~3~

“If you won't talk to them,” Sanders started the next day, walking into the kitchen. “Will you talk to me?”

“What do you want to talk about?” Tate asked, holding out a spoon covered in brownie batter. She held it in front of his face until he took a taste.

“Paris. Last fall. Why you're trying to break up Mr. Hollingsworth and Mrs. Carmichael,” he said. She blinked in surprise.

“Jameson told you about all that?” she asked, dumping the brownie mix into a pan.

“I asked if he had talked to you. He mentioned it. May I ask why you're doing this?” Sanders pressed again. She sighed, opening the oven and sliding the pan inside.

“Because. I'm upset. I'm tired of feeling like people walk all over me. I shouldn't have to ask them to not be together – they should've known better,” she tried to explain. He shook his head.

“Sometimes, it is possible for a person to have no control over the people he likes,” he pointed out, staring at her very hard. She frowned.

“Jameson and I are completely different, he never -,”

“I was talking about me and you, Tatum.”

Well, isn't he just full of surprises.

“What are you saying, Sandy? You don't want to be my friend, but you just can't help it?” she laughed. He nodded, and her laughter dried up pretty quickly.

“When I first met you, I did not like you. I never liked any of the women Jameson brought home. But you wouldn't leave me alone. You talked to me. I grew accustomed to you. And then I started to appreciate you. I looked foward to us spending time together. Now, I'm not even sure how it happened, but I feel like I need to be in your presence. I did not want, nor did I ask, to love you. It just happened. Would you hold that against me?” Sanders stated.

Tate was completely blown away. Sanders loved her? Of course, she knew that he liked her. That they were friends. He had called her his best friend, once. Very touching. But people also referred to their dogs as their best friend – Tatum felt like a spaniel about half the time. But he loved her. Sanders loving anybody was shocking enough, but her ..., she didn't know what to do with that information.

Except feel like the goddamn devil – I am completely unworthy of him.

“Sanders,” she breathed. “I think I hate myself.”

“No you don't. You're just confused. Talk to him, talk to Mr. Hollingsworth,” he urged. She shook her head.

“I can't. I just ..., I feel like this is something I need to do. It's all I think about. Sometimes, I stay awake all night, because I can't stop thinking about ruining things for everyone,” she whispered, glancing at the doorway. Jameson was somewhere in the house.

“You're being overdramatic. Maybe you should see a therapist,” Sanders suggested. She snorted.

“Fuck that.”

“What Jameson did was wrong, but he has apologized. You claim to have forgiven him, but you haven't. If you are going to keep holding it against him, then I personally feel you should not be with him. What Mr. Hollingsworth did was wrong, he should not have kept his relationship a secret – he should have discussed his feelings with you before anything started. But it is not the end of the world. For your sake, for everyone's sake, just talk to people,” he urged.

She stared at the counter top. Of course she should talk to everyone else. The thought ran through her brain a million times. Every time Tate was with Jameson, it was on the tip of her tongue. If anyone would understand an uncontrollable urge to hurt people, it would be Jameson. But she couldn't talk to him – she wanted to hurt him, too.

She wanted blood.

“I get it. I really do. And I'll snap out of it, I promise. No more sneaking Ang into the house, no more dirty tricks while you guys are gone,” she promised. She hated lying to Sanders, so she kept her options open without being specific. He sighed.

“I honestly think you'd -,” he started to say, but then Jameson walked into the room.

“Think she'd what, Sanders?” he asked, moving to stand between them. Tate shrugged and put the brownie spoon in her mouth.

“I think if she keeps eating sweets the way she has been, her weight is going to balloon out of control,” Sanders replied, then marched out of the room. Tate stared after him.

Was that ..., did he just ..., was that a dig!? Did Sanders just snap at me, in Sanders-speak!? Good for you, Sandy.

“Am I getting fat!?” she exclaimed, turning to look down at her ass.

No matter what was going on in her life, she always tried to make it a point to exercise, in some fashion, at least twice a week. In Spain, she had jogged up and down the marina. In Weston, she used a small gym that Jameson had put into a spare room. She couldn't be getting fat! She turned in a circle, trying to judge.

“Your ass is perfect, he's being rude. You've upset him. What were guys talking about?” Jameson asked, leaning against the island.

“Ang,” she replied. Jameson hung his head.

“Fuck, I just cannot get away from that guy.”

“You're the one who blabbed all of our pillow talk to Sandy. Do you throw in the dirty stuff, too?” Tate asked, licking the spoon clean.

