~4~

“Hello?” Tate called out, creeping around the penthouse. She kind of remembered Jameson saying he had to run an errand, but she'd been in a post-coital fog. Not a whole lot can get through that kind of fog.

The boys had been gone for a long time. Once again, Tate was suspicious. Where were they sneaking off to? And she wasn't necessarily surprised by Jameson behaving that way, but it was a surprise coming from Sanders. He wasn't a fan of surprises either, and certainly didn't like taking part in them.

Oh god, this is all an elaborate plan to sell me in to sex slavery. Took him two years, but he finally found a buyer.

Tate meandered around the rooms. Ate some grapes. Danced naked on the balcony. Then she finally got dressed and laid down. Took a nap. She woke up to the sound of the door opening. She sat up, rubbing at her eyes.

“Tate?” Jameson's voice rang through the room.

“In here,” she yawned out.

“Well, be out here.”

Feisty.

Tate crawled out of the bed, dragging her feet as she made her way into the living room area. Jameson looked her over and burst out laughing. She blinked at him.

“What? What!?” she asked.

“Were you sleeping?” he ignored her question, walking up till he was right in front of her.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Your hair, you slept on it while it was wet.”

He was still laughing as he lifted his hands to her head. She could feel him patting down her hair, so she reached up and felt it, as well. She cringed. Yeah, not good. She was basically rocking a giant rat's-nest-poof on the back of her head.

“Guess another shower is in order,” she teased, leaning into him and wrapping her arms around him.

“Okay, but this time, you get to spend the whole time on your knees,” he warned her.

“Hey, no one made you do that for me, and I would have been happy to reciprocate, but you ran away. Where have you guys been all this time? Where's Sanders?” Tate asked, realizing for the first time that he wasn't there. She glanced around, but didn't see him anywhere in the room.

“Look, I know you don't like surprises, but I think you'll -,” Jameson started.

He was interrupted by a banging noise, though. Something banged into the hotel room's door, and then it opened a little. There were voices in the hall – Tate recognized Sanders speaking softly, though she couldn't make out what he was saying. Then someone else started to talk, and they weren't being soft at all.

“I didn't fly all this way on a moment's notice just so you and Satan can tell me what I can and can't do.”

Tate let out a shriek and started running for the door, just as it began to swing open. Sanders walked in first, but she ran right past him, throwing herself at the other voice.

It's been too long.

Angier Hollingsworth hadn't changed much over the years – she often joked that he was a vampire. The man didn't seem to age. He was still lanky, his hair still messy, his smile still naughty. The only difference was now he was semi-famous and pretty wealthy. Tate hadn't seen him in quite a while, because both their schedules were so busy. She couldn't get time away to see him as often as she used to, and he couldn't get any time at all, period. The porn industry was very demanding, and Ang was sitting at the top of it.

Well, more like laying down, really.

“What are you doing here!?” she yelled, leaping on him. Ang stumbled backwards with her weight, dropping his luggage as he fell against the wall in the hallway.

“I was invited!” he told her, wrapping his arms around her as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

“I've missed you, Angie-wangy,” she sighed, pressing her head into his neck. Ang always felt a little like home to her. Warm, familiar, comforting.

“I always miss you, Tater tot,” he countered, hugging her tightly.

“God, I think I'm going to be sick,” Jameson's voice came from behind them.

Tate laughed and unwrapped herself from Ang, stepped back onto the ground. She helped pick his bags up and carried them into the hotel suite. Showed him around a bit, let him ooh and aah over the décor, the balcony.

“Seriously, Ang. What are you doing here? Jameson hasn't told me anything, I'm not even sure what I'm doing here,” Tate asked while they looked out over the ocean. Ang turned towards her.

“He called me a week or two ago, told me he'd be bringing you out here, thought maybe you'd like the company,” he explained.

“Sanders called you a week ago?” she asked.

“No, Satan.”

“Jameson called you!? Himself? Like actually spoke to you?” Tate guffawed.

Jameson and Ang had never become friends. They tolerated each others' presence for her, but they were just two totally different people. They were cordial and polite, got along on a basic level, but that was it. There were no phone calls or text messages between them. The idea of Jameson calling Ang was downright bizarre.

What the fuck is going on?

“He called you – two weeks ago – to ask you to come on this trip? And I didn't even know I was coming on this trip till yesterday morning?” Tate clarified, still in shock. Ang swallowed thickly and shrugged, turning back to look out at the water.

“Might have only been a week, I don't know. And he only said he might be bringing you, and that he might want me to come. I only got the call yesterday morning that he actually wanted me here,” Ang broke it down.

“God. I must have really made him feel bad,” Tate mumbled, remembering their talk in the hammock – which must have happened after Jameson had called Ang.

“Not surprising. You're kind of an asshole.”

Tate punched him in the arm.

“Shut up. Let's get something to eat, and you can tell me all about your latest sex-capade,” Tate suggested, linking her arm through his and leading him back inside.

“You know, believe it or not, I might actually be a little over having sex,” Ang told her, and Tate burst out laughing.

“I don't believe it. You? Not possible.”

Jameson was in some sort of phone meeting, so Tate took Sanders and Ang downstairs to a restaurant. Sanders told Ang all about Moscow, and Ang told Sanders all about reach-arounds.

Just like old times.

Jameson finally joined them, which added a sharp edge to the conversation. Tate had often wondered if the rivalry between the two men would ever die down. Two years was a long time, but both still seemed to be locked in some sort of war with each other.

“You owe me big time for this,” Jameson commented after Ang had left to find a bathroom. Tate snorted.

“I shouldn't have to owe you for something I didn't ask for,” she pointed out.

“Shut the fuck up and tell me how grateful you are.”

“Beyond words, darling.”

“Shut up.”

“Jameson,” Tate started, “why are you still so pissy with him? And if he makes you so antsy, why did you invite him?”

“I am not 'pissy' with Angier, I just don't like him. And I invited him for you,” Jameson repeated the sentiment.

“You acting like a bitch about the whole thing kinda ruins the gift,” she teased.

“Tatum?”

“Hmmm?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Anything for you.”

They were silent for a while. Sanders picked at his salad. Jameson glared off into space. Tate smiled at him. He finally glanced at her, did a double-take, then stared at her.

“What? That blank stare makes you look like a cow,” he said bluntly.

“Jesus. How did you ever manage to pick up women with a mouth like that?” she replied.

“I got you easy enough.”

“Thank you,” she suddenly blurted out. Jameson groaned and ran a hand over his face.

“Your mood shifts become tiring. What are you thankful for?” he sighed.

“For you bringing Ang, for trying to salvage this trip for me. For putting up with me,” she offered. Jameson nodded.

“Good. You should be thankful.”

“Oh, trust me, I am.”