~4~

Tate could handle angry Jameson. She could handle mean Jameson. She could handle funny, smart, sexy, witty, foul mouthed Jameson. But there were two versions she had had trouble with, sadistic Jameson, and nice Jameson. Sadistic Jameson had only ever truly come out twice – when he had tricked her into visiting her parents, and big time when he had brought Petrushka home. He could push her around and call her all the names he wanted, but fucking with her mind or her heart, that was not okay.

Nice Jameson, though, he was the worst. She didn't trust him. He hadn't come out till so late in the game – she hadn't thought he even existed. When she was always expecting him to be bad, it was shocking to see good. It was like she was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, the other hand to swing. Hovering in a state of permanent wincing.

She hated it, and anymore, nice Jameson was around more than any of the others combined. Her conscience was being ripped in half. She would find herself staring at him, moon-eyed, practically worshipping every word that fell from his mouth, and then she would slap herself.

He brought Pet to America. He brought Ellie to Paris. Who's he gonna bring home next? Do you really wanna be here to find out?

It was torture. Sanders wasn't helping, always looking at her sideways, pulling her aside to chat, to assure her that Jameson's intentions were noble and pure. Bullshit. Jameson and nobility didn't dine at the same table, and he had probably been born with a dirty heart, so purity was out of the question.

Kinda like me ...

She was so fucked. She just wondered when she would finally throw in the towel and really admit it to herself.

 

*

 

“What are you doing?” Sanders asked as he walked into the library. Jameson didn't look away from his task.

“Trying to find the best place for this,” he replied.

Several people were standing in his library, all wearing white gloves. They were from a museum – Jameson had hired them to move and hang his original Mark Rothko painting. He had inherited it from his father, and for a long time, it had stayed at the house in Pennsylvania. When Jameson sold the house, he had the painting moved to the lobby of his offices in New York. He had never thought much about it, other than it was a good investment. But when he opened his firm in Boston, on a whim, he had the painting brought there and placed in his own personal office.

Tatum loved the piece, though she had only ever been in his office that one time, when he had basically propositioned her. She had commented once that she was a fan of Rothko's work, and was impressed that he had one. Very little truly impressed Tatum O'Shea.

She wouldn't go in his library. Too many memories associated with it. He didn't understand women, understand their stupid brains – all the memories were good memories, nothing bad had happened to her in there. It wasn't like he was trying to force her into Sanders' old room. No one went into that room. He was going to have the whole thing gutted and ripped apart. Have it turned into a fucking yoga studio for her.

Jameson liked his library, and he liked spending time in it. He didn't, however, like sitting in there and having to listen to her and Sanders galavanting around the house all day. Laughing in the conservatory, whispering in the kitchen, tumbling down the stairs. Well, really, that last one was just Tate. Still. He was ready to strangle somebody. She was there to entertain him, not Sanders, and she couldn't do that if she wasn't in the room.

So. He was going to bribe her, with her favorite piece of art.

I wonder if Angier has this much trouble with her.

“If I may – move the couch to the center of the room, move those bookshelves, hang the painting there. It will be a focal point,” Sanders said quickly, gesturing to the wall opposite the fireplace. Jameson blinked and looked around the room.

“The couch will cut the room in half,” he replied, turning around. The library was long, narrow. There was a lot of open space between the two walls. In the old days, Tate's preferred spot was stretched out on the floor. She had never used the couch and it had never occured to him to move it.

“Yes. You will need to buy a coffee table. Why are you bringing the painting here?” Sanders asked. Jameson nodded at the museum people and they began rearranging his furniture.

“Because it's one of her favorites. I thought it would entice her to come in here,” Jameson explained, walking out of the room and heading into the kitchen.

“You could just ask her,” Sanders suggested. Jameson laughed.

“Don't you think I've tried?”

“No, I don't. I think you've told her. I think you've commanded. But I highly doubt you've ever asked,” Sanders said.

Well then.

“Sometimes, I think you two are working against me,” Jameson grumbled.

“I would never, I assure you,” Sanders responded.

“She seems to be lightening up, doesn't she?” Jameson asked.

It had been two weeks since they had gone to lunch together. Since he had admitted he hated the idea of another man touching her. After she made him come down her throat, she had pulled him into the backseat. Went into graphic detail, again, about all the things she was willing to let other men do to her. It drove him insane. He had wanted to commit murder and fuck her as hard as he could. He settled for the latter.