“Only if he's been very good. Let's get out of here,” Jameson suddenly said.

“But I just put brownies in,” Tate told him, gesturing to the oven. He moved to stand in front of her and ran his finger along the inside of the bowl she'd used to make the batter.

“So. Set a timer, Sanders will take them out. Let's go get lunch,” he suggested, licking his finger. She followed the movement with her eyes and he smiled.

“You take him for granted,” she warned him. He barked out a laugh.

“You are always so wrong. C'mon, fat ass, let's go,” he urged, roughly squeezing her butt before walking past her.

“I am not -,” she started to argue when he hooked a finger into her apron and yanked her backwards.

“I wasn't asking, Tate.”

They went to lunch in Weston, which surprised her. He was either at home, or in Boston. She couldn't remember him ever doing anything in Weston, but he drove them straight to a restaurant and walked right in, like he had been going there for years. He had ordered before she even sat down, and she had to wait for the waiter to come back before she could put in her own order.

Being alone with him in public was the worst for her. She couldn't seduce him in a restaurant, during the middle of the day. Well, she could, but it would be a little awkward, while he was stuffing his face and a family of four sat behind them. So she was subjected to his company. And sometimes, Satan was very pleasant company, indeed. It almost made her feel guilty about her plans.

Almost.

Because she loved it so much, he had taken the Jaguar, and then surprised her by cruising around with her for a while afterwards. It was freezing, but the sun was out, so he opened the sun roof. She leaned her seat back, enjoying the breeze.

“Tate,” Jameson started, his voice heavy. She groaned.

“No more talking. I feel like everyone keeps wanting to have 'talks' with me. I am a big girl. I make my own decisions, retarded as they may be, thank you,” she said quickly.

“I wasn't going to have 'a talk'. I was going to ask how much convincing it would take to get some road head,” he replied. She burst out laughing and glanced over at him.

“Jesus, Jameson, are you always fully erect?” she chuckled. He smiled.

“Not quite always.”

“Not quite, huh. What about when you're at work? What could possibly get you excited there?” she questioned.

“Well, we did hire a new secretary. She is particularly edible,” he said. She stopped laughing.

“Oh really. Fuck her yet?” she asked, trying to sound breezy.

“Despite what you may think, I don't just fuck every woman who steps in front of me. I do let some of them get away,” he assured her.

“What about this one?” she kept on.

“No, I haven't fucked her.”

“Yet.”

“Yet,” he agreed.

“Well, don't hold back on my account. I would hate for you to be uncomfortable at work,” she managed to joke.

Tate wasn't sure how to really feel about it. She was going to dump Jameson like a bad habit, as soon as the perfect opportunity presented itself. She shouldn't care who he slept with, really. But still ...

“You and I both know you wouldn't like that to happen, so I have restrained myself. For you, I would like to point out. I want brownie points,” he said. She snorted.

“You're still in the red on brownie points. And really, I don't mind,” she assured him.

“Yes, you do.”

“I don't.”

“Tatum.”

“Jameson.”

“Stop it.”

“You stop it.”

“Okay, how about I bring her home. You could cook us dinner, and I could fuck her on the table afterwards,” he suggested, his tone biting. The picture he was painting, the idea of him fucking someone else in their – correction, his – house, made her want to throw up. But Tate figured being flippant would be more beneficial to her cause. She took a deep breath.

“Alright. But I'm a shit cook, you should probably just skip to the fucking,” she warned him. He barked out a laugh.

“Baby girl, why can't you just admit, out loud, that you don't like sharing me,” he said in a soft voice.

“Because it's not true. You're the one who doesn't like to share his toys,” she reminded him. He nodded.

“There's only certain people I don't like to share with, and I'm okay with that fact,” he agreed.

“Maybe I'm not,” she countered.

“You want to sleep with other guys? Go for it. I never said you couldn't,” he told her.

“Really? I seem to recall a sharp pair of scissors telling me other wise.”

Jameson was quiet after that, and after a couple minutes, he pulled the car into a turn around area. They were deep in the country, surrounded by frosty fields. Boston was in the middle of a cold snap, and temperatures had been in the low-twenties. As he turned the engine off, Tate wrapped her sleeves around her fists and turned to look at him.

“I don't care if you sleep with other men. I do care if you fuck them and then rub it in my face; try to make me feel like shit about it. It doesn't work – it just pisses me off and makes you look like a stupid whore,” he told her bluntly.

My, my, Satan makes a daytime appearance.

“I have a game,” Tate started, undoing her seatbelt.

