~5~

Tate knew she was making things worse on herself. Her bitchy attitude was just antagonizing Jameson, making him try harder. Not good for her. The whole situation set her teeth on edge. Made her want to scream. Made her want to vomit. Made her want to run away.

Makes you want to give in.

She stayed below deck for a while and played chess with Sanders. “Play” was a generous term – he beat her every time, and the game only ever went on for as long as he wanted it to. But they would talk while they played. While he was lost in the intricacies of the game, his tongue would loosen.

“Sandy,” she started, glancing at him. His eyes were focused on the board while he set the pieces back up.

“Pay attention. I'm going to teach you the Alekhine Defense. It's very common and will help improve your game,” he told her. Tate nodded.

“I'm paying attention. But I wanted to ask you something,” she continued. His eyes flicked to her before going back to the board.

“Go ahead.”

“Do you think Jameson would ever marry me?” she asked.

Sanders stopped moving. He slowly lifted his eyes to hers, then leaned back from the board. They were sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, the chess board between them. He glanced around the room, then back at her.

“Why are you asking me this?” he asked back.

“Because it seems to me, and Jameson, that your whole goal in this little scheme is to get us together. Am I right?” Tate asked, picking up a Rook and toying with it.

“I ..., I just want things to be as they should,” Sanders replied.

“So, Jameson and I sleeping together is how things should be?” Tate laughed. He cleared his throat.

“You were happy being with him. He was happy. I don't understand what the confusion is. If you would like to be happy again, then I think you should be together,” Sanders tried to explain. Tate's laughter fell away. It was a very sweet sentiment.

“You have to know that he doesn't care about me. Whatever you're hoping for isn't going to happen. He wants to play a game, and I'm just trying to get out alive this time. I can't be with him, Sandy. Not after what he did to me,” she told him. His lips pressed together for a moment while he thought.

“He made a mistake,” Sanders' voice was soft. She opened her mouth to argue and he held up a hand. “A very large, very dangerous mistake. He wasn't thinking right. The fact that he got so upset, is a sign of how much he cares.”

“His 'sign' nearly broke me.”

“You can always go home. I will fly out with you, tonight, if that is what you wish. But it seemed to me that you were missing something. You haven't been yourself the past two months, but over the past two days, it has been like watching you come out of a coma. It's nice. I enjoy it. I had hoped that you realized it, too,” he told her.

Tate frowned and looked down, putting the Rook back in its place. She didn't like hearing things like that – Jameson always seemed to find a way to be responsible for all the good things in her life. She didn't appreciate it.

“I have,” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “But that doesn't mean I'm stupid enough to fall for the same trick twice. Sandy, if I ..., if by the end of all this, by some magical chance, Jameson actually cares about me, actually wants to be with me, but I don't want to be with him, are you going to be okay with that? Would you be okay if I broke his heart and left him?”

Sanders actually laughed.

“How funny. If Jameson could finally prove to you how much he cares, why would you leave?” he asked.

Poor, simple, sweet Sanders.

“I know you love him, but the world doesn't revolve around Jameson Kane, Sandy. Just because he might fall in love with me, does not mean I will fall in love with him,” Tate pointed out. Sanders cocked his head to the side.

“I've always wondered, how did you get so good at doing that?” he asked. She was thrown for a loop.”

“Good at what?”

“Lying to yourself.”

Before she could even process what he had just said to her, the bedroom door swung open. They both turned to see Jameson standing there. She hadn't seen him since their boat ride. She'd stuck mostly to her bedroom and he'd stayed above deck. Avoiding each other.

“Good evening, children. Just wondering if anyone had some suggestions for dinner,” he said, wandering into the room.

Tate watched him as he prowled around. He had changed into a polo shirt and a pair of jeans. No shoes. The first time she had ever gone to his house in Weston, she had been shocked to see him barefoot. She had quickly learned that Jameson preferred to be barefoot whenever he got the chance. It was almost cute in a way. Her eyes wandered over him while he moved. His thick, black hair hadn't been cut in a while, and was a little wild on top of his head. His dark tan set off his blue eyes, even in the dim light of the bedroom, and she felt her heart beat quicken.

You're losing, you're losing, you're losing.

“Dancing,” Tate practically shouted. Both men turned to look at her, and she licked her lips.

Note to self – SERIOUSLY, GET A FUCKING FILTER.

“Excuse me?” Jameson asked.

“I think we should go dancing. There's gotta be somewhere around here to dance. Let's do that,” she suggested quickly, staring at him.

“You want to dance?” he clarified.

“Yeah, why not?” she asked.

“Do you know how to dance?”

“Do you?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of dinner up top,” Jameson said. She groaned.

“I'm sorry, how is this any different than Boston? You never want to leave your little sanctuaries. How do you ever meet women?” Tate asked.

“I met you,” he pointed out.

“By practically stalking me,” she reminded him. He snorted.

“Alright, fine. We'll go out to dinner, then dancing. But when I say it's time to leave, it's time to leave,” he stressed. She rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. This is perfect, Sandy, I bought -,” she started to get excited.

“No. No Sanders. Just you and I,” Jameson said.

“Why not?” Tate whined.

“Sanders, do you want to go out dancing?” Jameson asked, and Tate had to laugh. Sanders looked ready to throw up.

“No, thank you.”

“There. Be ready by eight,” Jameson told her, and then walked out of the room.

She scrambled off the bed and high tailed it to her own room. That only gave her two hours to get ready, and she wanted to look nice. Wanted to look amazing. Wanted to make him regret ever losing the right to touch her.

Stupid fucker.

She pulled her hair up into a ponytail, but raked her fingers through the hair, giving it a messy, disheveled look; sexy. A look she hadn't gone for in a long time. She shimmied into a pair of tiny black shorts, then opted for a skin tight, long sleeve shirt. Something demure enough for dinner, but the plunging scoop-neckline also made it sexy enough for a night club.