There had been a lot of talk of them fucking other people. A lot of cursing, and biting, and scratching. Plenty of choking. The Jag was not big; he was pretty sure he still had a charley horse from their exertions. But for all that, she seemed ..., mellower. Like it had calmed something in her. Like some of her anxiety had been abated, though he couldn't figure out how. Had she really been concerned about him having sex with someone else? Or was it something else, something she hadn't ever told him? Something that maybe still bothered her?

It made him nervous. And Jameson Kane didn't get nervous very often.

Why so nervous? Afraid you'll lose her? You'd have to admit you want to keep her, first.

There had been some light talk in Spain. Heavier in Paris. He wasn't a man of much feeling or emotion, but once in a great while, it bubbled to the surface. Tate had a knack for bringing it out of him. At any given time, if someone asked him how he would feel if Tate walked out the door and never looked back, he would probably say “fine”; but if they happened to catch him at a truly honest moment, the answer would be “fucking terrified”. He didn't want her to go away, ever. They fit together and that was that. He didn't delve into it, he didn't question it. He just went with it.

God, if she would just do the fucking same.

“Maybe. Slightly. Some of her anger is gone. But there is still no trust. She is waiting for you to strike,” Sanders answered, his eyes sliding away to look out the kitchen door.

“She told you this?” Jameson was surprised. Sanders shook his head.

“No, I just know it,” he said.

“How?”

“Because I listen. I pay attention. I know her,” Sanders replied.

Ouch.

“Maybe we just know her in different ways. You fulfill her emotionally and I fulfill her sexually. Maybe this is just how it works for us. Maybe we've been in a threesome this whole time,” Jameson suggested.

“Sometimes, sir, you make me ill,” Sanders almost snapped, not keeping the disgust out of his voice. Jameson smiled.

“Glad to know I've still got the touch. I listen to her, Sanders. I pay attention. But I can only go so far – she's knows what I am. What else can I do?” Jameson asked. Sanders finally turned to look at him again.

“You could try asking her what's wrong,” he stressed. Jameson groaned and put his head into his hands.

“All I wanted was sex. Just a little freaky sex, every now and then. When the fuck did it get so complicated?” he grumbled.

“When you met your match, sir.”

“Sanders?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

“Of course.”

They stood in silence for a minute. One of the things Jameson loved about Sanders, they could be in complete silence. For long periods of time, sometimes for a whole day. And Sanders never minded Jameson's blunt, crass nature. It was heaven. If only he could train Tatum to be the same way.

“Where is she?” Jameson asked, lifting his head. She had left that morning, but he hadn't bothered to ask her what she was doing; she had left him half dead in the shower, completely weak in the knees. The woman could probably suck a golf ball through fifty feet of garden hose. It was outstanding.

“I believe she went to see Mr. Hollingsworth,” Sanders answered.

“Fuuuuuuuck.”

“I advised her not to do anything rash,” Sanders offered. Jameson snorted.

“And how did she respond?” he asked. Sanders was quiet for a while, and Jameson looked at him pointedly.

“She ..., she blew a raspberry. All over my face,” he replied. Jameson laughed.

“Poor Sanders. Still in love with her?” he chuckled. The other man turned slightly pink.

“I have lots of purell,” was all he said before walking out of the kitchen.

 

*

 

Tate was very nervous. She fiddled with the silverware at her table as she looked around the restaurant. It was evening, lots of couples were sitting around her, having romantic dinners. Perfect. She glanced at the front door and went back to fiddling.

She felt like her brain was cracking apart. Jameson's words, Sanders' words, all ricocheting off her neurons and brain waves. Driving her crazy. Or making her sane. She couldn't tell which anymore. She wanted to make everyone pay. But she wanted to be normal. But she wanted to hate everyone. But she didn't want to hate herself.

It was all too much.

“Tater tot! Sorry I'm late,” Ang called out, hurrying between the tables. Tate managed a smile, sitting up straighter. Tried to put on her best adoring look.

Sex hadn't worked, and now she knew for a fact that it would never work – Jameson had basically said that he wouldn't care. But love. Love was a different ball game. Jameson had told her that, a long time ago.

 

“... I don't really care about being the other man, as long as I'm the man. Can't be that, if you go off and fall in love with your best friend. ...”

 

Tate would convince Ang that she was in love with him. They had danced in and out of the friend zone for years – she was very confident that the temptation to call her his own, to win her from Jameson, would be enough to make Ang leave Ellie. Dump her, for Tatum. History, repeating itself. And Jameson hated sharing his toys, hated Ang, hated love. He had fought to win back his fuck-toy, but he wouldn't fight for her affections.

She had to believe that.

