.

  “Okay, well ... so ... Jameson is the goddamn devil, and you let him get away with murder!” he switched tactics. She laughed.

  “Oh, no I don't. Not even a little. Not at all,” she replied, her voice low.

  “You're a crazy fucking bitch,” Ang swore. She nodded.

  “No shit.”

  “If my phone hadn't rang, we would've had sex. And you would've told Jameson, and you would've rubbed it in Ellie's face. Would that really have made you happy?” he demanded.

  “At the time, I thought so. Now ..., not so much. I don't want to hurt you. I'm ..., tired of being a crazy fucking bitch,” she finally laughed, and he chuckled as well. “I'm so tired, Ang. All the time. Tired, and lonely, and I feel like a crazy person. I hate it. I hate myself most of the time. Just ..., just tell me you didn't sleep with Ellie on purpose. Tell me it was an accident so I can save my soul.”

  “I did not sleep with her on purpose. Why do you think I hid it for so long? I was ..., ashamed. Mad at myself. I knew you would hate me for it, Tate. I felt like a piece of shit. I'm really, really sorry,” he told her, reaching out and sliding his hand over hers.

  “Any chance of you dumping her? Preferably in some horrific, public manner?” she asked. He smiled at her.

  “Is that what you really want? I'll do it, if that's what you really want,” he replied in a soft voice.

  “Ang,” she sighed.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Why didn't we fall in love?”

  “Great mysery of life. I tried my hardest, but couldn't seal the deal. I was never mean enough for you,” he teased. She laughed.

  “No, I guess you weren't. Don't dump Ellie. Do whatever you want, have weird, pregnant sex. Whatever. God. I just ..., well ..., don't fuck anyone else I hate,” she snapped, pulling her hands away to wipe at her eyes.

  “Deal. And next time you're this upset with me – upset enough to try to use me in some horrible plan to ruin both the relationships we're in – just talk to me, you silly cunt.”

  “Deal.”

  *

  Tate walked across the driveway, feeling lighter than she had in a while. Since Paris. It felt good to get it all out with Ang, better than she would have thought possible. She didn't know why she always went against Sanders' advice; it was always right.

  That's why when she got out of the car, she hightailed it to the guest house. The back of it faced the main house, so she had to practically beat her way through hedges and bushes. By the time she got to the front door, Sanders was standing on the porch.

  “There is a path,” he pointed out. Tate kicked her way through a rhododendron bush and took the hand he offered. He pulled her up the side of the stairs.

  “Too easy. How are you?” she asked,
brushing her hair out of her face as she walked through his door.

  “I am well. How was dinner with Mr. Hollingsworth?” he asked, reaching to take her jacket. She slid it off and he hung it on a coat rack.

  “Good. Great. I finally did what you said, I talked to somebody. I told Ang I didn't want him dating Ellie. I told him that I had basically been plotting their deaths this whole time,” she said quickly. Sanders raised his eyebrows, but that was it.

  “And how did he respond?” he asked, leading her into his living room.

  “He was angry. Called me a crazy fucking bitch. We yelled at each other. Then we laughed, and we forgave each other, and I told him he could do whatever he wants with her,” Tate replied.

  “Good. Do you feel better?” Sanders asked.

  She leaned into him then, wrapped her arms around his shoulders from behind. He stiffened up and hesitated for a second, but then she felt his hands clasp her wrists. Give her a squeeze. She pressed her cheek to his shoulders.

  “Yes. Thank you,” she whispered. He squeezed her again, then let her go.

  “Good. I'm glad. I told you, communication is key,” he reminded her. She nodded and walked around to stand in front of him.

  “I know, I know. I shall always listen to you, from this day forth,” she prattled on, then looked around the large room. “What's going on in here?”

  Much like in the main house, the living room of the guest house had a bar built into it, though much smaller. More of a group of cupboards against a back wall. All of them were open, and the counter tops were filled with all different kinds of liquor and spirits and mixers. Sanders cleared his throat.

  “The last person to stay in this house was a business associate of Jameson's. He had me fully stock the bar. I have been organizing what's left, alphabetically, and marking on the bottles were the liquid levels are,” he explained. She laughed.

  “Afraid someone's gonna sneak your booze?” she questioned, walking forward and looking through the alcohol.

  “No. It just makes me feel better to know,” he replied. She nodded.

  “Understandable. This is impressive, Sandy, he doesn't have this much stuff in his bar. Angosturas? Lillet? You guys don't mess around when you stock up,” she commented. She heard him fidget from behind her.