~10~

The next day, they moved into the apartment with Sanders. Jameson was going to have the interior of the yacht redecorated. Tate had made a comment that all of the black was depressing. So he was having it all changed. For her.

Scary.

She tried to ignore it. Tried to ignore the shift in her universe. When he curled around her at night, slept with her tucked against his chest, she tried to ignore how happy she was inside, just to be near him. When he bent her over the console next to the steering wheel and showed her who the captain was, she tried to ignore how happy she was that things were back to normal.

This is not normal. YOU'RE LOSING.

“Whatever you're thinking, don't,” Sanders' voice cut through her thoughts. Tate glanced up at him. The bedrooms on the backside of Jameson's apartment all had small, private, wrought iron balconies. She had wrestled a chair onto the one off of Sanders' room.

“What?” she asked, feigning innocence. He stared at her.

“You're happy. Don't ruin it.”

Tate glared.

“He ruins things. Why can't I?” she asked.

“He made them better, didn't he?”

“That doesn't just erase what he did.”

“No, but you have to move forward at some point. You have to trust him at some point.”

That was the problem – Tate didn't think she could. Sure, it was easy to forget that small fact when they were rolling around in his big bed; fucking in a bathroom at a club; going down on him under a table in a restaurant. But whenever he left to take a phone call; gave Sanders a private look; went somewhere without her, she almost had a panic attack. Was Jameson planning something? Was he calling her? Meeting up with her? Tate couldn't stand it. She was going crazy.

“I don't know, Sandy. I just don't know,” she mumbled, pulling her feet up and resting her chin on her knees. He squatted down next to her.

“Is there something you're not telling me?” he asked in a soft voice. She sighed.

“No, not really. I just ..., I don't know if I'll ever be ready for a man like him,” she laughed a little. Sanders nodded.

“Understandable. But if that is how you honestly feel, then you need to tell him. You two, you only communicate through sex. Maybe you should try using words. They work very well for the rest of us,” Sanders suggested. Tate laughed for real.

“You're amazing, Sandy. I fear the day some woman steals you from me,” she laughed, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He cleared his throat.

“I don't see that on the horizon any time soon. And just so you know, the entire time we have been here, he has not been in contact with Petrushka. I can show you phone records,” he told her. She sat back, surprised.

“Seriously?”

“Of course. I have been taking care of all his bills, and that includes his cell phone bill. I also have regular access to his phone. He has not called her. If you won't believe him, and you don't believe me, then I can show you proof,” Sanders offered her. Tate groaned and put her face in her hands.

“Between the two of you, it's amazing I even made it out alive the first time,” she grumbled.

“That is not funny,” he snapped. She sighed.

“No. Sorry.”

“What are we talking about?” Jameson asked, walking through the doorway.

“Phones,” Sanders replied truthfully. Tatum laughed.

“Phones?” Jameson double checked.

“Yes. I spoke with Mr. Hollingsworth today,” Sanders cleverly changed the subject, and she lifted her head at the mention of Ang. “He requested a bigger hotel room. He said it was part of his, and I quote, 'list of demands'.”

“Christ, that man. You are not allowed to fuck him while he's here,” Jameson informed Tate, pointing a finger sternly in her face. She laughed again.

“You ruin all my fun.”

“Fine. Change the reservation, put him on the same floor as us,” Jameson said, and Sanders nodded before striding from the room.

“You sure it's safe to let me be that close to him?” Tate teased. Jameson rolled his eyes and pulled her out of her chair.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that,” he said, leading her out of Sanders' room.

“You wanted to talk about fucking Ang?” she asked with a laugh. They headed into the master bedroom. On the boat, Tate had still maintained a separate room, though she had spent most nights in Jameson's room. Not in the apartment. He simply had Sanders load all her luggage straight into his bedroom.

“No. If there is one thing in life I will never want to talk about, it's Angier's sexual prowess,” he replied, glaring at her as he took his wallet out of his back pocket before sitting down on his bed.

“You're really missing out,” she said, sighing melodramatically as she crawled onto the bed to sit behind him. He removed his watch, tossed it onto the night stand. She knew his routine. She couldn't help herself, she had always been a loyal subject for Satan. She coiled her arms around his shoulders.

“Tate,” Jameson said, as she feathered kisses along the back of his neck. He leaned into her, his fingers creeping around her wrists.

“Yes?”

“Where would you like to go after this?” he asked, pulling her hands away from his body.

“What, like for dinner?” she asked, scooting closer so she could wrap her legs around his waist from behind.