“No big deal. How are you? Haven't seen you in forever,” she laughed, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek.

“Yeah, well, ever since you pulled your weird, satanic, seduction act on me, I've been afraid for my soul,” Ang explained.

You don't know how close you are to the truth, Ang. Run far, far away from me.

“Oh shut up, you loved it,” she teased before they were interrupted by a waiter.

They chatted. They flirted. She made a lot of very direct eye contact. Felt a lot like throwing up. Really wanted to drink. But she kept on smiling. Kept laying it on thick. Ang would have no clue what hit him.

“So I gotta ask,” he started, after their plates had been taken away. Tate leaned across the table, smiling big. “What the hell is going on?”

Apparently he has a big fucking clue. You're as subtle as a baseball bat to the head, you dumb bitch.

“What do you mean?” Tate asked, trying to feign innocence.

“You're wearing your titty-mcgee shirt, flirting like it's an Olympic sport, and smiling like some creepy doll. What the fuck is going on?” Ang demanded. She swallowed thickly, shaking her head.

“Nothing, I don't know what -,”

“We have met, you know. Sometimes I think you don't realize that. I know you, bitch. I know what's normal, and what's not normal. And the way you've been acting lately, I'm pretty sure you couldn't even spell 'normal' if I asked you to,” he stated.

Something snapped. She almost thought she could hear it, her sanity breaking. Echoing between her ears.

“You obviously don't know me that well,” she said in a loud voice. Ang's eyebrows shot up.

“Excuse me? Tate, I've known you for almost six years. We practically see each other every day. I'd say I know you pretty well,” he countered.

“But not well enough to know when I'm pissed the fuck off.”

“You're pissed off?” he clarified.

“Yes.”

“About what?”

“I'm pissed that you're a complete asshole,” she blurted out.

See. There's that filter problem again. Maybe you should see a doctor about it.

“Me!?” he exclaimed, pointing at himself. She nodded.

“Yes. A huge asshole. And that makes me mad. Like, so mad ... I can't ... I want ... you ...,” she began breathing hard, waving her hand as she searched for words.

“What did I do!? Is this cause I wouldn't fuck you!?” he demanded. Several tables turned to look at them.

She had gone too far. Couldn't pull back now. She had finally hit the bottom of the rabbit hole.

One sip makes you big, and one makes you small. One makes you sane, and one makes you crazy. Time to make a choice.

“No, no, that's not it,” she replied, nervously running her hands through her hair. Cold hearted revenge had been on the menu, not frank honesty. She wasn't quite ready for this meal.

“Then what the fuck did I do!?” he threw his hands up. She took a deep breath. Tried to imagine Sanders' voice, telling her what to do. Telling her to just say everything.

“You. Ellie. I am not okay with this,” Tate breathed quickly.

“You're still upset about that!?” Ang all but shouted.

“Yes.”

“But ..., when we were on the plane! You cried! You said it was okay!” he reminded her, a bewildered look in his eye. She nodded.

“I know. I lied.”

“Why!?”

“Because, I wanted to hurt you back,” she mumbled, looking down at the table. He leaned forward.

“I'm sorry. Wait. Back up. Please explain exactly, what the fuck, you're talking about,” he told her. She took another deep breath.

Just say it. Get rid of the poison. Word-vomit it up.

“I was so mad at you. I felt ..., lied to, and betrayed. Why her!? I mean, I know, I can't tell you who to sleep with and who not to, and the heart wants what it wants, all that bullshit, and I can't stop you, but why her!? You knew how I felt about her, but you did it anyway. I couldn't ..., I couldn't believe it. Not from you. I always thought you were better than me, better than him,” she laid it all out.

“Do not compare me to him,” Ang's voice was hard.

“I'm not. But in that moment, you didn't seem a whole lot better,” she whispered.

“Jesus, Tate, we've been back for a month, and you've been keeping this bottled up? The whole time? The three of us have been to dinner, for god's sake,” he pointed out. She cringed.

Yeah, and I wore a low-cut top and you stared at my tits and I thought her head was going to explode. Stupid boy.

“Sorry. Sanders has been bugging me to talk to you. I just ... I had it my head ... I wanted ...,” she let her voice trail off. It should have been enough, finally admitting out loud that she was upset. But her guilt was suddenly making itself known, knocking at the door to her conscience.

Helloooooo, you're a vile, evil bitch, and you owe it to him to tell him! Remember that swimming pool, hmmm!?

“Sanders knows about this, but I don't!? You talk to that fucking weirdo about our shit?” Ang snapped. She cut her eyes to him.

