~13~

Tatum snuck downstairs. It was about three in the afternoon. She wanted to collapse. She wanted to fall into a coma for a hundred years. She wanted everything to be still, and quiet. Last time she'd had thoughts like that, things hadn't ended so well for her.

After her mental breakdown in the alley, Jameson had the car pulled around. Carried her to it. Took her back to the hotel. Treated her nice. Told her things he had been wanting to say. Things he had apparently been needing to say.

It hurt her soul.

While Jameson took a shower, she had tried to sneak into Sanders' room, but he wasn't there. Tate knew Ang was at the hotel. His flight had gotten in at noon, plus there was a “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging on his door. He was probably sleeping. She wanted to curl up with him. Cuddle. Cry. Figure out what the fuck was wrong with her. See if he would still love her, even after she had sold her heart and soul to the devil.

Getting a key card was easy. Jameson had rented all the rooms, and Tate was listed as a guest under the room numbers. She simply told them that she had forgotten her key. She got a couple of sideways looks, probably because of the short-shorts she had slipped on and the fact that she was barefoot, so she told them she was Jameson's wife. Scary thought. They backed right down and Mrs. Kane was given a key to all three rooms. Success.

Tate peeked her head through Ang's door, glancing around. She was surprised at what she saw, and walked all the way into the suite, leaving the door open behind her. The room was a mess. His luggage looked like it had been thrown into the room. There was a small seating area with couches, and all the cushions were askew, one even on the floor. A tall floor lamp was knocked to the ground and broken. Ang's jacket was on the floor, one of the sleeves ripped a little. Tate started breathing fast through her nose. They were in a very nice hotel, in a very nice part of the city, but still. It was a big city. Muggings happened, robberies happened.

There was a thump to her left and Tate whirled around. She crept forward a couple steps and she heard it again. Thump, thump. Someone was in the bedroom. Tate pressed her hand over her mouth. Someone was robbing the hotel room, right at that moment. They were in Ang's room. With Ang.

Fuck that. She rushed back towards the front door. The hotel provided bins full of complimentary umbrellas – Paris had wet winters. Tate pulled out a long one and charged back towards the bedroom. She kicked open the door and let out a growl, holding the umbrella like a bat.

“The cops are coming, mother fucker! You have -,” she started to shout, but was cut off by yelling and screaming. She blinked a couple times, trying to adjust her eyes to the sight in front of her.

Oh. My. God.

“What the fuck, Tate!?” Ang was shouting as he struggled to get out of the bed.

He was completely nude, but that wasn't what shocked her – she had seen Ang naked more times than she could count. No, what shocked Tate was the other person in the room. A woman sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on a shirt in a nervous, frantic manner. Tate stared in wide eyed shock.

“I ..., you ..., I ...,” she breathed, feeling a little like she was going to faint. Ang groaned and started to walk towards her.

“I didn't want you to find out this way, I wanted -,”

Tate lost it. Her mind wasn't exactly the strongest thing on the best of days, and it certainly wasn't one of those days. She let out a shriek and banged the umbrella against the bedroom door. The sound was loud, and caused Ang to jump. Tate let out another frustrated yell as she turned and hurried back into the seating area. There was some muffled movement in the room behind her, then she heard footsteps racing after her.

“Don't talk to me. I don't want to talk about it,” she said, her voice fast and shaky. Ang appeared in front of her, now wearing a pair of boxer briefs. He stood in front of the open door, blocking her exit.

“Stop. We have to talk about this, you look like you're going to pass out,” he told her. She stared at him for a second and then whirled away, pacing across the living room.

Don't crack. Do. Not. Crack. One breakdown per day, that's all you get.

“I'm fine. I just have to get out of here,” Tate said, raking a hand through her hair.

“Just let me -,” Ang started again, walking up next to her. He reached for her arm, but she swung the umbrella up, pointing it at his chest.

“Don't touch me!” she hissed at him. “How could you do this? How could you not tell me!?”

“You've been gone! You've been with him! How was I supposed to tell you!?” Ang yelled back, holding his hands up like her umbrella was locked and loaded.

“Stop using him as an excuse for everything! This is why, isn't it!? Why you've been weird for so long, why you never wanted to see me!” Tate yelled. He looked at her like she was stark raving mad.

Jameson never looks at me like that. Sanders never looks at me like that.

“I wasn't being weird, Tate, I was just waiting for the right time,” Ang said. From behind him, Tate could hear soft footsteps coming down the hallway. She narrowed her eyes and stepped to the side so she could point her umbrella at his guest.

“Well, you sure knew how to pick the right fucking time. Was this your idea?”

