~1~

“Something is wrong.”

“I am aware of this.”

“She's acting weird.”

“I am aware of this, as well,” Jameson sipped at his coffee, his eyes scanning the newspaper he was holding.

“Something happened, in Paris,” Ang continued pestering him.

“Yes, I think it might have something to do with you showing up with her sister in tow,” Jameson commented, flipping a page.

“Well ..., yeah, but not just that. Something else. Something is wrong,” Ang stressed.

“I am aware of all of this. I'm the one who goes home with her at night, you know,” Jameson reminded him. Ang grumbled, but didn't say anything.

He's becoming immune to me. Hmmm, I'll have to try harder.

“I may have fucked things up in Paris, but you fucked things up in her brain,” Ang finally retaliated. Jameson chuckled, turned another newspaper page.

“She seems to have gotten over that. In fact, she doesn't seem to be angry at me at all, anymore. So really, I'm not sure why I'm here. I've been benefiting from your little mistake every day since I got home,” Jameson said. Ang leaned over the table.

“You've been benefiting from me ever since you two started having sex – I'm the one who got to sleep with her for five years, you know,” Ang said in a mocking voice. Jameson finally glanced at him.

“Angier, it's hard to call dibs on her sexual prowess when I was there first,” he reminded him.

“Get fucked, Satan.”

“I have been – every day.”

“I hope you enjoy all the hard work I put into her, I -,”

“Can we please stop talking about her as if she is a car that both of you like to have sex with, thank you,” Sanders finally interrupted. Both men looked over at him.

Ang had called Sanders, asked to meet with him, to talk about Tate. Of course, Sanders had told Jameson. Jameson was not about to let either of them have any conversations about her without him, so he had invited himself to their little lunch meeting. Ang hadn't been too happy, but Jameson had to give it to him. Tate was Ang's main concern, so for her, he would tolerate being in the devil's presence.

“What is it, exactly, you would like me to do?” Jameson asked, sighing heavily. Ang leaned back in his chair.

“She doesn't listen to me anymore,” he started.

“You two go out, all the time,” Jameson pointed out. It was a fact that did not make him happy.

“Yeah, but she doesn't really talk anymore. We used to talk about everything. Now, it's all ..., fluff,” Ang tried to explain.

“What is fluff?” Sanders asked. Ang shrugged.

“You know, shit. Stuff. Nothing serious. She's fun, and she flirts, and she always wants to be doing something, and it's driving me nuts. I tried to talk to her about that day, in our hotel room, and she just acted like I hadn't even said anything. I get the feeling if I brought up her hospital stay, the same thing would happen,” he told them.

“So, what? You want me to ask her to relive some of the most emotionally painful moments in her life?” Jameson clarified. Ang snorted.

“Fuck off. I just want her to not be a robot anymore.”

Jameson blinked. It was a good description. A sexy robot, preprogrammed to say all the things she thought everyone wanted to hear. He glanced at Sanders, who was staring into his salad. Of the three of them, Sanders was probably the closest to her, emotionally. If anyone knew what was going on, it would be him.

“Sanders,” Jameson started. “Do you know what is going on with her?”

“No. I mean, she'll talk about those things with me. She doesn't act like a robot, at least not around me. But yes, she has been a little odd, ever since we got back. It's like she is trying to forget everything,” Sanders agreed.

“Do we want her to remember? I thought our goal was to get her to move one,” Jameson pointed out.

“That's not my goal,” Ang said. Jameson snorted.

“I don't give a shit what your goals are.”

“I -,”

“We want her to feel, sir. I think she is numbing herself, but that is just my opinion.”

“Well then. I guess it's up to me to make her feel something. If she wants to pretend like there's no history, then I'll remind her. Gentlemen,” Jameson dismissed himself, standing up abruptly. He threw some money on the table and walked away.

Always making me work, baby girl.

 

*

 

Paris had not ended well, for any of them. Sometime between storming out of Ang's hotel room and Jameson holding her, Tate had changed. A slight shift to the left. Or backwards. He couldn't quite tell. Either direction, it had been enough to throw him completely off guard, and he still felt like he hadn't gotten back on his feet yet.