“Do not talk about him like that. Sanders is the best goddamn person I've ever met, in my entire life, and neither of us are even worthy of knowing him. Call him another fucking name, and I'll stab you with this fork,” she threatened him, holding up said fork.

“Christ, you have gone crazy.”

“Keep talking shit, and I'll show you crazy.”

Ang burst out laughing, and she eventually followed suit. Stab him with a fork!? Up until a month ago, she had never so much as hit anybody. Now she was brandishing flatware as weaponry.

I have gone crazy.

“I shouldn't have said that, Sanders is awesome. I'm just mad. You used to tell me all your secrets,” Ang sighed. She nodded.

“I know. I always tell you everything, hence why you should've known that fucking my sister would probably piss me off. You're my best friend with whom I've had sex with on multiple occasions. I've hated her for most of my life. What kind of sad, daytime soap opera were you trying to recreate?” she asked.

“A lame one. I don't know what to say, Tate. I didn't know it was still bothering you, that it even bothered you this much,” he told her. She took a deep breath. Being a bad girl hadn't worked; maybe she should shoot for sainthood and be completely honest.

“I know. I hid it really well, because I wanted ..., I wanted ...,” she kept trying to start.

“If it's something even you're nervous to say, then I am really scared,” he commented.

“I wanted to break you up. I wanted you to have sex with me, so I could rub it in her face. I was mad at Jameson, too, so I figured doing it in his bed would be like killing two birds with one stone. Tonight, I was going to convince you that I was in love with you, so you'd leave Ellie for me and Jameson would let me go. And then I was going to dump you. I wanted to make all of you regret fucking with me,” she explained quickly.

There. That wasn't so bad. And you only kinda-sorta sounded like the worst person ever.

“That is so fucked up,” Ang breathed. She nodded.

“I know.”

“I think you need help.”

“Me, too.”

“I can't believe it. That is so fucked up. After everything we've been through, last fall, the last five years, everything, and you would do that to me!?” he snapped.

“I had a very similar thought, when I walked in on you fucking her,” she snapped back.

“I didn't do that on purpose!” he practically shouted. “I have never done anything to intentionally hurt you!”

“Oh really? Remember that time you accidentily anger-banged Rusty? Cause I haven't forgotten that – she still texts me about you, you know. Pretty 'intentional',” Tate hissed at him. He turned a little red.

“Okay, well ... so ... Jameson is the goddamn devil, and you let him get away with murder!” he switched tactics. She laughed.

“Oh, no I don't. Not even a little. Not at all,” she replied, her voice low.

“You're a crazy fucking bitch,” Ang swore. She nodded.

“No shit.”

“If my phone hadn't rang, we would've had sex. And you would've told Jameson, and you would've rubbed it in Ellie's face. Would that really have made you happy?” he demanded.

“At the time, I thought so. Now ..., not so much. I don't want to hurt you. I'm ..., tired of being a crazy fucking bitch,” she finally laughed, and he chuckled as well. “I'm so tired, Ang. All the time. Tired, and lonely, and I feel like a crazy person. I hate it. I hate myself most of the time. Just ..., just tell me you didn't sleep with Ellie on purpose. Tell me it was an accident so I can save my soul.”

“I did not sleep with her on purpose. Why do you think I hid it for so long? I was ..., ashamed. Mad at myself. I knew you would hate me for it, Tate. I felt like a piece of shit. I'm really, really sorry,” he told her, reaching out and sliding his hand over hers.

“Any chance of you dumping her? Preferably in some horrific, public manner?” she asked. He smiled at her.

“Is that what you really want? I'll do it, if that's what you really want,” he replied in a soft voice.

“Ang,” she sighed.

“Hmmm?”

“Why didn't we fall in love?”

“Great mysery of life. I tried my hardest, but couldn't seal the deal. I was never mean enough for you,” he teased. She laughed.

“No, I guess you weren't. Don't dump Ellie. Do whatever you want, have weird, pregnant sex. Whatever. God. I just ..., well ..., don't fuck anyone else I hate,” she snapped, pulling her hands away to wipe at her eyes.

“Deal. And next time you're this upset with me – upset enough to try to use me in some horrible plan to ruin both the relationships we're in – just talk to me, you silly cunt.”

“Deal.”

 

*

 

Tate walked across the driveway, feeling lighter than she had in a while. Since Paris. It felt good to get it all out with Ang, better than she would have thought possible. She didn't know why she always went against Sanders' advice; it was always right.