She was very pregnant, but her sister still looked beautiful. Ellie's honey blonde hair was a disheveled mess around her head, and her shirt had been buttoned wrong, leaving one side hanging lower than the other. She was chewing on her bottom lip.

“Tatum, it's really ..., not what you think,” Ellie insisted. Tate let out a laugh, but it sounded more like a dying cat.

“Not what I think? Not what I think!? Then things sure have changed a lot during my little vacation, cause it looked an awful lot like the two of you were fucking!” she screamed at them, waving the umbrella around as she spoke.

Ang closed his eyes, sucking air through his teeth. Ellie turned bright red. Tate glared at both of them, gulping in deep breaths of air, the umbrella still held out in front of her like a weapon. She glanced around them. The living room made sense, now. Ang and Ellie must have stumbled in, gotten busy on the couch. Knocked over the lamp. Ripped each others clothes off, and then crashed into the bedroom.

Thank god I didn't come in any earlier.

“Tate. Please. It just sort of ..., happened. We spent a lot of time together while you were in the hospital. We both missed you,” Ang explained, holding his hands out defensively. She gasped.

“This has been going on for over two months!?” Tate demanded. He winced.

“It just happened one night,” he told her.

“It just happened one night!? You both missed me!? So, what, you thought sleeping with each other would be like being with me!? That is so fucking weird, and some kind of incestuous, I'm sure,” Tate pointed out, pressing a hand to her forehead.

“It's not all always about you, Tate,” Ang snapped. “We missed you, so that brought us closer together. I get her, and she likes me, I don't know.”

“But jesus, in TWO STATES, my sister and I have managed to sleep with each others ..., whatevers. Somethings. God! She sleeps with Jameson, I sleep with Jameson. I sleep with you, she sleeps with you. Fuck,” Tate swore. Ang went to step forward and she swung the umbrella wide. “Don't fucking come near me. You kept this from me, and it's huge. I may have gone crazy, and I may have sold my soul, but I would never have kept something like this from you.”

“You're not my mother, or my girlfriend, Tate. I can sleep with whoever I want to,” Ang pointed out.

All of a sudden, and very unexpectedly, her eyes filled with tears. She didn't know who was more horrified, her or Ang.

“You know how I feel about her, what she did to me. You're my best friend. Why did it have to be her?” Tate sniffled in a small voice. Ang's face went from angry to heart broken in an instant, but it was Ellie who stepped forward.

“Tatum, he didn't do it on purpose – we didn't. Really. And we kept trying to stop, but ..., we just couldn't,” she tried to explain. Tate glared at her.

“Oh, that makes me feel so much better,” she hissed.

“Tate, just chill out and let's -,”

Knock knock knock.

Jameson stood in the open doorway. Perfect. Tate cut her eyes to him for a moment, and then looked back at Ang. He looked equal parts guilty and angry. To be called out by Tate was one thing, but to be called out in front of the devil was quite another.

“You should really keep your door shut,” Jameson's cool voice rang through the room.

“I don't want him here, not now,” Ang's voice was cold and ominous as he stared hard at her. Tate gripped the umbrella between two hands and licked her lips.

“Give us a minute,” she said as Jameson made his way into the suite, shutting the door behind him.

“This looks far too exciting to walk away from. What's going on in here?” Jameson asked, his eyes looking over the messed up furniture, the umbrella in Tate's hand, Ang's state of undress. He stopped when he got to Ellie's disheveled form, and he narrowed his eyes, smiling.

“Get the fuck out of my room!” Ang roared. Jameson raised one eyebrow, but appeared otherwise unruffled by the outburst.

“Your room? I believe my name is on the bill,” Jameson pointed out. Ang's whole body turned red.

“I don't have to take your shit, Satan,” he snapped. Jameson laughed; a dark, evil sound.

“You'll take anything I decide to serve you, Angier,” he growled back.

“That's it, I'm gonna -,” Ang started to swear and stalk across the floor. Tate shrieked and waved the umbrella up and down in between them.

“Stop it! Everyone just shut the fuck up! You and I used to have sex all the time, you're my best friend, and you fucked my sister, the person who tried to ruin my life!” she screamed at Ang. Everyone went completely still. Except for Jameson. He kept smiling. She swung the umbrella around and pointed it at him. “And you! You're the one who planned all of this! You get some sick, weird, pleasure out of fucking with my head! So fuck off!” At last, she swung the umbrella to her sister. “And you! Maybe think of someone else, instead of yourself, for one goddamn fucking second!”