She was mad at Ang. She felt betrayed by Ang. She was hurt that he had kept his relationship with Ellie a secret, and she was pissed that he had a relationship with her sister, period. Ellie and Tate had never exactly been friends. Ang was sleeping with a sworn enemy of sorts. It didn't matter that Ellie and Tate had made peace – it still wasn't okay, in Tate's eyes.

She didn't want to stay in Paris. Jameson wasn't surprised. She didn't want to stay in Europe at all. That surprised him – he had figured they would at least head back to Marbella, but she wanted to go home, back to Boston. He reminded her that he still had two weeks left in their little game. Two weeks to convince her to stay with him. She had informed him that it wasn't necessary. She wanted him to come home with her.

He was absolutely fucking shocked.

It was too easy. Jameson knew that – Tate loved to rail against him. She never caved to anything easily, and she never gave up when it came to their little games. He couldn't figure out her angle. But since it worked so well in his favor, he acquiesced to her demands. He chartered a plane, and two days later, they flew out of Paris. On his birthday.

Happy fucking birthday.

Sanders wasn't very much help, either. It was like they were conspiring against him. Jameson knew Tate didn't believe him when he said he hadn't known that Ang was bringing Ellie. But he wasn't positive Sanders believed him, either, and that was a problem. Tatum trusted anything that came out of Sanders' mouth. Neither of them were speaking about it to him, though, and once again – she was still sleeping with Jameson at night, still pretending like everything was okay between them, so he didn't have incentive to make a fuss over it or to even really care.

Except you do care. You care so much, you can't even see your way around her anymore.

She didn't talk to Ang or Ellie during their remaining days in Paris, but on the plane ride home, there was a very tearful reunion of sorts. Ang tried to apologize, and Tate accepted, crying the whole time. Ellie cried and apologized, and Tate cried some more. Ang even shed a few tears. There were so many goddamn tears, Jameson thought he was gonna drown before they could even get back to America.

But despite the tears, there was something that rang ... false, about the whole scene. He couldn't put his finger on it. Tate had been so angry, and then to just be ... over it? And not just over it, but smiling and laughing like she hadn't been mad at all. Like she had never been mad in her whole life. Highly suspicious.

Technically, she didn't have a place to live in Boston anymore. Before going to Europe, she had been staying with her “friend”, the first baseman for the Boston Red Sox, Nick Castille. Jameson vetoed that idea before she could even say anything. She couldn't move back in with her old roommate, Rusty – the girl had found a new roommate. She didn't want to live with her sister, and Jameson didn't want her living with Ang.

He informed her that she would living with him, in a condo he had recently purchased in the financial district. Jameson had braced himself for an argument, was prepared to drag her there, kicking and screaming, but it wasn't necessary. Tate had simply agreed. He kept waiting for her to argue, to kick up a fight, but the moment they got there, she simply wheeled all her luggage into his room, demanded to know which part of the walk-in closet would be hers.

Something is most definitely fucking wrong with this woman.

He wanted to shake her. Ask her what the fuck was going on, what her silly little game was, now. But it was hard. He didn't want to slip back into having to fight for every smile from her. He had worked so hard to get back to a good place with her, and in their own kind of fucked up way, things were really good.

After picking out her section of the closet, Tate had pressed him against a wall and gone down on him, all while Ang and Ellie were sitting in the living room, oohing and aahing over his designer furniture. For the next two weeks, it was like old times between them. She had no qualms about fucking his brains out, anywhere and everywhere. As dirty and filthy as he could dish it out.

So who was he to ask her to snap the fuck out of it? If this was all a game, it was one he liked, very much.

 

*

 

“Tate?” Jameson called out, opening the door to the condo. He didn't see her anywhere, but he could hear music floating out from the bedroom. He opened the door wide and nodded, gesturing for the four large men behind him to enter the room. They all trailed in, carrying boxes and tape and plastic wrap. Jameson left them to it.

