Reparation (The Kane Trilogy Book 3)

by Stylo Fantome

  “Yes.”

  “When did you bring it here?” she asked, wiping at her nose as her eyes wandered over the painting.

  “Today.”

  “Why!?” she exclaimed. She felt his fingers curve around her jaw, and he slowly pulled her head around until she was facing him.

  “Because one time, you said you liked it.”

  The tears couldn't be held back, after that. She didn't stop crying until he had laid her out in their bed. He left the room and she sniffled, took off her clothes, curled up under the sheets. It was a couple minutes before he came back in the room and she sat up, hugging the sheets tight around her body.

  “Tea?” she asked with a laugh, taking a steaming mug that he was holding out.

  “Yes. Here,” he said, producing a handkerchief from his pocket and holding it in front of her face. She simply leaned into it and blew her nose. He made a face like he wanted to vomit, but he didn't say anything, just stepped away and threw it into a hamper.

  “Thank you,” she sighed, sipping at the hot tea. He crawled onto the bed and sat across from her.

  “Care to explain?” he asked, cocking up an eyebrow at her. She looked into her tea. It was hard to bare her soul when he was always looking at her like she was annoying.

  “It was just a lot to take in. It was an intense dinner with Ang, an intense talk with Sanders, and then that. Believe it or not, I have my breaking points,” she joked. He didn't laugh.

  “What did you talk about with Sanders?” he asked. She chewed on her bottom lip.

  “Stuff. Europe. You,” she answered sort of truthfully.

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “God, you have no idea. That man has a wild side none of us know about.”

  “Cut the shit, Tate. What's going on?” Jameson demanded.

  “It's not easy, being with you,” she blurted out.

  “No one is keeping you here. Like I said, I have been trying my hardest. Maybe that's not good enough for you, and that's fine, but if it's true, then there's the fucking door. Because this is all you're gonna get,” he told her, gesturing to himself.

  That's it? Feels like too much and not enough, all at once.

  “I didn't necessarily mean it like that, I meant ..., I'll like you one minute, and hate you the next. I'll be having fun, and then remember how awful you are. You made me bipolar. I didn't even know that was possible,” she laughed into her tea.

  “I can only apologize so many times, Tate. Maybe you just can't accept it,” he pointed out.

  It was a fair and honest statement. She should just let him go, if she couldn't accept his apology. But stupid man, it wasn't that easy. She had tried. A million times in her mind. Three months ago, she had convinced herself that she would never see him again. Two month ago, she swore to herself that she wouldn't let him win his little game. A month ago, she was promising herself that she would rip his heart out.

  Now, she was realizing that none of those things had happened, or would happen. She would never be rid of him. He had branded himself onto her soul. Like it or not, he was a part of her, and she was a part of him.

  “I don't want to go,” she whispered, staring into her tea.

  “You need to decide if that's how you really feel. No more of this back and forth, hot and cold, bullshit. You say you want to be with me, but two weeks ago, you were plotting to fuck Angier in my bed, just to push me away,” he reminded her. She nodded.

  “I know. You make it a lot easier to hate you than to like you,” she pointed out.

  “Deal with it.”

  “I'm trying.”

  “Try harder.”

  “I think you need a nap,” she laughed. He rolled his eyes and took the mug out of her hand, set it on a night stand.

  “What am I going to do with you, baby girl,” he grumbled, grabbing at her legs through the sheets and dragging her closer to him.

  “Sometimes, I ask myself the same question,” she sighed.

  “No more games?” he asked. She shook her head.

  “No. I had this whole game plan, you know. I was gonna eat you alive,” she warned him. He nodded, pulling her legs out and settling them on either side of himself.

  “I know. You weren't exactly subtle. You have a lot to learn from me,” he informed her.

  “Pfffft. You're about as unobvious as a sledgehammer to the skull,” she replied.

  “When you're a sledgehammer, you don't need to be unobvious. You just need one good hit.”