That's why when she got out of the car, she hightailed it to the guest house. The back of it faced the main house, so she had to practically beat her way through hedges and bushes. By the time she got to the front door, Sanders was standing on the porch.

“There is a path,” he pointed out. Tate kicked her way through a rhododendron bush and took the hand he offered. He pulled her up the side of the stairs.

“Too easy. How are you?” she asked, brushing her hair out of her face as she walked through his door.

“I am well. How was dinner with Mr. Hollingsworth?” he asked, reaching to take her jacket. She slid it off and he hung it on a coat rack.

“Good. Great. I finally did what you said, I talked to somebody. I told Ang I didn't want him dating Ellie. I told him that I had basically been plotting their deaths this whole time,” she said quickly. Sanders raised his eyebrows, but that was it.

“And how did he respond?” he asked, leading her into his living room.

“He was angry. Called me a crazy fucking bitch. We yelled at each other. Then we laughed, and we forgave each other, and I told him he could do whatever he wants with her,” Tate replied.

“Good. Do you feel better?” Sanders asked.

She leaned into him then, wrapped her arms around his shoulders from behind. He stiffened up and hesitated for a second, but then she felt his hands clasp her wrists. Give her a squeeze. She pressed her cheek to his shoulders.

“Yes. Thank you,” she whispered. He squeezed her again, then let her go.

“Good. I'm glad. I told you, communication is key,” he reminded her. She nodded and walked around to stand in front of him.

“I know, I know. I shall always listen to you, from this day forth,” she prattled on, then looked around the large room. “What's going on in here?”

Much like in the main house, the living room of the guest house had a bar built into it, though much smaller. More of a group of cupboards against a back wall. All of them were open, and the counter tops were filled with all different kinds of liquor and spirits and mixers. Sanders cleared his throat.

“The last person to stay in this house was a business associate of Jameson's. He had me fully stock the bar. I have been organizing what's left, alphabetically, and marking on the bottles were the liquid levels are,” he explained. She laughed.

“Afraid someone's gonna sneak your booze?” she questioned, walking forward and looking through the alcohol.

“No. It just makes me feel better to know,” he replied. She nodded.

“Understandable. This is impressive, Sandy, he doesn't have this much stuff in his bar. Angosturas? Lillet? You guys don't mess around when you stock up,” she commented. She heard him fidget from behind her.

“I was actually thinking about that. I wondered if you would do something for me,” he said. She turned around, surprised.

“Of course, anything. Shoot,” she told him.

“I wondered if you would make me a drink.”

Tate was shocked. Sanders didn't drink. As far as she knew, he had never drank. Along side Jameson, he had been to world famous night clubs and top-of-the-line bars and the best wineries in Europe, but he didn't drink.

“Why?” she asked. He shrugged, his eyes not meeting hers.

“I have never done it. I have been curious about it for a long time. There is no one else I would trust enough to do it with,” he replied in a bored voice. She felt all warm inside. Her? Not Jameson?

Take that, Satan.

“Sandy, you're so sweet to me. Alright! What'll it be? You are dealing with South Boston's best bartender!” she said, clapping her hands together.

“I was hoping you could suggest something. I have never done this before,” he reminded her. She laughed and turned to the cupboards, searching for shakers and glasses.

“Hmmm, let's see. Perfect drink ..., well, you look like a sexy James Bond, so how about a martini. Shaken, not stirred,” she did a crap Sean Connery impression.

“I do not look like James Bond.”

“A sexy James Bond, I said.”

It was his first time drinking, and she didn't want to get him wasted. Plus, she wasn't about to let him drink alone, and she didn't want to get drunk, either. So she made the drinks light. The martini didn't go over very well – she didn't understand the appeal, herself. So she tried a Manhattan. He informed her that it was tolerable. After that, she switched it up and made him a Mojito.

“Jameson likes Long Island Iced Teas,” Sanders commented. She raised her eyebrows.

“I'm not making you that, you'd be on the floor. How about Sex on the Beach?” she teased, winking at him. He cleared his throat and looked away.

He said it was by far his favorite. Huh, Sanders liked girly drinks. Who would've thought? She made him a Tequila Sunrise after that, but then cut him off. She could see the effects. They had been at it for a while, she had spaced them out and made him take his time, fed him pretzels and made him a sandwich. But it was still clear that he was a little toasted.

“Is it normal for your lips to be numb?” he asked, staring at the wall behind her. His speech was still clipped, but his voice was soft, his eyelids heavy. His features relaxed. Small things to a normal person, huge things for Sanders. She laughed and sank into a chair across from him, putting her feet up on an ottoman.