“Tatum,” he said her name again, walking down the hallway.

“In here!” she called back. His bedroom door was wide open, and he followed the music to the closet.

She was standing in front of her clothes, bumping her hips from side to side, following the beat. She was only wearing a lacy pair of booty shorts and a shelf bra. Her hair was a messy pile on her head. She was pouting her bottom lip out, trying to decide what to wear.

“What are you doing?” he asked, taking his gloves off as he walked towards her. She glanced at him.

“Getting dressed. What is this restaurant like? Heels? Stockings?” Tate asked, running her hand along some hangers.

“We're not going out to eat,” Jameson told her. She finally turned to face him.

“We're not? You said -,” Tate started.

“I know what I said. Plans change sometimes,” he snapped. She blinked at him in surprise, then smiled. He had been hoping to stir up a fight, but it looked like he was stirring up something else.

“Ooohhh, have a bad day?” she purred, pressing herself against him. Her body shivered when it came in contact with his cold clothing. Boston was still in the grip of winter – Jameson missed Marbella more than he would've thought possible.

“No. Actually, I had a very interesting day,” he replied, running his hands up and down her arms.

“How so?” she asked, sliding her arms around his waist. He dragged his hands up to her neck and held them there, then started walking backwards, forcing her to follow.

“I had lunch,” he replied.

“I assumed you had lunch every day. I didn't realize it was such a novel experience,” she snorted.

“I do have lunch every day. Today, I had lunch with Sanders,” Jameson continued, stopping them when he got near the bed. Her arms got stiff around him.

“Sanders? How is he? I haven't seen him in a couple days,” she asked, but he could see something in her eyes. Maybe wariness? Nervousness. What was she nervous about?

“Lunch with Sanders, and Angier,” his voice got quiet.

Tate laughed and pulled away from him, climbed up onto the bed. When she was standing, she turned towards him and began to lightly bounce on the mattress. He had trouble not staring at her breasts.

“That must have been really interesting. Did anyone get stabbed?” she asked. He shook his head.

“No. It wasn't so bad,” he replied.

“What did you guys talk about?” she questioned, a practiced air of innocence surrounding her voice. Too bad he already knew there wasn't anything innocent about Tatum O'Shea.

“You,” he replied honestly. Her eyes got wide and she stopped bouncing.

“Really? And what did you say about me?” she asked. He smiled and ran a hand up the back of her leg, then dragged his nails back down.

“Well, Angier informed me that I have been benefiting from his sexual teachings,” he told her. She snorted as he moved his hand up her leg again.

“Fucker. I was already kinda freaky before he came along,” she said.

“'Kinda freaky'?” Jameson laughed.

“What did you say?” she pressed.

“I told him that there wouldn't have even been a you without me, so he could shut the fuck up,” he replied, really digging his nails in as he worked them back down her calf. She sucked air through her teeth.

“Bold statement, Mr. Kane. Doesn't sound like a very fun lunch,” she told him. He shrugged.

“Something good came out of it. I made a decision,” he started. He stopped touching her and took a step back. Out of kicking range.

“About what?” Tate asked, putting her hands on her hips.

He let his eyes wander over her body for a moment, committed it to memory. She was probably going to get angry. In the old days, when Tate got angry, it meant kinky sex. In Europe, it meant he wasn't allowed to touch her with a ten-foot-pole. Nowadays ..., he was prepared to be sleeping in a dog house for a very long time.

For someone who didn't want a relationship, this is all very relationship-like ...

“We're moving,” he informed her. Her eyebrows shot up.

“Moving? Jameson, we've only been here two weeks. Half my shit is still in suitcases,” she pointed out.

“Good, then it shouldn't take you long to pack. Which you should be doing. Right now,” he instructed.

“Huh?”

“We're moving tonight,” he explained.

“Tonight? Jesus, what, was there a fire sale on mansions somewhere around here?” she joked.

“I already own a mansion somewhere around here,” Jameson said softly. She stopped moving. Stopped blinking. It almost looked like she stopped breathing.

Ah, not a robot after all.