  “Stop being a smart-ass.”

  “No more plotting my imminent demise,” he continued. Tate sighed.

  “God, I suck at being a bad girl.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That was my whole goal. I mean, I'm fucking Satan. How come none of your badness rubs off on me?” she asked.

  “Because,” Jameson said, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her closer. “I hate to tell you this, Tatum, but you wouldn't know bad if it smacked you in the face. You're practically an angel.”

  “For the last seven years, I thought I was nothing but bad,” she told him, leaning in to hug him. He sighed, kissed the top of her head.

  “Just because you have sex with anything that moves, that does not make you bad. A slut, yes. Bad? No. There is nothing wrong with liking sex, and whoever taught you that is very, very bad,” he informed her.

  “At least I'm very, very good at it,” she murmured, settling her head on his shoulder. She let her eyes drift shut. She felt so drained. So tired. So warm.

  “Yes, baby girl, that you are.”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, lifting her head. He groaned.

  “What now?”

  “You might want to check on Sanders,” she told him.

  “Why?”

  “Because when I left him, he was pretty drunk.”

  Jameson completely froze.

  “You got Sanders – my Sanders – drunk!?” he exclaimed.

  “It was his idea. When I left, he seemed to be doing okay, but I think he's actually kinda partial to cheap vodka. You might want -,” she started, but Jameson was already rushing out the door before she could finish.

  ~5~

  Tatum woke up the next morning alone. She thought she remembered him climbing into bed next to her at some point, but Jameson wasn't there. She glanced around the room before realizing there was a note on the pillow next to hers. She picked it up.

  Be good.

  She smiled and slithered down the bed, stretching her arms up over her head. It sounded corny, but she really felt like it was a brand new day. She felt like she had woken up without a heavy weight on her shoulders. Sure, thinking about what he did to her last fall still made her want to claw his eyes out, made her want to hold him underwater in a cold, dark swimming pool. But he also made her happy. He made her feel alive. He made every nerve ending, every synapse, come alive with want for him. He was right – she either needed to get the fuck over what he had done, or get over him.

  She made her way downstairs. At first she was surprised not to see Sanders. He was almost always up and puttering around before anyone else was home. Then she remembered the night before and she laughed. She threw one of Jameson's coats on over her tank top and underwear, then tripped over to Sanders' house. She didn't even bother with shoes, just hurried along in her knee high socks.

  He was up, and he was dressed, and he looked immaculate, as always. But he had a set of bags under his eyes that made her laugh and laugh. He didn't look her in the eye, just pressed his lips together so hard that they turned white. She linked her arm through his and walked him back to the main house, promising to cook him breakfast.

  “The very idea of food makes me want to pull my own tongue out of my head. No thank you,” he replied curtly.

  He said he remembered everything they'd talked about, and he wasn't embarrassed at all about being “over emotional”. He did, however, apologize for bringing up her stint in the pool. She pointed out that if that's what he considere
d to be “over emotional”, she was dying to see hysterical.

  “Have any plans for today?” she asked as he followed her into Jameson's bedroom.

  “Not really. I was hoping for it to be peaceful. Quiet,” he replied. She laughed, heading into the closet.

  “I was going to go downtown. Wanna go with me?” she asked, shrugging out of Jameson's jacket. Sanders came to stand in the closet doorway and stared at a wall while she hopped up and down, trying to squeeze into a pair of leggings.

  “Of course. What are we going to do?” he asked.

  “I never got Jameson a birthday present, I wanna take him one,” she replied, yanking off her tank top before rifling through a bunch of shirts. She settled on a loose, grungy, black tank top with a band logo on it. She pulled it on and looked in the full length mirror. It was a shirt from her life before Jameson, a thrift shop special she had cut the sides low on, so it showed off her lime green bra. She nodded at her reflection and traipsed out of the closet, moving over into the bathroom.