“Yeah, sometimes that happens to me, too. How are your toes?” she asked. He glanced down at his shiny shoes.

“Toes?”

“Mine tingle sometimes, when I drink. Fingertips, toes, lips, all that good stuff. How's your vision?” she went on. He shrugged.

“Perfect.”

“I meant,” she laughed, “are you seeing double yet? Things a little blurry?”

“No. Should they be?”

“Not necessarily. So is it everything it's cracked up to be?” she asked. He shrugged again.

“I'm not sure I see the appeal. I feel like I am stuck in slow motion. How does anyone get anything done like this?” he said, his words coming out slow. She laughed again.

“You're not supposed to get anything done. You do it to relax, have fun, be brave, whatever,” she told him.

“Brave?”

“Liquid courage. Makes you uninhibited, makes you do things you wouldn't normally do,” she explained.

“Like take a whole bottle of xanax and swim in a pool?”

He could've hit her and she would've been less shocked. She licked her lips.

“Yes, things like that,” she whispered. His eyes finally met hers, and he stared right into her.

“That's not very courageous, or brave,” he commented.

“I know. Sometimes, alcohol can make you the stupidest fucking person on the block,” she managed a laugh.

“I was very upset with you. You worried me,” he told her, his voice full of bite. Another shock.

“I'm sorry, Sandy. I wasn't in my right mind. I won't ever do that again,” she replied, staring back at him. He looked angry. She didn't think she'd ever seen him look angry.

“And Jameson ..., I was so upset with him. Angry. I was angry at him,” Sanders stressed. Tate nodded.

“I know. Me, too.”

“But I have forgiven him. Why can't you?” he demanded.

“See, this is that uninhibited thing I was talking about,” she pointed out. He waved his hand in the air.

“I was counting on this,” he replied. “Why can't you forgive him?”

“I'm trying, Sandy. I really am. You know, don't you, that I wanted to hurt him, too, like I wanted to hurt Ang,” Tate said softly. He nodded.

“I had figured that much out. I just couldn't quite understand why. You said you forgave him, for Petrushka, for his cruelty,” he explained, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. She had never seen him in such a relaxed posture.

“I know. I lied. I didn't believe him. I don't know if I believe him, now. I just can't stop feeling this way. Like, why was Pet in Spain? Did he tell her he was there? Did he tell her what night club we would be at? When we were going to the apartment? And Ellie and Ang. I refuse to believe he didn't know about that – how could he not!? I mean, he booked them onto a plane he paid for! He keeps things from me, he messes with my head, and I -,” she started to ramble, and could feel her blood pressure rise as the memories flooded into her brain. Sanders held up a hand.

“No. He doesn't. I do,” he said quickly. She blinked at him.

“Huh?” she almost grunted, stunned.

“I knew Petrushka was in Spain, I saw it on the internet. The other things were merely a coincidence – Jameson frequents the restaurant that he took you to, he is friends with the owner. I'm sure she knew he would turn up there sooner or later. I never told him she was in the country,” Sanders explained, rolling his glass between his hands, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Why wouldn't you tell him that?” she breathed. She felt like she had been tasered. She had been so angry, the whole time, at the wrong person. And the right person ..., she didn't think she could be angry at him.

Not him. Not fair.

“Because it would have upset him and I do not like to do that. It would have upset you, and I do not like to do that, either. I knew she was a problem between the two of you that needed to be dealt with it, so I left it to happen. Which it did. Rather nicely. I am not prone to violence, but I can honestly say, there was something enjoyable about watching you hit her,” he said, and she thought she could detect a hint of a slur in his voice. She gave a half hearted laugh.

“Glad I could entertain you,” she whispered.

“I found out about Mrs. Carmichael coming with Mr. Hollingsworth the day before they were to arrive, the airline sent me an updated itinerary and bill. Her name was on it, of course. That one confused me for a time. I knew if I told Jameson, he would tell you. That wouldn't have been right, it was Mr. Hollingsworth's confession to make. Obviously he was bringing Mrs. Carmichael along with him in order to do so. I did not agree with his actions or his decisions, but I was not in a place to advise him that he shouldn't do those things. So it had to happen,” he explained, and then hiccuped into his fist.

“You weren't 'in a place' to advise him,” Tate almost laughed again.

“So I have been having my own battle with my conscience. Watching you be angry at people for deeds that were my own fault. Realizing that almost everything that has upset you, I could have prevented in some way,” he said calmly, but he couldn't stop spinning his glass, his fingers deftly moving around the crystal. She shook her head.

