~15~

A month wasn't so bad. She could get a lot done in a month.

Tatum broke the bad news to Rus. Explained to her that Ang just wasn't a relationship kind of guy. Tate didn't play it, but she showed Rus a DVD of one of his movies. The cover was enough to make Rus turn a little green. So prim and proper. There were some tears, and a general cursing of men, but she got over it.

Tate wasn't ready to call Ang yet, though. She was still so mad at him. The things he had said to her, the way he had spoken to her. She would wait till after Jameson got home, and then she would talk to Ang. She counted down the days.

One really shocking day was when Nick Castille called her; the baseball player she had screwed in her bar. He had gotten her number from her manager. Totally inappropriate and against the rules, but she was flattered.

Tate was lonely and bored, so she agreed to dinner. They had a good time, but she stared at him when he asked if they could go on a “real” date sometime. Nick was extremely good looking, and several times while they ate, people asked him for his autograph. He was also really nice to her, very respectful. It was a novel experience, and she knew he was a catch. But she politely declined his offer – she was holding out for her lord and savior, Satan. Nick seemed a little sad, but he smiled at her, and said he could settle for being her friend.

And he meant it. He got her box seats to one of his games. They went out to eat often, and even took in a couple shows. They got along surprisingly well, despite being from completely different backgrounds and living completely opposite lives. Tate enjoyed his friendship. But she didn't push it – she never went back to his place, and never brought him back to hers. Jameson had never once slept with the same girl twice during their relationship. It wasn't a rule, really, but Tate didn't want to be the one to test whether or not it should be. She would respect Jameson's wishes and actions. She would wait for him.

She didn't speak with him at all, though. Not once. Early on, he texted her a couple times. Mostly filthy things, to remind her who was boss. A couple to ask after Sanders. A couple to remind her of her promises. One to say he missed her. Tate stared at that one for days on end. But then the texts stopped all together, and she found herself hovering near her phone, constantly checking to see if he had sent anything.

When did I become this girl? I surrendered to him without even realizing it.

But nothing, however, was as shocking as what happened during her third week of waiting.

Tate was puttering around her apartment. Rus was at one of her vet tech classes. Sanders was holed up in his penthouse hotel room, doing some translating work for Jameson. Nick was at an away game. Tate was bored. At first she had been afraid that without Jameson paying for everything, she would starve to death, or worse – have to go back to temping. But of course, he thought of everything, and Sanders had supplied her with a steady flow of money. She felt like she was whoring for both of them, but she didn't mind too much. They were both very important to her, so it was worth it.

She was on her phone, getting ready to dial out for Chinese food, when someone knocked on her door.

“Just a second!” she hollered, sliding in to the living room. She peeked through the peep hole, but couldn't tell who it was; it was someone wearing a big, floppy sun hat. A woman, she assumed. Tate yanked open the door. “I have religion, so I don't -,”

Her sister turned around to face her. Ellie was wearing huge sunglasses that weren't doing a very good job of hiding a black eye. Her arm was in a cast. And even though it hadn't been that long, her stomach looked noticeably bigger. They stared at each other for a while, till Ellie started to tremble.

“I didn't know where else to go,” she whispered.

“Come in, come in,” Tate urged, guiding her sister in to her tiny apartment. Ellie looked around, and then burst out crying.

After Jameson's little O'Shea family reunion, things had apparently gone downhill for Ellie. A broken jaw didn't slow Robert down at all. There had been more fights. More smacks. She thought she could handle it, but then he had pushed Ellie down a flight of stairs. That was where she drew the line. He could do what he wanted to her, but he couldn't hurt the baby. If he could treat an unborn child like that, how would he treat the child when it was standing right in front of him? She didn't want to find out.

“I'm sorry, I know you hate me. I know I ruined your life, but I just didn't know what else to do,” Ellie sobbed. Tate grabbed her hand and dragged her to her bedroom.

“I don't hate you, Ellie. I don't even know you. And you didn't ruin my life. My life is pretty awesome. You saved me,” Tate told her as she laid her sister down.

“I wish someone could have saved me,” Ellie cried. Tate frowned and laid on the bed next to her, got right up behind her and spooned her.

“I wasn't there. I could've called, I could've checked on you guys. I could've saved you,” she whispered.