  “Oh really. How were things when you got home last night? I know before I left, he was not happy about your absence,” Sanders told her, not moving from the closet doorway.

  “He's never happy about much, is he,” she laughed, digging through her makeup bag.

  “He is. Sometimes.”

  “We talked a little bit. He told me some things. Things I need to understand, if we're gonna do this,” she explained, leaning over the counter as she carefully drew eyeliner around her eyes.

  “And may I ask what it is you're going to do?” Sanders' voice floated to her. She was quiet while she finished her eye makeup, making it all smudgy and dark. Dirty. She looked over her handiwork, then moved onto powder and lip gloss.

  “This. What you want. I'm going to try – try – to get the fuck over my hang ups, his hang ups, everybody's hang ups, and just ..., see. See what happens, see where this goes. Pick up where we left off last fall,” she said, examining her face in the mirror. Done. She finger combed her hair, swung her head up and down a couple times to give it volume, then called it good.

  “You're sure this is what you want?” he asked as she walked back into the bedroom.

  “I think so. Isn't this what you want?” she asked in return.

  “Of course. I am just making sure. I don't want to see either of you hurt because of rash decisions,” he replied. She rolled her eyes.

  “Stop confusing me. How do I look?” she asked, holding her arms out wide and smiling broadly at him. He took his time, his eyes sweeping over her whole form. When he got back to her face, he cleared his throat.

  “You look exactly like the woman I first met back in August,” he replied. She sighed happily.

  “Good. We haven't seen her in a long time.”

  The drive to Boston took roughly half an hour, depending on traffic. She offered to drive, because of Sanders' condition, but he refused. If he was going to be in a car, then he was going to be the one driving it.

  She had him stop at a store first, told him to wait outside. Then they stopped at a little shop right downtown, and Sanders insisted on coming into that place. Then they stopped at a party shop and she got a “Who's The Birthday Boy!?” balloon. Satisfied with her purchases, she had him take her to Jameson's offices.

  “Should I call him to tell him we're headed up?” Sanders asked as they walked towards the front doors. She shook her head.

  “It's a surprise party,” she laughed.

  Jameson hadn't been lying, the secretary in the main lobby was a knockout. A chesty brunette with a blunt bob and bangs, she looked like Bettie Paige. She smiled sweetly at them as they headed into the elevators. The secretary in front of Jameson's office wasn't as polite, however, and made a racket when Tate burst into the anteroom that connected to his office. She didn't shut up till Sanders strode into the room, staring at her. She closed her mouth pretty quick and Tate walked through Jameson's door, sticking her tongue out at the lady.

  “Excuse me, what do -,” Jameson started to bark out, and then he saw who it was. “Oh. What are you doing?” He looked suspicious.

  “Sandy and I wanted to surprise you,” she laughed, taking off her coat and throwing it in a chair.

  “To clarify, I did not want to surprise you. I simply drove,” Sanders interjected.

  “Surprise me with what? What's with the balloon?” Jameson demanded, still looking between both of them like they were there to assassinate him. Tate took the small brown bag from Sanders. The ribbon for the balloon was tied around the top of it.

  “Happy birthday!” Tate shouted, waving her free hand around. Jameson still stared.

  “My birthday was January ninth,” he replied. She dropped her hands.

  “I know. I kind of ruined it, I didn't even get you a present. So I got you something now,” she explained, holding the bag out towards him. If anything, he looked more suspicious.

  “What's gotten into you today?” he asked. She groaned and stomped forward, plonking the present down on his desk.

  “I had the very bad idea of doing something nice for you,” she told him, folding her arms across her chest.

  He narrowed his eyes, but he leaned forward and untied the balloon. It floated up to the ceiling while he opened the brown paper bag. He cocked up an eyebrow, glanced at her, and then back at the bag before pulling out a bottle.

  “Very original, Tate. No one's ever gotten me one of these before,” he said in a snippy voice, holding a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey.