“No, Sandy, you didn't make Jameson bring Pet home, you didn't -,” she started to defend him – from himself – but he stopped her again.

“But I knew. And I never said anything. I am beginning to think I'm not a very good person,” he told her.

Tate let out a moan, closing her eyes. She wanted to be mad. She had been mad at Jameson, when she thought it had all been him, so it was only fair. But she couldn't. Jameson did things on purpose and with intent, just to make them hurt. Ang did things without forethought and out of stupidity, which still hurt. Sanders ..., Sanders only ever tried to do what was right. Not what was fair, not what made her feel best, or sheltered her, or helped her. But what was right.

And what was right didn't always feel so good.

“Sanders,” she sighed, climbing out of her chair. “You are the best person I know. If you ever think otherwise, that will upset me.”

“I don't understand. When you thought it was Jameson keeping these things from you, you wanted to hurt him. You wanted to leave him, leave us. But when it's me doing these things, it's alright?” he asked, a wary look in his eye as he finally sat his glass down on the coffee table. She shook her head.

“It's not alright. I'm hurt. But I know your heart was in the right place. I can't be mad at that. Just do me a favor?” she asked, moving to sit next to him.

“Anything.”

“Next time something weird happens, or some bullshit gets said, or I get attacked by Jameson's Amazonian love child,” she babbled as she swung her legs across his lap, “fucking say something. You aren't protecting anyone by letting us all bumble around in the dark. Alright?” He actually laughed.

“I will try my best.”

“That's all I can ask.”

“Are you sure you're not -,”

“I love you, Sanders,” she breathed, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “There is very little you could do to make me mad at you.”

“You were mad at me in Spain,” he reminded her as he leaned back into the couch. She snorted.

“You practically kidnapped me and handed me over to the devil, I get to be mad when you do things like that. But see, that was pretty fucking awful, and I still love you. So we're good,” she assured him. He nodded, though he continued to fidget.

“Are you going to leave Jameson?” he blurted out. She blinked at him.

“Why do you ask?” she countered, propping her knees up over him.

“Because I think you are planning on it, and I really would like you not to do that,” he answered, and there was definitely a slur to his voice. She sighed.

“Are you going to repeat this conversation to him?” she asked.

“If you ask me not to, than no, I won't.”

“Don't repeat this.”

“I won't.”

“Sandy, I ..., what he did, with Petrushka. That's a hard thing to let go. I say I'm fine, and I mean I'm fine, and then it's like ..., like I'm back in that pool,” she whispered. “Like I'm eighteen again, and he's looking at me like I'm trash. I don't know if I want to live life this way, waiting for the next thing Jameson's gonna do to me, and I don't think he'll ever change, or ever admit anything is wrong. I'm not leaving today, or tomorrow, but ..., I can't make any promises.”

“Then I guess that's all I can ask. But Tatum, he does not think you are trash. He has strange ways, and he doesn't know how to talk to you at all, but he cares very deeply for you. If you left him, he would be devastated, in his own way. I know this,” Sanders replied, resting a hand on her knee.

“'In his own way' loosely translates to 'so devastated, he fucks every woman in the tri-state area',” she joked. He made a face.

“I wouldn't have put it quite like that, but yes, pretty much like that,” he said, but she knew he was joking.

“What about you? If I decide I'm not strong enough for Mr. Jameson Kane, are you going to disown me? Let me go? Or would you run away with me?” she asked. He thought for a long while.

“I would never disown you, because I don't own you, and if you have to go, then I have to let you go. Sometimes, running away sounds very appealing, but in my experience, it just makes things worse. I suppose we could be penpals,” he offered, and she burst out laughing.

“Okay, I'll take that.”

She pulled him close and hugged him, wrapping her arms tightly around his shoulders. For once, there was no tensing up, no hesitation, he just hugged her right back. Sighed into the side of her hair.

“I used to hate it when you touched me,” he said softly. She laughed.

“I know, I think that's why I liked doing it so much,” she replied, scratching his back.

“Now I almost think I like it. Sometimes. Thank you, Tatum.”

“You're very welcome, Sanders.”

She squeezed him tight, and he finally pushed her away when she tried to leave a hickey on his neck. He walked her to the door after that, though she hesitated to leave him. He waved her away, assuring her that he would be perfectly fine, that he would just go to bed. They said goodbye and she made her way back around to the main house, using the path he had pointed out. She shoved her hands in her jacket, guarding against the cold as she made her way home.

Home.

Her universe had, once again, shifted a little. So many things she had been holding against Jameson, poof. Gone. So angry at Jameson, all because Sanders was loyal to a fault and because she was a crazy bitch.