It took Ellie a while to calm down, but finally her breathing evened out. She fell asleep. Tate crawled out of the bed and called Sanders. Appraised him of the situation. He told her that he was “on it”, though she wasn't sure what that meant. She really wanted to call Ang, but they hadn't made up yet. She hadn't spoken to him at all, so it would be awkward, and worse, she worried it would come off as her using him. She decided to make some tea instead, and carried it in to her room.

“I'm awake now,” her sister mumbled. Tate smiled and knelt next to the bed. Her sister sat up to take the coffee mug and Tate's eyes wandered down to her belly.

“Have you picked out any names yet?” she asked. Ellie sighed.

“Mathias if it's a boy,” she said. Tate had to laugh.

“Good old Daddy probably loves that. What if it's a girl?” she asked. Ellie chewed on her bottom lip.

“I was thinking maybe Tatum,” she whispered. Tate's eyebrows shot up.

“You're fucking with me,” she spat out. Ellie shook her head.

“I want her to be strong. Stronger than her mother. More like you. I always wished I could be more like you,” Ellie explained. Tate felt her eyes fill with tears and she forced out a laugh.

“If this gets any sweeter, I'm going to have morning sickness, all over you,” she joked, and Ellie laughed as well.

Sanders showed up later in the night. He didn't say anything to anyone, just breezed through the living room, giving his tight lipped smile to Ellie. Even though he'd never been there, he lead the way straight in to Tatum's room. Tate followed after him and closed the door behind them.

“What's up?” Tate asked, kind of surprised to see him.

“Mr. Kane sent me. He wanted to know how you were,” Sanders answered. She laughed.

“Mr. Kane could just call me, himself. Tell him I'm fine,” she replied. Sanders didn't laugh, though. If anything, his mouth got tighter.

“We were worried that her husband might come here and try to seek revenge. We both feel it would be best if you went to stay in a hotel,” Sanders told her. She laughed even louder.

“How would Robert even know where I lived? He thinks Ellie and I hate each other; she had to steal my address from my mom's contact book. I'm not leaving my home,” Tate informed him.

“We would feel much more comfortable if -,” he started, but she held up a hand.

“We? Let's tell the truth, Sandy. It's you, isn't it. Just you. Did you even talk to him?” she demanded. He nodded.

“Yes, I did. He was very upset,” Sanders assured her.

“But did he really say that? That he wanted me to go to a hotel?” she pressed. Sanders was silent for a while.

“If he'd had a chance, I know he would have. I know him very well, I know what he would say in these situations. He was very busy when I called,” he explained. Tate started to get a little ticked off.

“Busy, huh. Too busy to talk to you about my 'situation'. Too busy to talk to me. Has he said when he's coming home?” she asked, folding her arms over her chest.

“Yes. The end of this week.”

Tate was shocked.

“Wow. Were you planning on telling me?” she asked. Sanders looked away from her.

Uh oh.

“Yes. He wanted me to let you know, there is going to be a party at the house. Sunday. All the partners will be there, people from his offices in New York and Los Angeles and Berlin; everywhere. Black tie. He gets in to town that same day,” Sanders said quickly.

“Shit, that's cutting it a little close, isn't it?” she asked. He shrugged.

“He has me taking care of everything. If his flight can't make it, the party will just go on without him. He told me to ask you to buy a dress,” Sanders told her. She laughed.

“Of course he did. A fancy dress, for a fancy party. Is there something you're not telling me?” Tate demanded. Sanders usually had the best poker face of anyone she knew. But now, there was something off. He was back to not quite meeting her eyes.

“Ms. O'Shea, I ..., I've enjoyed our time together here in Boston. You are a good friend to me. I am going back to the house tomorrow and will be staying there. Would you like to join me?” he said quickly, his voice almost shy sounding. She was touched.

“Why Sandy, are you inviting me to move in with you?” she teased. He blanched.

“No. But your company would be greatly appreciated, as always,” he told her. She laughed and pulled him in for a hug.

“Of course I'll come with you. Help me calm Ellie down, and I'll go anywhere with you,” she whispered.

And then shockingly, his arms came around her and Sanders hugged her back.

*

Something wasn't right. Something most definitely, positively, wasn't right.