“You're going back to Weston?” Tate asked, her voice soft and low. He shook his head.

“We're going back to Weston,” he corrected her. She shook her head.

“No. I'm not going back there,” she said.

“Oh, yes, you are.”

“No, I'm not.”

“I'm sorry, did you think this was a debate? I didn't ask you if you were going, I told you that you were going,” he said calmly. She glared down at him.

“I'm not going into that fucking house, and that is fucking final,” she snapped.

“You are going into that house, and that is final. I don't care if I have to fucking carry you,” he replied.

“Why? What's wrong with this place? I like this place. You must like it, you bought it,” she pointed out. He shrugged.

“I like the Weston house better. Sanders misses it, he's already started opening it up,” Jameson explained.

“No. No, I'm not going there. You can't make me,” her voice was getting louder.

“Oh, yes I can.”

“Why can't I just stay here?” she asked.

“Because I want you there.”

“You don't get to tell me what to do, Kane.”

“Oh, yes I do.”

“Stop it! Why? Why do I have to be there, in that house?” she demanded. He decided to risk it, and he stepped closer to her.

“Because,” he started, his voice soft. Gentling the blow. “It's our home, baby girl. And it's time to go.”

Houston, we have ignition. Prepare for blast off.

“That is not our home!” Tate yelled, a blush creeping across her chest. “That is your torture chamber! So fuck off, and go back to your fucking mansion in the country!”

“It's not much of a torture chamber without someone to torture,” Jameson pointed out. She looked shocked.

“Fuck you, then you shouldn't have let Pet get away from it,” she hissed.

Always about Petrushka. This is why I hate having girlfriends – it's the “ex” part that's a bitch.

“She didn't 'get away', I kicked her out.”

“That's your version of what happened.”

“It's the only version of what happened.”

“I am not about to go and sleep in the same bed you fucked her in, I am not some -,”

Play time is over.

Jameson grabbed her ankles and yanked her legs out from underneath her. Tate shrieked as she went down flat on her back. She had barely made contact with the mattress before he was jerking her forward, still holding her ankles, dragging her to him. He leaned over her, forcing her legs to part around him.

“We have been over this, so I am never going to say this again, understand? I did not fuck her,” he growled. Tate glared up at him.

“I'm still not going into that house,” she growled right back.

“Oh, you'll go. You'll go if I have to drag you there by your fucking hair,” he warned her.

“You'd probably love that,” she snapped.

“So would you.”

She sighed and some of the tension went out of her body. She rolled her head to the side and looked out the open doors. The moving men were visible at the end of the hall, boxing up odds and ends. Jameson stared down at her. Detachment. That's what was wrong with her. Tate had a way of detaching herself. Like she was present, could say all the right things, but she wasn't really there – she was somewhere he couldn't reach.

He hated that.

“I don't want to go there,” she whispered.

“Why?” he demanded.

“I don't like it there,” she answered.

“You used to love it there,” he reminded her.

“'Used to' being the operative term,” she pointed out.

“So what's changed? You keep claiming that everything is fine. Apparently, it's not fine at all. Apparently it's all completely fucked,” he called her out. She turned back towards him.

“That was a really interesting lunch you had, wasn't it,” she breathed.

Busted.

“They're concerned about you,” Jameson said softly.

“But you're not,” Tate finished his statement. He shooks his head.

“Don't be fucking stupid. I'm here. I'm doing this, for you. Stop asking questions you know the answers to. Now get the fuck up, and get dressed,” he ordered.

She sat up abruptly and he had to lean away. He had barely stood up when she pushed herself up as well, sliding against almost every inch of him. He stared down at her, waiting for her to argue, to whine, to try to bribe. The last one was fairly effective – he wasn't as immune to her charms as he liked to pretend.

“Fine. Fine, I'll go to that fucking hell house,” she said in a quiet voice.

“Good. We're leaving, now,” he snapped. She raised an eyebrow.

“So impatient,” she clucked her tongue at him.

“You should know that by now,” he replied. She sighed and stepped around him, slowly made her way towards the door.