“What?” he growled, eyeing her warily as she moved her seat back.

“How about we both tell the truth,” she suggested, pulling her hair up into a ponytail.

“I never lie, so this will be pretty easy for me. You, on the other hand, haven't been acquainted with the truth in quite a while,” he called her out. She rolled her eyes.

“Yes, it would bother me if you had sex with your secretary,” she stated. His eyebrows went up.

“I already know that, though I'm surprised you admitted it out loud,” he replied. She crossed her eyes at him.

“It is one thing for you to sex up some random chick in a far away place. It is another thing for you to find some new fantastic lover that's better than me right here at home. As you once said, I'm not done playing with you yet,” she explained.

“I'm flattered.”

“So. Now you admit something, too,” she urged.

“Like what?” he asked. She took off her scarf, threw it into the backseat.

“Like the idea of me having sex with someone else makes your blood boil,” she filled in for him. Jameson snorted.

“Tatum, I couldn't care -,”

“He almost kissed me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ang. In the bedroom. He almost kissed me. I was kneeling on your bed. He had his arms around me,” she painted a picture. Rage rippled across Jameson's features.

“Why are you telling me this?” he demanded.

“To point out how mad you are right now,” she replied.

“That's because I don't like Angier. A stranger is completely different,” he snapped.

“Oh really? So another man, some stranger, touching me, doesn't bother you,” she clarified, and slowly shrugged off her jacket.

“Not in the least,” he replied. She smiled.

“Another man fucking me doesn't bother you. So if I were to go downtown, and rent a hotel room for a weekend, and just sow some wild oats, you would be cool with that?” she clarified, putting her jacket into the backseat.

“Completely.”

“Ooohhh, I know what I'm doing next weekend. I'm going to get a room, and then I'm going to put on the tiniest skirt I own, and then I'm going to go bar hopping. I am going to find some devastatingly sexy guy. Fuck it, maybe I won't even need him to take me back to the room,” Tate said, shivering as she described it.

“You do love a good alley-fuck.”

“Don't I, though? Or a car. Cars are good. If he has a car, I'll just climb into the backseat and let him bend me over the console. Been a long time since I've had good car sex,” she sighed.

“You could be having it right now.”

“And ruin the fantasy? No, I'll wait. I'm very glad to know you're okay with all this, it's so exciting! If it's really good, then maybe I'll take him back to the hotel room, and let him touch every inch of my body, put his dick in any orifice he wants. Maybe, if I'm very lucky, I'll get some new bruises to bring home,” Tate said. Jameson's hand went into her hair and pulled, yanking her towards him.

“Sex is one thing. If I see a bruise, we have a problem,” he hissed.

“That's stupid. So I can have sex, just not good sex?” she asked. He glared at her.

“You can have perfectly good sex without someone leaving a mark on you. I get to leave marks – not other men,” he told her.

“Maybe you can have good sex that way, but not me. No, if I'm gonna go out and get nailed, then I'm gonna get fucking hammered by some guy. Like, can't walk right the next day,” she laughed.

“I think it's time for you to shut the fuck up,” Jameson informed her. She shook her head.

“But it's just getting good, and not like you care, right? I hope whoever it is isn't shy, cause I love going down on a guy in public. Just right there in some dark night club. I'll just slip onto my knees – men seem to love that, don't they? – and press him against a wall, then take every inch of his -,” her voice got softer and softer, all while his fist pulled harder and harder.

“Tatum,” Jameson interrupted, his voice sharp.

“Hmmm?” she purred, trailing a finger up his chest.

“You are not getting a hotel room this weekend.”

“I'm not?”

“And you are not going bar hopping.”

“Boring.”

“And you are most certainly not making every 'orifice' available to some random guy.”

“And why is that?” she asked.

“Because,” Jameson answered, his free hand undoing his belt buckle.

“Because why?”

“Because. If another man ever touches you, I will fucking kill him,” he replied simply. Tate smiled broadly.

“I win,” she whispered.

“It's going to be awfully hard to gloat with your mouth full of dick.”

“I'll manage.”

“Bitch.”

She was about to make a witty remark, but then he was forcing her head into his lap and she was a little busy.

If he doesn't want you fucking anyone else, that means he's jealous. And if he's jealous, that means he cares. And if he cares, then maybe he really never lied. And if he never lied, then you don't have to ruin everything. And if you don't have to ruin everything, then maybe you can admit out loud that you have most definitely, certainly, positively, absolutely, irrevocably sold your soul to Satan.