Tate could feel it in the air. Jameson's house felt like home to her, and she loved Sanders, but she could just tell; something was not right. Sanders wouldn't tell her anything, and she'd had no communication from Jameson. She even figured out the time difference and called him once – the first time she had ever called him, in the entire time they'd known each other.

He didn't answer.

By Saturday afternoon, she was a wreck. The house had been turned upside down by event planners. Sanders was running around, helping to get everything ready. Tate hovered in the background. Helped where she was needed, asked Sanders if there was anything she could do, but he had practically become a mime. He wouldn't speak, not if he didn't have to. Finally, she cracked and texted Jameson.

Is this a game?

It was hours before he replied. She was laying in his bed, ready to go to sleep, when her phone dinged.

Yes.

She sat up, turned on a light.

What are the rules?

No more rules.

That sounds dangerous.

I thought you liked danger.

She chewed on her bottom lip, glanced around the room.

What is going on?

But he ignored her question and asked one of his own.

Where are you, right now?

Your room.

In my bed?

Yes.

Good.

What is going on?

See you soon, baby girl.

He wouldn't respond to anymore of her texts. She stayed awake for the rest of the night.

*

The next evening, some of Jameson's colleagues showed up early for the party, made themselves at home in his library. Tate got ready, wandered around the house. She was coming out of the kitchen, struggling to open a jar of peanut butter, when laughter burst out of the library. She stopped by the door.

“Clever man. Keeping girls on two continents,” one was guffawing.

Tate's breathing doubled.

“Which one do you think he likes better?” another voice.

“Well, the girl here seems wilder, more his tastes. I bet she's an animal in the sack.”

She nodded to herself. Sounded like her.

“But Pet's more polished, more refined. You can take Pet to parties; you take the other girl to bed.”

Tate pressed herself against the library door. Fuck being subtle.

“Yes, but what do you do with both of them at once?”

“Sounds like a hell of a party!”

Bawdy laughter.

“I guess we'll find out, they'll be here tonight.”

“What's-her-name is already here.”

“Jameson and Pet got in on the six o'clock flight. They should be here any time now.”

There was a sharp ringing in her ear and Tate stumbled away from the door. Dropped the peanut butter. When she turned around, Sanders was standing behind her. They stared at each other. Just stared, for about a minute solid.

Traitor.

She took off running up the stairs. Sanders thundered after her, calling out her name. She had never heard him speak in such a loud tone before; any other time, and she would've been in awe. She ran down the hall, almost biting it in her heels once. She skated through Jameson's door just before Sanders and managed to shut it in his face, turning the lock. She dashed out onto a balcony that had been converted in to a sun room. Jameson kept his computer out there. She had never bothered with it before, never had a reason to.

Tate knew Sanders had keys to everything and would be in the room in no time, so she acted quickly. Typed Jameson's name in to Google. More of the same info came up, so she just immediately went to the images tab.

She was shocked to see a lot more pictures of herself – she had never noticed any photographers anywhere they went. Her and Jameson walking out of his office building; her and Jameson eating lunch; her and Sanders, laughing next to him outside of a movie theatre; her and Jameson kissing while he held an umbrella over her. She couldn't figure out why at first. Why were there so many all of the sudden? She clicked on one so it would take her to the website of origin, and then gasped at the headline.

Who Will Financial Mogul Jameson Kane Choose? A Sexy American or A Danish Beauty?

Tate scrolled down. Several of the photos of them together were in the article. But the other pictures interested her more. There were a couple old ones of him and Pet together, but a couple of very new ones, too. Them entering a hotel together, exiting the same hotel together. Him holding a car door open for her. His arm around her waist as they entered a clothing boutique.

It was a German tabloid. Tate learned that Pet lived part of the time in Berlin, that's why there was a lot of interest. Some small time rag-reporter had noticed that Jameson was tooling around Berlin with Pet, and then discovered the photos of Tate and Jameson online. Boom. Story. Sex. Scandal. Intrigue. Hell, even Tate would want to read something like that.

If it wasn't actually about me. At least they called me sexy.

She was scrolling through another article when Sanders finally opened the door and strode in to the room. He reached for the computer mouse and she batted his hand away. A minor slapping war ensued for a couple moments before she leapt out of the chair. He reached for her arm, but she pushed him away.

“How could you not tell me!?” Tate demanded, circling him. He looked upset.