Tate was shaking by the end of her tantrum. She was positive her face was beet red, and had no doubt that she looked full-on crazy. Both Jameson and Ang stepped forward, reaching out for her. She shrieked and swung the umbrella wide, causing them to jump back. She took the opportunity to scurry out of the room, down the hall, and into her own suite. She marched right into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her, as hard as she could.

God, I'm like an eight year old. So pathetic.

She slid to the floor, squeezing herself in between the toilet and the bath tub. The umbrella clattered to the floor. She felt crazy. Ang and Ellie. Sure, her feud with her sister was over and they had made sort-of-peace – but it didn't change the fact that for a large chunk of her life, Ellie had been a raging bitch. She had made Tate's life a living hell while growing up, and then just one night. One horrible, young, thoughtless mistake, and Ellie ran Tate out of her home. Away from her family. Sure, Tate liked the way her life had turned out, but it still hurt. It never stopped hurting. Her father still wouldn't talk to her. And Ang knew all of this, knew what Tate had been through because of her sister, knew how much it still upset her – and he'd still had sex with Ellie. Then lied about it, for two months.

Not. Okay. It was like a best girl friend sleeping with an evil ex. Horrible.

And Jameson. Jameson. He had to have known Ang was bringing Ellie. He had to – he had chartered the private plane. He had done this on purpose. To make Tate crazy. To drive a wedge between her and Ang. To rip her apart a little. He would do anything, to be in charge. All his sweet words. Lies. He had brought them there, he had to have known. Well, not him entirely. Sanders had made all the reservations. God, did Sanders know!? Tate started crying harder.

She felt betrayed, by everyone. How could Ang go two and a half months, and not say anything!? All those phones calls, all those times he had bailed on her; he had been sneaking off to see Ellie – ditching Tate for Ellie. So many opportunities to say something.

That's what hurt the most. More than him picking Ellie of all people to date, was him keeping it a secret for so long. Despite everything that had happened, Tate had thought they were closer than that; she still told him everything about Satan. She thought he would have returned the favor. Apparently, she had thought wrong.

Just like always, stupid girl.

“Tatum, open the door,” Jameson's voice was loud. She shook her head.

“Just go away,” she sighed, pressing her face into her knees. He banged against the door.

“Open the door,” he demanded.

“I want to go home,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around her legs.

“I am going to count to three, and then I am coming in there, whether you like it or not,” he warned her.

“Please. Just let me go,” she was barely breathing, her lips hardly moving.

There was silence for a second, then a loud crack. The door flung wide open, bounced off the wall. Tate could hear him striding into the room, but she didn't look up. He grabbed her wrists, pulled her up so she was standing. She was waiting for him to tell her to shut up, to calm the fuck down. But he didn't. He pulled her into him, wrapped his arms around her.

“Baby girl, the things you get yourself into,” he sighed.

“Why did he have to sleep with her?” Tate whispered, sliding her arms around his waist, curling her fists tightly into his t-shirt.

“Life takes some interesting turns – especially when it comes to the people we wind up sleeping with,” Jameson pointed out.

“You're not allowed to make me feel better. You're an asshole.”

“True. But I'm an asshole who used to be very good at making you feel better,” he reminded her. She sighed, pressing her face into his chest.

“And making me feel like shit.”

“You like that almost as much.”

Not when it's for real.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Tate whispered.

“Because I didn't know.”

“Liar.”

“He asked if he could bring his girlfriend. I said I didn't care. I didn't ask who the girlfriend was, why would I ever care who Angier is fucking?” Jameson asked her.

Liar.

“Sanders knew,” Tate breathed. She felt his fingers dig into her hips.

“He didn't. Stop trying to find someone to blame. Shit happens. Get over it,” he instructed her.

Shit doesn't happen. Jameson fucking Kane happens.

“Why did you do this? To rip me and Ang apart? To make me hate him, so I would like you more? Or to teach me a lesson? That I shouldn't forget my past? Shouldn't forget what a horrible person I am? Trust me, I'll never forget that. You made sure of that last time,” she told him, visions of water dancing through her head. So much water. So cold. All around her. Only this time, there was no Ang to save her.

“You're not a horrible person, baby girl,” Jameson whispered. “I'm not playing with you. No more games.”

Liar.

It was always games between her and Jameson. She had lost sight of that for a little while. It was easy to do, when a person was surrounded by sweet words and sweeter lies. She felt like being with Jameson was like living from one panic attack to the next. She didn't know how much more her pysche could take, if she let it go on. It wasn't fair. His ego wasn't even bruised. Wasn't even scratched. Wasn't even touched.

Of course it isn't. He's Jameson Kane, the goddamn devil. What did you expect?