“No. Like Italy, or Austria,” Jameson replied, linking his fingers through hers.

Tate stopped breathing. He meant after. Like after, after. He was already planning on where the next stop was, the next vacation. In Jameson's mind, he must have already won. No questions asked. It was just obvious, apparently, that she would be going wherever he went.

It made her feel a little lightheaded. She licked her lips and pressed her cheek against his back. Listened to his heart beat. Italy. Austria. Would he take her to his home in Denmark? Or how about Turkey? Hell, why not go big – India.

I don't care, as long as I'm with him ...

“Jameson,” she breathed, and she felt his muscles twitch. “Let's get through this trip, before we plan another one.”

It was evasive, but it was the best answer Tate could give him. Give her heart. She didn't know what she wanted anymore. Things were too blurry. Jameson said he wasn't playing games – maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe it was time for her to start believing him.

He started to lean backwards, forcing her onto her back as he twisted around to face her. He laid on top of her, his head on her breasts while her legs were still wrapped around him. She combed her fingers through his hair while she tried very hard not to cry.

Would it be so bad to just give in? Satan can be a very giving lord and master ...

“Whatever you want, Tatum. I'll do whatever you want.”

One tear escaped. Nice was always so much worse than mean.

 

*

 

Tate woke up some time in the middle of the night. There was shouting. The sound of something breaking. She propped herself up on her elbows, trying to wake all the way up. A light flicked on, and she saw Jameson, leaning up on one arm, his hand against a lamp. He was glaring at his bedroom door.

“What the fuck is that?” he grumbled.

“I don't know,” Tate replied.

There was a loud crash, followed by a shriek, and Jameson was out of the bed in a flash. He yanked on some underwear and a t-shirt before storming out of the room. With the door open, she could hear better, and could tell that one of the voices was Sanders. Was someone attacking Sanders!? Tate leapt out of the bed as well, ready to commit murder.

But she was still struggling to yank on one of Jameson's t-shirts – if she was going to kick ass, she wasn't going to do it naked – when she figured out who the other voice belonged to; realized the language they were speaking wasn't English. Wasn't Spanish. Russian. Jameson's voice came in above the fray, and from then on it was all German.

Tate sat down heavily on the bed, clasping her hands together. Her whole body was shaking with the effort of trying not to blow up. She glanced at the door, then stared at the wall. There was more shrieking. More German. Then finally, English.

“Oh, is it because she is here!?” Petrushka's voice yelled. Sanders answered in Russian. Jameson snapped in German. “No! This was my place, before it was ever hers! You are letting trash into my home, Kane. Garbage. I won't allow it!”

I hear you, bitch, loud and clear.

Tate found herself in the hallway before she even realized she was moving. Broken glass coated the living room floor. Sanders stood with his back to the hall. He was wearing a pajama set, and his normally perfectly styled hair was standing on end. Jameson was attempting to manhandle a very angry, wiry supermodel out the open front door. There was more cursing in German.

“I hear you,” Tate blurted out. Sanders whirled around, but no one else seemed to have heard her.

“Please, go back to bed, we have it under -,” he immediately started. She held up a hand.

“I can hear you,” she repeated herself, louder. Pet stopped thrashing around in Jameson's arms, long enough to find Tate and glare at her.

“Good. I want you to hear. I want this whole building to hear! There is garbage in this apartment! An American whore! An American whore, and a Russian peasant!” Pet was shouting, struggling against Jameson, swinging her arms at Tate like she thought she could hit her from that distance. Tate stepped in front of Sanders as if he had been shot at, wrapped her arm around him from behind her back.

“Talk to him like that again and I will end your career,” Tate threatened. As always, she was fair game. Jameson was fair. Sanders was on a different plane from mere mortals, and if that bitch-snake so much as looked at him again, Tate would rearrange her features.

“Everyone stop talking! Sanders! Call the goddamn front desk!” Jameson roared, and then he practically threw Pet into the hallway. She lurched forward, screaming in German, but he slammed the door in her face. Slid the bolt lock into place. Sanders scurried off to find a phone.

“What. THE FUCK. Was that?” Tate asked. Pet continued to beat on the door, screaming things in different languages. Jameson had his hands in his hair.

“That was fucking crazy. She does not like you,” Jameson replied.

“Whose fault is that? She doesn't even know me,” Tate snapped. He stared at her like she was crazy.

“You're mad at me?” he asked. She folded her arms.

“How did she know we were here, Jameson?” she asked back. He actually laughed.

“You're shitting me.”