“I couldn't. I'm very sorry, Ms. O'Shea,” Sanders replied.

“Fuck you! We're supposed to be friends! How long have you known about them!?” she shouted.

“For about two weeks. I advised him that it was a poor choice,” he told her.

“Oh, you advised him, how kind of you. Did you know he was bringing her here tonight?” she asked. His look went from upset to pained.

“Yes,” Sanders said softly. She gasped.

“How could you let me come here? I thought we were friends. How could you do this to me?” Tate whispered.

“Because I told him to.”

They both turned to see Jameson standing in the middle of his bedroom. He took off his suit jacket and then rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Took off his watch and threw it onto the side table. Sanders cleared his throat.

“Sir, I think you owe it to Ms. -,”

“Leave.”

Glancing at Tate once, Sanders walked out of the room. Tate struggled to even out her breathing and entered the bedroom proper. Jameson was carrying his suitcase in to his closet. There was a clattering of hangers and he walked back out with a new shirt in his hands.

“Why?” Tate whispered. He lifted his eyes to hers. A pair of blue ice cycles. It felt like it had been longer than a month since she had last seen him. She felt like she was looking at a stranger.

Did I ever know him?

“What's that, baby girl?” Jameson asked, changing in to the fresh shirt.

“Don't call me that!” she snapped. He chuckled.

“I call you anything I want,” he replied.

“Not anymore. Why are you doing this? What did I do to you?” she asked.

“It's all a game, isn't it? I thought you liked games,” Jameson said, throwing the worn shirt onto his bed.

“Fuck your games,” Tate hissed.

“See, now that sounds more like you. It was a very long flight, baby girl, and I could really use something to relax me. Feel like getting on your knees?” he asked. She guffawed.

“Not fucking likely. Ask your girlfriend to do that for you,” she told him.

“But I don't have a girlfriend.”

“Really? Seems to me there is a five-foot-ten 'Danish beauty' who would argue that point,” Tate pointed out. He sighed.

“There you go again, making assumptions. Would you like to meet her? You'd probably get along,” he said.

“Why are you doing this!? What happened that made you so mad!? I waited for you! Just like you said! Why did you ask me to wait if you were just going to bring her home!?” Tate yelled at him.

“You don't like seeing my picture in the tabloids, right? Well, I like it even less,” he suddenly said. She was lost.

“What?” she asked.

“I don't like being made a fool of, Tate. And that's what I feel like you did,” he informed her.

“What the fuck are you talking about!?” she shrieked.

“You're upset about pictures of me and Pet online? In the tabloids? How about pictures of you and a certain baseball player, in the fucking social pages of the goddamn Boston Globe!? How about seeing those on the fucking internet? You and him together, everywhere. Pictures of you and me are already out there, and suddenly I'm hearing from people I hardly know that a girlfriend I don't technically have is fucking a goddamn Red Sox!” Jameson yelled at her. Tate started laughing.

“Are you fucking shitting me!? Fuck this, I'm getting the fuck out of here. Fuck your party, fuck your supermodel, and fuck you,” she swore, stomping past him. He grabbed her arm, his grip like a vice.

“Oh, you're not going anywhere, baby girl. Because it's all a game, and if you walk away now, you lose,” he warned her.

“Fuck your games. I don't want to play games. You're really upset about that? I can't believe it. The Great Jameson Kane, jealous. I can't fucking believe it,” Tate snarled at him.

“Watch how you talk to me,” he warned her.

“Fuck you. He and I were just friends, you asshole. We're friends. You go off to fuck the entire country of Germany, and I can't make a new fucking friend? You wanna know the truth? He asked me out. He didn't try to sleep with me. He wanted to see me. Date me. And I'm a stupid bitch, because I turned him down! I was stupid enough to think I had something better coming home!” Tate yelled.

“I certainly won't argue with the stupid bitch part,” Jameson told her.

“Go fuck yourself, Kane.”

“I think that's your job.”

“You're jealous! All this elaborate planning, hiding from me, bringing her back here, making a scene. You're like a girl, Kane. A goddamn pussy,” she snapped at him, disdain dripping from her words.

He roughly dragged her across the room, backed her up and slammed her against the wall by the door. She struggled to free her arm, shoving and pushing at him. He moved his hand to her throat and pinned her in place.

“I told you to watch how you fucking speak to me,” Jameson growled, his face near hers.