  “Not like that, they haven't,” she replied, slipping into her seat. He flicked his eyes up, then back to the bottle. He turned it over in his hands, and finally realized she had scrawled across the label in black marker. He lifted his eyebrows.

  “Sanders?” he called out, not looking up.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Thank you, for the surprise.”

  “It was nothing, sir.”

  “Good. Now you can leave,” Jameson ordered. Sanders nodded and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  “You like it?” Tate asked, smiling as she slunk lower in the chair, her arms resting over the sides.

  “It's interesting. You're right, I have never gotten a bottle quite like this,” he chuckled, looking over the label again.

  “Do people buy you a lot of bottles of Jameson?” she asked. He nodded and pointed across the room. Behind her was a large bookshelf. On the top of it were all different kinds of bottles, with labels in different languages, colors, styles.

  “Everyone thinks they're clever,” he replied.

  “What's the most expensive one?”

  “Jameson Rarest Vintage Reserve, only about $250.”

  “Only.”

  “Tatum. What brought this on?” he asked. She turned back towards him.

  “I've been thinking, about what you said. About needing to get over it. About you bending over backwards for me. While I don't agree entirely with that last part, I still want to call a truce,” she offered.

  “Oh really?” his voice was soft, and he finally set the bottle down.

  “Yes. You need to not be such a dick to me. If you have a problem with me, or you think I'm lying or bullshitting or fucking around, then you need to say it – not hide in a different country and get mad about things you don't know anything about,” she told him bluntly.

  “Bold words, baby girl,” his voice held a warning in it.

  “And I need to deal with the fact that this is you. You are a dick. If I can promise not to freak out every ten seconds about it, then you have to promise to at least check with me before you decide to rip me in half again,” she laid out her deal.

  “I don't have to check with you for shit. But maybe, if I'm feeling generous, I'll give you a heads up,” he replied, but he was smiling.

  “I never want to deal with Petrushka again,” Tate warned him, and she hoped her voice conveyed just how much she meant that.

  “Me, neither. I won't use her against you,
ever again.”

  “I have never dated Nick. We are not boyfriend and girlfriend, and we never were. I haven't slept with him, since that very first time,” she said.

  “I knew he couldn't handle you,” Jameson chuckled.

  “You can't even handle having me as a girlfriend,” she snorted.

  “So if everything between us is all good, does that mean I get to fuck the secretary downstairs?” he asked.

  “I don't think things between us ever were, or ever will be, 'all good', and no, you cannot fuck that secretary,” she replied.

  “What if I fire her? Could I fuck her then?”

  Tate snorted again.

  “Would you like to see what you got me for your birthday?” she changed the subject. His eyebrows shot up.

  “What I got you?” he clarified. She nodded.

  “Yes.”

  “Christ, I'm scared to ask,” he groaned, leaning his elbows against his desk. She scooted even lower in her chair and stuck her leg up, jutting it over his desk so her shoe was in his face. It took him a second, and then he saw it. He curled his fingers around her ankle and pulled it closer.

  “Like it?” she asked. He shrugged.

  “It's okay. At least they're real this time. Why did I buy you the tiniest pearl bracelet you could find?” he asked, still examining the pearls she had strapped around her ankle.

  “I'm not comfortable spending money the way you do, I needed it to be cheap,” she explained.

  “Why did you do this?” he asked, letting go of her ankle. She sat upright and put her foot back on the floor.

  “I bought it so ..., you would know that I can remember things, too. Good things. You said I deserved them. I listened. I did it so you'd know that I hear you. I'm not very good at it, I'm still trying to figure out how to speak your language, but I'm trying. It isn't necessary to spend $50,000 on a necklace for me. Don't get me wrong, it's nice to know you would have, that you think I 'deserve' them. But real pearls or fake pearls – I wouldn't know the difference anyway. One is just as good as the other to me,” she explained, laughing a little at the end.

  “Depending on the intent with which the gift is given,” he repeated what she had told him so many months ago. She nodded.