“We've been at the boat, this whole time. She would've known that, after you weren't here last time. Why wouldn't she go to the boat? How the fuck did she know we were here?” Tate demanded.

“Oh, clever, clever girl, Tatum. You've figured out my master plan. I called Pet, asked her to break in to my home, attack Sanders, and destroy half my shit, all just to piss you off,” he replied, his voice soft. Easy. Scary.

“You are Satan,” she reminded him.

“Watch it, Tatum. I am not in the fucking mood,” Jameson warned her. The banging hadn't stopped and Tate groaned.

“Can you please shut your girlfriend up?” she snapped.

“I don't have a girlfriend.”

“I called security,” Sanders said, breathing hard as he hurried into the living room. Tate turned towards him, then gasped.

“Did she hit you!?” she demanded, grabbing Sanders by the collar. His face was red on one side, and his hair didn't look like bed-head, it looked like it had been pulled. He pressed his hand to his cheek.

“She ..., she forced her way inside,” Sanders replied. Tate turned around and strode towards the door. Jameson moved to stand in front of it.

“Stop it. I will deal with this,” he told her.

“She hit him! I'm gonna tear her fucking face off!” Tate snapped. Jameson put a hand on her chest, keeping her away from the door.

“You hit him once, and I didn't hit you back,” he pointed out. “Let me handle this.”

“By all means,” Tate sighed, her voice sounding dejected as she took a step back and gestured for him to open the door.

She stood politely aside, casting a sad glance back at Sanders. Jameson watched her for a second, then pulled the bolt back. Turned the knob. Started yelling at Pet to shut the fuck up as he swung the door open.

Tate sprang forward and went through the door like a runner after a starter shot. She barreled into Pet and they both hit the wall. Tate wasn't a fighter, didn't count that time with Jameson's maid as a real fight, but suddenly she felt like Muhammed fuckin' Ali. She was gonna crush this bitch.

They bounced off the wall and Pet grabbed a handful of Tate's hair, yanked her away. They careened in a circle, and Tate got her arms around Pet's waist. Using her legs, she propelled them back into the wall. Pet slammed into it, shrieked, and lost her grip on Tate's hair. They both fell to the ground and rolled around. Pet was taller, but Tate was heavier – she wound up on top. She straddled the other girl's waist and grabbed her by the hair.

“If you ever touch him again, I will kill you!” Tate screamed, slamming Pet into the ground. The supermodel swung her arms, slapping Tate in the face.

“Sie sind Müll!” Pet yelled. Tate slapped her back, then struggled to hold onto her wrists.

“I DON'T SPEAK GERMAN, YOU DUMB CUNT!”

Before she could land another blow, arms were around Tate's waist, plucking her into the air. With the weight off of her legs, Pet immediately started kicking, so Tate kicked right back, landing a solid blow to the other woman's thigh. She was rewarded with a shriek of pain.

“Stop it,” Jameson's voice was low in her ear. She ignored him.

“Don't you ever fucking come back here!” Tate screamed while Jameson hauled her backwards. “Don't you ever fucking talk to him again! Don't talk to him, don't touch him, don't come near him! Do you understand me!? He didn't come here for you! He came here for me!”

At some point, the fight had stopped being about Sanders, and had become about Jameson.

So when, exactly, did you lose to him? Stupid, stupid, girl.

Luckily, Jameson had the penthouse apartment, so there was no one else to witness Pet's psychotic break. Or Tate's. As security spilled out of an elevator, Jameson pulled her back through the apartment's doorway, all while she and Pet were still screaming at each other. Sanders slipped out into the hallway, explaining the situation to the guards.

“Calm the fuck down, Tatum,” Jameson urged. She yanked at the arms he had around her, tried to get a grip on the floor with her toes. There was so much adrenaline pumping through her body, she felt like she was going to have a heart attack.

“No, no, I'm not done! Let me go! That bitch almost killed me once, I owe her!” Tate shouted, kicking her legs wildly. His arms only got tighter around her, twisting and pulling her t-shirt up so it bunched up beneath her breasts.

“She didn't do that, I did that. Blame me,” he instructed her. Tate swung her whole body from side to side.

“I already do! But you won't let me hit you!” she yelled.

He barked out a laugh, which set her off, and suddenly she was caught in a bout of hysterics. There was a cough from the door, and Jameson turned them towards it. Tate figured she was quite a sight, only in a pair of tiny underpants and her shirt little more than a tube top, Jameson holding onto her like she was possessed by the devil.