“Like I give two shits. Was it worth it? Is she still a good fuck? I hope so. I hope she's so good that she finally does trick you in to marrying her. I hope she fucks you all the way in to a horrible fucking marriage, and then takes all your goddamn money. I hope she's that good of a fuck!” Tate yelled, pulling at his wrist. His fingers squeezed harder on her neck, but she didn't show any reaction.

“She was never even half as good as you. But maybe we should have Ang fuck her, really do a cross-comparison, get more feedback,” Jameson suggested.

“Why stop there? How about we broaden the circle. There's an awful lot of men down there, and I haven't been fucked in a really long time. I'm sure I'll get rave reviews, much better than a psychotic supermodel,” Tate said in a quiet voice. He narrowed his eyes.

“If you're fucking anyone at this party, it will be me,” Jameson informed her. She laughed.

“That's not going to happen, but maybe we can do the next closest thing. How about I fuck Sanders. I'm sure I could turn his world inside out. Hell, maybe even steal him away from you. Who knows, maybe he'll be a better fuck than you,” she said.

The words had barely left her mouth when Jameson put his fist through the wall, right next to her head. Clean through the sheet rock. She was glad he hadn't hit a stud – that would put a damper on the party, real quick. He stared at her, his eyes blazing, a muscle ticking in his jaw, his fingers continuing to squeeze her neck. She glared right back, not moving a muscle.

“Don't ever fucking talk about him like that again,” he whispered.

“You don't get to tell me what to do. Not anymore. Not ever again,” she whispered back. Jameson squeezed her neck tight one last time, and then let go, backing away from her.

“We can talk about this later. Go downstairs. People are expecting you to be here. Be cordial. Be fucking polite. And don't say one goddamn word to Sanders,” he told her, and then yanked open his bedroom door, striding in to the hall.

Tate gasped in air and choked on a sob. She brought the back of her wrist to her mouth, trying to hold it all in; it didn't work too well. She wasn't sure what to do. She couldn't go home, not without Sanders to drive her, and she didn't think he'd leave the party. Didn't trust him, anyway. A taxi would take forever to get there, and she didn't have any money. She sucked in another breath of air, held it in, then let it out slowly. She straightened out her dress, wiped underneath her eyes.

You can do this. You're Tatum O'Shea. He didn't break you last time. He won't break you this time.

She went downstairs. She was cordial. She was polite. She got a lot of sympathetic looks from women. A lot of lascivious glances from men. She caught a glimpse of the Danish Beauty at one point, but the house was big and Tate knew it well. She fled to another room.

She drank, a lot. She flirted with anyone who looked remotely male. Sanders tried to talk to her at one point, but she looked right through him and walked away. She chugged whiskey neat. Snuck the Johnny Walker Blue out of Jameson's personal liquor cabinet and finished it off. She laughed at everything everyone said. Kissed people on the cheek, toasted to good health, gave hugs that were way too intimate to people she didn't really know, though none of the men were complaining.

She actually drank the bar out of Jack Daniel's, so she made her way towards the kitchen in search of more. Jameson usually kept some stocked for her. She wanted to get comfortably numb so she could pass out in the guest house, then hitchhike home in the morning, where she could cry until she died. Sounded like a great plan.

She turned in to the kitchen, and then backed up so quickly, she rammed in to the door jam, ricocheted off, and nearly fell in to the hall. She scooted behind the frame, and then peeked in to the kitchen. Jameson was standing with his back to her, head down, both hands resting flat on the counter. A tall, exceptionally beautiful brunette stood next to him. She was speaking softly in what sounded like German. He shook his head occasionally, murmuring things back in the same language.

I didn't know he spoke German. That could've been hot – dirty talk in another language.

When Pet leaned in close to him, pressed her front to his back and whispered in his ear, Tate couldn't take it anymore. She had imagined Jameson in all sorts of positions with women, but never simple, affectionate ones. It was too much. She choked on a sob and stumbled away.

There was a half drunken bottle of Jack in the library, from their long ago last night together. Tate grabbed it and dragged herself upstairs. She wasn't entirely sure of what her plan was, till she was standing outside Sanders' door. She just wanted the pain to stop. She wanted to be numb.

Xanax.