She was telling the truth, though; the incident with Petrushka would probably never sit right with her. Jameson had done that to hurt, had no regard for her feelings. He still had never officially declared how he felt, probably because he didn't feel any certain way towards her. Sure, he wanted her, wanted to own her, wanted to be the only person to own her. But that didn't equal feelings, or caring.

Or love.

As Tate stomped up the porch, she decided she needed just a little more time. She had learned a lot of new things – from Ang, from Sanders, from herself. She felt like one more blow, and she would be thrown irrevocably into crazy-fucking-bitch land. Then no one would want to be her friend.

As she pushed in the front door, she took a deep breath. Tomorrow. Or the day after. Then she would have a nice, long, chat with Mr. Kane and he would definitely -,

“Where the fuck have you been!?” his voice snapped from behind her. But before she could turn fully around, she was being grabbed around the waist. Thrown over his shoulder. Carried down the hall.

“Out to dinner! What the fuck are you doing!?” she demanded.

“It's almost midnight. Who the fuck has dinner from eleven o'clock in the morning until midnight?” Jameson demanded.

“Apparenly I fucking do! What is your problem!? Wait, stop. What are you doing!?” she all but shrieked as she heard a door get kicked open.

“It is most definitely time to rip off the band aid,” he growled, and then he was walking through the door he had just opened.

I just needed a couple more days, then I would've done anything you wanted.

She threw her hands out and gripped onto the doorframe, wiggling her hips against his head. He had one arm wrapped around her thighs, and he dug his fingers in painfully. His other hand went up and grabbed one of her arms, yanking it free. She shrieked and tried to pull away, but it was too late. A couple strides, and she was in the library.

“What the fuck, Jameson!? You can't just grab people and make them do -,” she started to yell, but it ended in a shriek as she was tossed onto a couch. She bounced around and gripped onto the back of it.

“Apparently, I fucking can. I have been waiting all day for you. Do you not answer your phone anymore?” he asked, leaning over her. He looked pissed. She felt a shiver run over her skin.

“It's in my purse! I was busy,” she told him.

“Too busy to answer your phone. I see. So what were you and Angier up to for so long?” he asked.

“Humping our way across Boston,” she snapped back.

“Goddamn, took you long enough.”

“Not everyone can be as quick as you.”

His hand was at her throat in an instant.

This is not quite how I imagined this evening ending.

“Watch what you fucking say to me,” Jameson growled. “I have babied you. I have been nice to you. I have bent over fucking backwards for you. I have done things for you that I have never done for anyone else. The least you can do in return is answer your goddamn phone when I call.”

“Someone missed me,” she said softy.

“Fuck you, Tate,” he spat out, his fingers digging in harder. He wasn't pressing down on her, though, so she slowly sat up.

“Is that what you've been sitting at home doing? Worrying all night? About what Ang and I have been up to?” she asked.

“Don't flatter yourself,” he replied.

“You flatter me, by being this upset. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you actually cared,” she laughed lightly, holding onto his wrist with one hand.

“You'd think wrong.”

She stared up at him for a second. Really looked at him. For the past month, she had been working very hard to blind herself to him. Always tried to glance at him, past him, through him. Never directly at him. He was too much. Looking at him, he would invade her. Possess her. It was too easy. It had happened last fall. It had happened in Spain. So she had avoided it.

But if it was true, if Sanders was telling the truth – which he must have been, because Sanders didn't lie – then everything Jameson had done for the past month, had been for her. Everything he had said in Spain, had been the truth. That moment in Paris, it had been real. Those pearls ...

She felt her eyes tear up, and Jameson looked shocked. He let go of her throat and lowered himself, so they were eye to eye. She looked away. Around the room. At all the furniture. Everywhere, but at him.

“You rearranged,” she sniffled, realizing for the first time that she was in the middle of the room. He nodded.

“Yes.”

“I like it,” she said, her voice getting even more watery.

“Tate.”

“Oh my god, is that the Rothko from your office?” she asked, sitting up straighter. The couch had its back to the fireplace and Jameson's desk, and was facing the far wall. The bookshelves had all been rearranged, and the large painting was hanging in the middle of the wall.

“Yes.”

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

“Today.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sounds dangerous.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Deal with it.”

“I'm trying.”

“Try harder.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop being a smart-ass.”

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

“God, I suck at being a bad girl.”

“Excuse me?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, baby girl, that you are.”

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

“What now?”

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

“Why?”

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

Jameson completely froze.

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

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