“When they pack my clothes,” she started, “make sure they don't steal any of the expensive underwear.”

Then she disappeared down the hall. From where he was standing, Jameson couldn't see to the end of it, but he heard one moving man wolf-whistle. Another cat-called. Then the front door slowly creaked open, before slamming shut. Jameson chuckled to himself.

So feisty.

 

*

 

Goddammit.

Tatum sat in the back of the Bentley, chewing on her nail, trying not to show how nervous she was about where they were going. She hadn't been to the Weston house in a month. She hadn't actually been inside it since October, almost three months ago. She willed away the memories. Tried to think of happier times.

She glanced at Jameson out of the corner of her eye. He was leaning back in his seat, staring out the window. As if he knew she was staring, he reached over and rested a hand on her knee. But it wasn't to comfort. His nails bit into her skin and she sighed, resting her head back. His fingers dragged up higher, disappeared under the bottom of his overcoat. She had made it onto the elevator, wearing nothing but her bra and panties, when he'd casually stepped in behind her. By the time they got to the lobby, he had wrestled her into his overcoat. It was a peacoat, but it was large enough on her that it stopped above the knees.

“Scared, baby girl?” he whispered, still not looking at her. Tate concentrated on the roof of the car.

“No,” she replied.

She was fucking terrified. Over the past two weeks, Tate had perfected acting like she didn't care. Didn't care that Jameson was a sociopath who liked to cause her mental anguish, just to get off. Didn't care that Ang had slept with the person responsible for making her feel worthless, responsible for ripping her life in half. Didn't care that Ellie had stolen one of the last pieces of Tate's life that still felt safe, still felt right.

She spent so much time pretending like she didn't care, she'd almost forgotten what it felt like to actually care, about anything. Only Sanders grounded her, and she had to keep him at arms length. He was too clever, too close to her; he would figure out what she was plotting. And she would not be derailed, not this time. The house did scare her – she was worried she would take one look at it, and break down. Go back in time. Be stuck in that room. On that floor, looking up at him, just wanting him to see her. And she would not be that girl again.

For the last seven years, Tate had thought she was a bad girl. Not a bad person, but most definitely very naughty. She liked to have sex, she liked to have fun, she liked to do whatever she wanted. But she'd had an epiphany while she was in France. She was actually a good girl. She liked people, wanted to make people happy. She loved her friends, would do anything for them. She would never have done anything to hurt them, and whenever she accidentally did, she felt bad. She apologized. She did her best to make amends.

Tate felt like a sucker. All those years, running from her good girl image, and here she was, still the best fucking girl on the block. Didn't matter how many dicks a girl sucked, she was still good if she always said please and thank you. No more. She was over it. Over being so goddamn nice all the time. Jameson was the devil. Ang was disrespectful. Ellie was a bitch. When did it get to be Tatum's turn?

Yes, but what are you after you've alienated everyone, hmmm? What kind of creature then?

Tate shook those thoughts away. She was going to do whatever it took to get some fucking closure. What had Jameson said in Paris? What sugary sweet lie had he spun? Seven years? It was time to end it. Then she would just walk away. Start life, for real. Maybe a little later than most people, but hey, better late than never. Maybe she'd go back to school. Maybe she'd become a nice, normal girl, finally. Maybe she'd take Nick up on his offer and move to Arizona. Who knew?

She certainly didn't.

“We are almost there. Are you alright?” Sanders called out. She smiled up at the ceiling.

You know you'll lose him. Is it worth it?

“I'm good,” she whispered.

“Excuse me?”

“Let's get this over with,” Tate growled, leaning her head forward.

They were pulling down the driveway. Jameson's house sat far back on his property – estate would be a more appropriate word – and a pebble filled circular drive led them to the large brick building. The driveway was long, and though there was none right then, she figured that when it did snow, it must have been a bitch getting the driveway plowed.

Well, for anyone else, it would've been a bitch. For Jameson Kane, all he had to do was snap his fingers and people probably cleared the snow away with their tongues.

Not me. Not anymore.