That happened a long time ago, baby girl.

Sobering thought.

“Mr. Kane, we're very sorry. The man downstairs, he got confused. She said she was your fiancée, said she lost her key. He gave her one. The owner of the building and the manager have been called, they are headed down here. I'm sure you'll want to speak to them,” a security guard said from the doorway.

“My man out there, Sanders, can deal with it. His name is on the lease,” Jameson explained. Tate squirmed in his arms, but he still held onto her.

“Very good. We are taking her away now. If you need anything, have any questions, don't hesitate to call my office, anytime,” the guard urged.

“Give the number to Sanders,” was all Jameson said, turning away. The guard said goodbye and made his way back into the hall.

“Let me down,” Tate breathed, digging her nails into his wrist.

“No.”

“Put me down,” she hissed again. He walked all the way down the hallway with her, carrying her back into his bedroom.

“No. You need to calm down,” he told her.

“Well, that's not gonna fuckin' happen, so you should just put me down,” she snapped. He let go of her abruptly and she teetered forward, a little shocked.

“Quite a little show you put on, Tate. I particularly liked when you were on top of her, your ass in the air,” Jameson told her, his tone even and calm. She stopped breathing for a second, then shook it off. She grabbed a hair tie from off the nightstand, roughly yanking her hair up in to a ball on top of her head.

“I'm sure you did like it. I should've charged,” she growled at him before stomping over to her luggage. There was clothing strewn around, and Tate began picking stuff up, throwing it all into the suitcase.

“Didn't know you were still into that. What are you doing?” he asked, moving to stand behind her.

“Packing, what the fuck does it look like I'm doing?” she snapped.

“And where, may I ask, are you packing to go?” Jameson continued.

“Anywhere. Anywhere that's not here, anywhere that's not around you,” Tate replied.

“And why are you running away?”

“Because! I don't want to be here when the next surprise visit pops up!” she yelled at him.

“I did not plan this. You heard that guard, she lied to get in here. I can promise you, it will not happen again,” Jameson assured her.

“I couldn't give two shits if it did. I'm gonna take Sanders and we are getting the fuck out of here, and you and Ms. Denmark can have your sick, weird, love-hate relationship on your own fucking time,” Tate swore, bending at the waist and shoving the last bit of clothing into her bag, trying to force the suitcase shut.

“Awfully mean talk for someone who was just fighting over me,” he pointed out, and she felt his hand run over the edge of her hip. She wiggled away from him.

“I wasn't fighting over you!” she yelled, straightening out her t-shirt, trying to regain some dignity.

“Sure looked like it,” he called her out. She felt a blush creep into her cheeks.

“Well, you weren't doing anything about her! One of us had to be a man,” Tate sneered at him. Jameson laughed and stepped up close to her.

“Maybe I should take lessons,” he replied. She nodded.

“Maybe you should.”

“Tatum?”

“What!?”

He pulled her close, and she jumped on him. They fell to the ground, pushing and pulling at each others' clothing. He ripped her shirt, but she figured it didn't really matter, because it was actually his shirt. The panties, though, were slightly disappointing. She had spent a lot of his money on them.

“I thought you were running away,” Jameson taunted while she yanked his boxers down his legs.

“Shut the fuck up,” she snapped, dragging her teeth along his thigh as she crawled back up his body.

“I think that's my line.”

“You know, I can think of better uses for your mouth than being clever.”

“My, my,” Jameson chuckled, laying flat on the floor and putting his hands behind his head. “Someone wants to wear my shoes, apparently. Go ahead, Tate. Be the heavy. Let's see how good you are at it.”

Tate was angry, and she wanted to take it out on somebody. She was angry at Pet, and she was angry at Jameson, but most of all, she was angry at herself. She was still hyped up. It was like Petrushka was there in the room, and Tate suddenly had something to prove. She wasn't in the mood for his attitude or his smart-ass comments.

“Please. You have it so easy,” she sneered at him, hooking her nails into his chest and then slowly dragging them down. He hissed.

“You think so?” he whispered, his eyes falling shut. She scratched her hands back up to his shoulders and repeated the process.

“All you do is say a couple dirty words, get grabby with your hands. Big fucking deal,” she pointed out. He managed a laugh.

“According to your pussy, it's a very big fucking deal,” he teased.

“You think that's so special? I can do what you do.”

“Doubtful.”

Tate glared at him and then paused for a second. Of course she was lying through her teeth. It was getting to a point where all Jameson had to do was breathe in her direction, and she had to change her panties. But he didn't really need to know that, she figured. She wanted to make him sweat. Make him nervous. Make him angry.