She walked in to his room. It was a huge space, almost bigger than Jameson's room. She headed straight for the bathroom, began yanking open drawers and rummaging through them. She found the pills in a bottom drawer, clearly labeled. It took her a while to get the stupid childproof lid off, but she did it. She chugged some whiskey in to her mouth and popped in two pills. She didn't want to overdue it – she didn't have a death wish. She just wanted to feel still. Quiet. She swallowed everything and dropped her head back, sighing. She stood that way for several minutes, letting a calm fall over her.

“I knew you were a good time girl, but I had no idea you were this wild,” someone chuckled from the doorway. She didn't lift her head, just rolled it towards the voice. What's-his-name. Dunn. Jameson's partner. Wensle-waddle-whatever Dunn.

“I'm wilder than you can even imagine,” Tate whispered at him. He scooted closer so they were both crowded in to the bathroom's doorway.

“Sounds like a good time. Would you like to have a good time?” he asked. She laughed.

“Sorry. I think I've had enough good times to last me a lifetime,” she replied, finally turning to face him.

“Pity. I think we could be really good together. Jameson told me about you,” he told her. She lifted an eyebrow.

“Did he now,” she replied softly.

“Yeah. Told me how you like things a little crazy. A lot rough. Now that Pet's back in the picture, I thought you might need someone else to, uh ..., provide those things for you,” Dunn said.

“He told you that,” she whispered.

Tate was offended, but it was slipping away. The xanax was taking control. She didn't really care. Jameson thought she was a whore. Jameson broke his promise. Jameson set up an elaborate plan to cruelly humiliate her. What was one more log on the fire? Jameson told all his friends what a deviant freak she was in bed.

I just don't care.

“So. I think, that, we could have a really fun time together, you and I. I might even be better than Jameson,” Dunn teased.

No one is better than Jameson.

“Sure,” she blurted out. Dunn looked surprised.

“Seriously?” he checked.

“I just got dumped tonight, right? Very publicly. What could be better than a revenge fuck? Sounds like a plan, let's suit up,” Tate laughed. Dunn's hands went to his belt buckle, started pulling it apart.

Her stomach dipped to the right and she wondered if she would vomit. Hoped she vomited on Dunn. She felt like she was standing outside of herself. She swayed back and forth, wondered if that would help her find her ghost.

I want Ang. Where's Ang?

“So just how rough do you like it, baby?” the guy growled at her, working his pants down his hips. Tate laughed again. It was hollow sounding. Alien. She glanced around. Who was laughing?

“Hit me with your best shot,” she chuckled.

He backhanded her so hard that she spun around and her head crashed in to the mirror, breaking it.

That's definitely gonna leave a mark.

She groaned, not even sure what the fuck was going on, when he grabbed the back of her dress and slammed her flat against the granite sink top. She let out a cry as her jaw smacked down hard.

Okay, there's rough, and then there's rough. I may not be boss-bitch enough for this.

“You're so fucking hot. I knew the first time I saw you, I had to fuck you. So fucking hot,” Dunn groaned, clawing at her underwear and dragging it down her legs.

Maybe this isn't a really super good idea.

“Wait, wait,” she mumbled. Her tongue felt heavy and thick.

“You're gonna love this, I promise,” he grunted, pushing her dress out of the way. She tried to push away from the counter, but her movements were slow and clumsy.

“Wait, I don't want -,”

Tate cried out as he pushed inside of her. She wasn't exactly prepared for sex, and Mr. Dunn apparently wasn't interested in foreplay. It was rough, and it hurt. She gripped onto the edge of the sink and bit down on her tongue so hard, she tasted blood. She wanted to say stop, but every time she opened her mouth, only a sob came out. A piece of mirror was biting in to her cheek and she ground her face down harder, welcoming the pain. But then, suddenly, she was being pulled backwards.

“No no no no no no,” she chanted, trying to grip onto the sink so she could break away. But she couldn't really flex her fingers and she slid backwards, falling to the floor and landing on her butt. She fell back against the door and then forward, winding up in a heap halfway in the bedroom and halfway in the bathroom. She tried to focus, but the room was so dark and she was so drunk, she couldn't figure out what going on at first.

Wrestling. Two people were wrestling. She started to laugh. Jameson was wrestling with Mr. Dunn. They were shouting, but she couldn't tell what they were saying. Jameson sounded very angry. She glanced down at herself, realized what a fright she must look. Managed to wiggle her underwear back on, push her dress back down, all while still folded up on the floor.