“Patience there, tiger. Wouldn't want you getting sick again,” Jameson teased her. Tate glared at the back of Sanders' head, watched his neck turn pink with a blush.

“You don't have to tell him everything, Sandy,” she grumbled. Sanders had brought her back in December, tried to cook dinner for her while Jameson was out of the country. She had barely made it onto the porch before she lost her cookies over the railing.

“Yes, he does. Unload the bags, will you Sanders?” Jameson asked, opening the door and stepping out before the car had rolled to a complete stop. Tate slid across the seat and got out behind him, refusing to take his hand.

She took a deep breath and started stomping forward. She walked up the steps and barreled through the front door, coming to a stop in the hall. There. Like ripping off a band aid. She stood in the entry way, staring at the stairs. Now if she could just get her feet to move forward, she would really be winning.

“Are you alright?” Sanders' soft voice asked again, and she turned her head to find him standing behind her.

“As I'll ever be. I can take that,” she started, reaching for a suitcase that had been packed for her. Sanders breezed past her, heading up the stairs.

“It's fucking freezing in here,” Jameson grumbled, walking up next to her. She glanced at him.

“Only because you're used to it always being so hot – you kept it like a furnace in here,” she snapped.

Like a crematorium.

“Well, you've always insisted that I'm the devil. Wouldn't want to break from character. C'mon, let's get a fire lit, and I'll have Sanders ...,” he rambled on, heading towards his library.

Tate couldn't move. She couldn't go in there. Her ghost was trapped in that room. She and Jameson had easily spent more time in that room than any other room in the house – including his bedroom. When he was at home, he worked out of the library, used it as an office. At night, he stayed in there, close to the fire. Reading. Drinking. Talking with her. Touching her. She could not go in there.

“No,” she said, her voice louder than she'd intended. He stopped just outside the library door, turned towards her.

“Excuse me?” he asked. She licked her lips and closed the front door behind her.

“I don't want to go in there. You have a million rooms here, why don't you actually go see some of them. Have you ever even been in the study upstairs?” she asked, trying to think of any excuse at all, without giving away her fear. Jameson narrowed his eyes.

“I don't give a fuck about my other rooms. I like this room,” he replied.

“That's stupid,” she rolled her eyes.

“You're stupid, but you don't hear me bitching about it every two seconds,” he pointed out.

“Yes, you do.”

“Shut up.”

“Or let's go to the conservatory,” she started to offer. “I wonder if my geraniums are still alive. Did you hire -,”

“Tatum, cut the bullshit. Why don't you want to go in there?” Jameson demanded.

She took a deep breath. Stared him in the eye. Jameson hadn't seemed to have caught onto it yet, but she had a very powerful weapon against him. Sex. He simply couldn't resist it, and he was easily distracted by it. His one weakness, if it could be called that. It was very handy for Tate, because she used it to forget. When she was lost in his heat and his skin and his fire, she could forget she wanted to hurt him, the way he had hurt her. Forget that she wanted to destroy a small piece of his heart, the way he had done to hers.

Tate moved her hands to the buttons on the jacket she was wearing. Popped the top one open. Jameson cocked up an eyebrow. She worked the second one open, then trailed her fingers down to the third button. By the time she got to the bottom button, both his eyebrows were raised, and he had a decidedly mean glint in his eye.

Good, I need something to sting extra hard tonight.

“Because it's boring,” Tate breathed the word as she let his jacket fall to the ground. “Always in the library. You're so vanilla, Kane. A million rooms, and you only ever want to fuck me in one.” She clucked her tongue at him as she kicked the coat away from her feet.

“I get the very distinct impression you're trying to distract me,” he said. She smiled and took slow steps towards the stairs.

“Is it working?” she asked, reaching up to let her hair down.

“So far,” he replied, his eyes following her as she started up the stairs.

“Good.”

They didn't make it to his bedroom. They didn't even make it to a guest bedroom. It would've happened right in the hallway, if Sanders hadn't been somewhere in the house. As it was, Jameson pinned her against the wall in a linen closet, and he was sure to make it sting.