“Fuck you,” she breathed. His eyes opened to look at her, and she smiled down at him. “That wasn't so hard. I can see why you like it. Fuck you, Kane.”

“Watch your mouth,” he warned her. She laughed and slowly dragged one of her hands up her body.

“You watch your fucking mouth,” she threw it back at him. She scratched her way up past her breasts, across her clavicle, and then slowly wrapped her fingers around her neck. Of course it didn't feel the same – Jameson owned that part of her body, her hand was just visiting. But still.

“What's your game, baby girl?” he said softly.

“Mmmm, no game,” Tate whispered back, letting her eyes flutter closed while her free hand found its way between her legs.

“Whatever this is, it isn't very fun for me,” he pointed out, moving his hands to her thighs. She snorted. It may not have been “fun” for him, but he was obviously enjoying it – she was straddling his hips and could feel his hard on pressing against her ass.

“Stop talking, whore,” she cursed at him, and then gasped, moving her fingers between herself and his stomach. Sliding between her wetness and the sweat on his skin.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” he demanded.

“Whore. As in, shut your fucking mouth, whore,” she mimicked him, and then gasped again, raising up higher on her knees. She dug her fingernails into her throat, and while it still wasn't as good as Jameson, she could see the appeal of being him. She had wanted to play with him, make him as angry as she had been, but she wasn't angry anymore; she was too close to coming to really feel any sort of way.

“Alright. Play time's over. Stop it, now,” he insisted. She groaned and let her head drop back, her fingers pushing harder against herself, inside of herself. It all felt so different. Angry, not angry. Her in charge, but not really in charge. With him, but not really with him. She just wanted to stop thinking for a second. Stop feeling. Just be numb.

“I think you're forgetting who's in charge right now,” Tate panted, wiggling her hips against him. His hands moved to her waist and held her in place.

“Stop. I'm not doing this just cause you're pissed off at her. You won. She doesn't matter, she's out there. I'm in here. With you.”

Too nice. Nice words are always the worst.

“Liar,” she moaned.

“That's it. I'm not fucking around, Tate. Get the fuck off me, or -,” he started to threaten.

“Stop fucking talking.”

She may have taken the imitation too far, though, when she slapped him across the face, shocking herself a little.

Hmmm, might have pushed it with that one.

His reaction was instantaneous. Jameson's hand was in her hair, pulling so hard she was forced to look straight up and arch away from him. He sat up abruptly, and in a somewhat fluid motion managed to stand up, letting her slide to the floor. But he didn't let her stay there long; with his grip in her hair, he yanked her to her feet.

“Just because you're angry doesn't mean I have to be; why the fuck do you always want to piss me off?” he hissed, pressing his face against hers.

“Because then I know I'm dealing with the real you,” she gasped.

“Shut the fuck up, Tate.”

He bent her in half, slammed her down against the mattress. She was still trying to push the blankets out of her face when he slammed into her. She shrieked, dragging her claws down the covers. She felt one of his hands in the middle of her back, pressing her down. Holding her in place. His other hand gripped onto her hip, pushing and pulling her against his thrusts.

Like my body even needs to be told what to do when it comes to him.

“See? Better, so much better,” Tate groaned, closing her eyes and focusing all of her energy on feeling him.

“Everything I give you is better. Is the best. When are you going to get that through your fucking head?” Jameson snapped.

“Never,” she breathed.

She wanted to taunt him, to tease him. Wanted to make him mad enough to step outside himself, mad enough to really treat her bad. But she couldn't get a word out. He was pounding so hard, she couldn't catch her breath. She wasn't sure what was going to happen first – orgasm, or fainting.

If you're really lucky, both. Because if you needed any further proof that you're never getting away from him, you have it now – slamming into you, over and over again.

Tate screamed when she came, beating her hand on the mattress, begging him to stop. Begging him for more. She was vaguely aware of voices outside the bedroom door, remembered that security was still wandering around the apartment, and she started coming harder. Gasping for air. Sobbing for it.

“Who's the slut now?” Jameson growled, pressing flat against her back as his hips picked up speed. She managed a laugh. Choked on a sob.

History just keeps repeating itself, on and on and on and on and on ...

“For you, Jameson. Just for you,” she whispered, stepping back in time, to seven years ago. A lifetime ago. Not long enough ago.

“Only for me,” he whispered back, and then he was coming, too.

Houston, we're so far beyond having a problem that we're just completely fucked.