When she looked back up, the wrestling was over. Mr. Dunn had disappeared. Jameson was slowly walking towards her. She could only see his legs from her position, so she tilted her head back. Back. Waaaay back, taking him all in. He was such an imposing man, a person needed outstanding vision to see him. She blinked up at him.

“I fell down,” Tate whispered.

“Yes. Yes you did, baby girl,” Jameson whispered back. She hiccuped.

“Did you win?” she asked. He sighed and squatted down in front of her.

“For once, I did not. You dealt the last hand. Had all the chips. Did you invite him in here?” Jameson asked in a gentle voice. Tate shook her head and nearly threw up.

“No. He came after,” she replied.

“After what?”

“Afterrrrr ...,”

“Did you want him to do that?”

“I thought I did.”

“You asked him to have sex with you?” Jameson questioned her. Questions. So many questions. Q. What a strange letter.

“No. He asked me. I can't feel my lips,” she told him.

“And you said yes,” Jameson whispered. She nodded.

“Yes. You have a Danish beauty. I'd like a financier of my own,” she laughed. Jameson smiled down at her.

“Wait right here, please,” he requested, and then he left the room.

She laid back down on the floor. Curled up in to the fetal position. She was pretty sure she was crying. What had she done? What had she done!? Something horrible, terrible. Jameson was Satan, but she was worse. He hurt other people, which was bad. She hurt herself, which was so much worse.

All I have is me.

Jameson came back in to the room. Tate managed to push herself upright again, but had to keep her hands planted on the floor to keep from swaying. He squatted down again, and she looked up at him. Narrowed her eyes. He had something in his arms, bundles of something. He began dropping them on the ground, all in front of her. She looked down, tried to focus.

Oh my, that is a lot of money.

When there were no more bundles, she looked back up at him. He had his hands clasped together.

“Eight weeks. $4,000 a week. Your services are no longer required, Ms. O'Shea. Please get the fuck out of my house,” he said, oh-so-politely.

Tate held her tears in check until he left the room. Then she sobbed. Climbed to her feet. Stared at the money. She stumbled back in to the bathroom. Tried not to look at the broken mirror or the blood on the counter. She grabbed the bottle of Jack from off the floor, and then swiped the bottle of pills as well. Then, on her way out of the bathroom, she grabbed a set of keys off a hook by the door. When she left the room, she kicked the piles of money out of the way.

Tate didn't want to see anybody, didn't want anyone to see her. She took a set of back stairs, previously service stairs. Had to go out a back door and cut around the side of the house to get to the driveway. No small feat, while wearing five inch heels and borderline black out drunk. When she got to the line of cars, she pushed the car lock button till she saw the Bentley's lights blink.

“Thank God,” she groaned, shambling towards it. She had her hand on the door handle when there was a crunching sound.

“What are you doing!?” a voice yelled from behind her, and then she was being yanked in a circle. Sanders was holding her arms.

“Sandy!” she cried out, falling to the side. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her upright and then leaned her against the car.

“Oh my god, what happened?” he asked, holding her face towards the light. She pulled away.

“Oh Sandy, didn't he tell you? I won! I finally, finally won. Chalk one up to the little guy. I'm going home now, I don't know if I'll ever see you again,” Tate told him, moving and yanking open the car door.

“I don't think that's such a good idea,” Sanders said quickly, grabbing her arm again.

“Oh, I really do. Mr. Kane personally asked me to leave. He's a very sore loser. Please keep in touch,” she asked, trying to drop in to the seat. Sanders pulled her up again.

“Please. I'm begging you. Just stay here,” he asked. She pushed him away.

“I wouldn't stay here another minute, not even if you paid me,” she informed him. He gripped her arms hard.

“Tatum,” he said her name sharply. That got her attention. Sanders had never, ever said her first name before; she wanted to cry again. “Don't do this.”

“I have to do this,” she replied, and then shoved him as hard as she could. He stumbled over the loose pebbles and she slipped in to the car, locking the doors. Sanders pounded on the roof but she ignored him and started up the car. Wiggled her fingers at him as she drove off.

See. This isn't hard. Way easier than playing with Jameson Kane.