 

*

 

Tate sat outside, bundled up in an old sweater that used to belong to Sanders. It was a bright, shiny day out – and totally freezing. She wore a thick pair of wool socks over her knee socks and had tucked herself into a lounge chair. She sat next to the pool, which had been covered, and took out her cell phone.

“I was just thinking about you,” Nick said when he answered.

“Psychic,” she joked, pulling her knees up to her chest.

“How're things?” he asked.

Tate had kept him mostly in the dark about everything that had happened. He just knew that she was back in Boston, and that she and Jameson were “friends”; she never elaborated on what kind of friends, and thankfully he never asked. By the time she got back to Boston, he had already moved into his house in Arizona. Spring training didn't start till mid-February, but he liked settling in first.

“Good, things are good. Just kinda hanging out,” she responded.

“No job?” he asked.

“No, no job.”

“What about school? You mentioned once -,”

“No, Dad, no school either,” Tate said sarcastically.

“Well, I worry about you. When you don't keep busy, you either vegetate, or get into trouble. And if you're going to get into trouble, I'd like to at least be there,” he told her. She snorted.

“I'm not getting into trouble, or 'vegetating', I promise. Sandy and I went up to New York the other weekend, he took me to the Natural History Museum, all that good stuff,” she assured him of her innocence. Nick would be the last person alive who would buy it, by the time she was through.

“You and Sanders alone together for a weekend, huh,” he said. She smiled.

“Ooohhh, sounds like jealousy,” Tate teased.

“No, no, not at all. Sanders is a very fine man. When you marry him, can I walk you down the aisle?” he asked.

“Of course. Now if we can just convince Jameson to walk with Sandy, it'll be perfect,” she joked.

“Is there any way we could not invite Jameson?” Nick asked.

“Jameson isn't the kind of man you don't invite places – he just invites himself, anyway,” she assured him.

“Not exactly surprising. So, when are you going to come visit me?” Nick asked.

They had talked several times about her coming out there. Nick thought it was a great idea. Tate thought it was horrible. She was in a bad place, a bad state of mind. She didn't want him to see her like that, and she didn't want him to become a casualty on her path to becoming a bitch.

“I don't know, Nick. When does training end?” she asked, for the millionth time.

“End of March. Tatum, it would be really nice to see you, before I have to go on the road,” he said in a soft voice. She hated his soft voice. It could make her do almost anything.

“I'll try, I promise. Maybe in a couple weeks, before training really gets under way,” she offered.

“That would be nice. I mean, there's no pressure. I just want to see you. I'm not asking for anything else,” Nick told her.

“I know that. Thank you.”

Sometimes, Nick felt like the only person who wasn't asking her for something, or expecting her to be anything. It was nice.

“Though I wouldn't stop you if you suddenly felt like getting naked and climbing into bed with me,” he threw out there, and she burst out laughing.

“Good to know, good to know,” Tate tried to contain herself. Then she saw Jameson prowling through the conservatory, and her laughter dried up.

“So. End of March?” Nick asked. She nodded, watching Jameson.

“I'll try,” was all she offered.

“That's all I ever ask. I gotta go. Take care of yourself,” he instructed her. She nodded again as Jameson finally walked out of the house.

“I never do,” she replied, then hung up the phone.

Jameson was slowly making his way towards her, his hands in pants pockets. She sighed as she watched him. He was wearing a suit, this one with a vest. It killed her. She wanted to lick the fabric, he looked so good. He had everything tailored, so everything fit him like a glove. She loved it. She always loved the way he looked; he always took her breath away a little.

Sometimes, he made it very hard for her to hate him.

“Talking with your boyfriend?” he asked snidely as he approached her.

And sometimes, he made it very easy.

“He's lonely. Can I go visit him?” Tate asked. Jameson snorted.

“Abso-fuckin'-lutely not,” he replied, standing right over her.

“Scared you'll lose me?” she laughed. He laughed as well.

“I couldn't get rid of you if I tried. No, but I don't want to have to fly to Arizona, of all the god forsaken places, to rescue you from some ridiculous situation you will no doubt get yourself into,” he answered, taking his hands out of his pockets and opening his jacket.

“All true. But still. Can I go see him?”

“No.”

“It's very hard for me to be a good girlfriend to him, when you're always interfering,” Tate teased. Jameson glared at her.

“It must be even harder for you to be a good girlfriend to him when I'm the one who's always inside you,” he responded. She shrugged.

“What are you doing home?” she asked, cutting through the flirting. Or was it teasing? Bullying? It was all the same to her.

“It occured to me that maybe you would be uncomfortable here, all alone,” Jameson said.

“Sanders is here,” Tate reminded him. He rolled his eyes.

“Sometimes that's almost like one and the same. I only had one consultation this afternoon, so I rescheduled it and came home,” he explained.

“For me?” she asked. He nodded.

“For you.”

Sometimes he could almost be sweet. Sure, he was the devil incarnate, but in his own weird way, he would try to be sweet. She tried to encourage those moments, figured they would lure him into a false sense of security.

“That's very nice of you,” she said, reaching up and grabbing onto his hand. He frowned, but allowed her to link their fingers.

“I also had something else,” he went on.

Uh oh.

She let go of his hand.

“What?” she asked, instantly wary. He lowered himself so he was sitting on the lounger across from her.

“I have to go out of town,” Jameson started. Her breath caught in her throat. “Just to Los Angeles. I've been trying to sell off my piece of a film company, and it needs my personal attention. I'll be back in a couple days, five at the most.”

Los Angeles. L.A. didn't scare her, Tate didn't have any bad memories associated with that city. She had been nervous that he was going to say New York, or worse, Berlin. L.A. she could handle. It was actually a good thing. Ang hadn't been over to Jameson's house, but maybe now he could be convinced to come over if the devil wasn't home.

“Oh, that's it?” she feigned nonchalance. “That's fine. Are you taking Sandy?”

“I was planning on it, but I don't have to,” Jameson offered. She waved her hand.

“No, it's cool. I'll just bug him if we're here alone. When you're not here, it's basically me just following him around all day,” she laughed. Jameson didn't. He looked suspicious.

“I didn't think you would take this so well,” he told her. She managed to shrug.

“Why? You've been to L.A. before, remember? Maybe this time, instead of two women, you should try for a full on orgy,” she joked. Still no laughter.

“And I certainly didn't think you would be okay with that,” he added. Tate was surprised. Was he actually worried about how she would feel?

“Why wouldn't I be?” she asked.

“Well, last time I attempted to sleep with another woman, I had to pull you off of a certain slutty maid after -,” he started. She held up her hand.

“That was completely different. I don't care if you fuck other women, I just don't want to be a part of it. Besides, she was a bitch who didn't know her place. I was there first,” Tate said. He finally smiled.

“Staking a claim on me? Sexy. But I'm kind of disappointed, does this mean no threesomes in our future?” he asked, pouting his lower lip out. She resisted the urge to nibble on it.

“Sure, we can have a threesome,” she nodded as she laid back on the lounger, putting her hands under her head.

“Really?” he asked, his voice full of surprise. She nodded her head again.

“Of course. I've got, like, a dozen guys I can name, right now, that I would love to be in a threesome with you. I know you don't like Ang, but we've kind of had this long standing thing that if I was ever gonna try DP, he had to be one of the P's,” Tate explained. Jameson's foot hooked under her lounger and suddenly she was being shoved over. She rolled onto the grass, snorting and laughing.

“I find it disgusting right now that Angier and I have fucked the same person. I certainly don't ever want to be doing it at the same time as him,” Jameson said, standing up and straightening his suit.

“So you're saying there's a chance with another guy?” she asked, propping her knees up. She watched him as he sighed, then stared off into the horizon.

“If you were serious – which you aren't – I would do it. But only after I got to do every sick, deviant, fetish thing I could ever possibly want to do with you, first,” he told her.

“That could take years!” she laughed up at him.

“Yes, but my needs come first, Tate,” he reminded her, then turned and walked away.