Doing her makeup was harder. Tate hadn't really worn makeup since the accident. It seemed silly, but there hadn't been much of a reason to, no one worth being sexy for anymore. She didn't have her job, she wasn't going to sleep with anyone, and she had spent most of her time on a couch. What would have been the point of slutty eye makeup? But she laid it on thick now. She just barely talked herself out of false lashes. She wanted to look like a slut, not a two-dollar hooker. She finished off the outfit with a pair of high, thin stilettos. She turned every which way in front of a mirror, examining herself.

Eat your heart out, Satan.

Tate made her way upstairs, really wishing she could have a drink to settle her nerves. She hadn't been terribly nervous the first time she had gone to his house, and back then she had known they would end up in bed together. Now, not knowing how the night would turn out, only having hopes and wishes that she would get away unscathed – it was way worse.

“Do I look good?” she asked Sanders when she got out onto the deck. His eyes wandered over her.

“You look more like yourself,” he replied. She laughed.

“That's not really an answer,” she snickered.

“I know.”

Tate laughed again and dug her finger into his side, causing him to jump and squirm away. His lips pressed into a hard line, obviously annoyed, but she just got closer and did it again.

“One of these days, you're going to push him too far,” Jameson's voice warned from behind her.

“I could never push you too far, could I, Sandy?” Tate laughed, all of her fingers now traveling up and down his sides. He grabbed at her wrists.

“No, you could not,” Sanders assured her.

“If you two are finished flirting, I'd like to leave.”

Tate burst out laughing, and Sanders turned a little green. She was still snickering as she turned around, but her laughter caught in her throat, coming out as more of a snorting sound. Jameson was adjusting a watch on his wrist, not looking at her, which made her glad, because she didn't want to be caught drooling.

It was funny, but sometimes a person could wear really plain clothing, and it still looked expensive and rich. Jameson did this better than anyone she knew. He had changed into a very fitted t-shirt, which clung to his chest and shoulders in a way that made her mouth water. He had also tamed his hair, forcing it into a stylish mess that made her fingers ache to touch it. He finished adjusting his watch and put on his coat; a slim-fitted black leather jacket. When they had been together in Boston, if they ever went out, it was usually before or after work, so he just wore his suits. At home, he dressed to relax. Holy hell, she had never seen Jameson dressed to go out.

“You look nice,” Tate blurted out, and he stopped in the middle of putting on his jacket, obviously surprised.

“I know, thank you,” he replied. She snorted.

“You make it very hard to be nice to you,” she told him, and he laughed.

“At least I'm consistent.”

Her phone suddenly rang, and when she glanced at her screen, she couldn't believe the timing. Late Christmas present. Tate smiled slowly, and then looked up to find both Sanders and Jameson staring at her. She turned away a little before lifting the phone to her ear.

“Nick! How are you?” she exclaimed, her voice full of excitement. She could hear Jameson snort.

If she was using Nick when he wasn't actually present, it didn't really count, she figured.

Maybe I'm really Satan, this whole time.

“Good, good, how are you?” he asked.

“Doing good. Just about to go out and eat,” she replied, crossing her legs at the ankle and fiddling with her ponytail.

“Nice. I was just checking in. It's kind of weird, isn't it? I mean, we've spent so much time together over the past couple months, and then to not see you or talk to you whenever I want ...,” he managed a laugh, but he sounded sad. Tate gave a sad laugh, as well.

“Awww, I miss you, too. Really,” she told him.

There was another snort from behind her.

“Are you sure? I ran into Ang the other day, he seemed really concerned about you. I'm not here to judge you, Tate, I just ..., you know I'm always here, right? If you ever need me. If you need someone to come get you, I'll be there, in a heart beat,” Nick assured her. She laughed.

“Always the gentleman. I don't need rescuing quite yet, but I'll be sure to call you if I do,” she promised.

“I hope so. So. Are you having fun?” his tone lightened up.

“Sometimes. We went out on a speed boat today, it was alright,” she started, laying it on thick and making it sound like it was the most boring thing she'd ever done. “But yesterday Sandy and I went shopping, and I bought anything I looked at, it was awesome.”

“Sounds like trouble. Did you buy clothing?” he asked.

“Yes, lots,” she replied. He chuckled.

“Anything sexy?” he asked. Normally, Tate would stop the conversation right there. Whenever Nick tried to get flirty, she would put an immediate end to it. But she figured indulging him just a little bit this time wouldn't hurt anybody.

“Hmmm, define sexy,” she told him, her voice low.

“Something other than khaki shorts and ankle-length-skirts,” Nick offered. She laughed.

“I bought lots of shorts and skirts, but nothing khaki or ankle-length. You would love it, I bought this one skirt, it barely covers my -,”

Suddenly, her phone was pulled out of her hand. Tate barely had time to gasp before Jameson simply tossed it over the railing. She shrieked and dove for it, but it was too late. She got to watch her cell phone slowly sink into the inky depths, the screen flickering as it went.

“We'll be late,” was all Jameson said before striding down the gangplank.

She was tempted to throw something at him, like a piece of furniture, but then she remembered – she was trying to be “nice” Tatum. Not vengeful, angry, spiteful Tatum. Not punch-a-mother-fucker-in-the-head Tatum. She took a couple deep breaths through her nose, then followed after him.

Jameson hadn't bothered waiting for her, and was halfway out of the parking area when she got off the boat. She glared at his back and started heading after him, but she refused to run. When he reached the street, he finally waited till she could catch up.

“That wasn't very polite,” was all Tate said as she walked past him.

“Your phone call was annoying me. I wanted it to end,” Jameson explained.

“You could have just asked, you didn't have to throw it in the fucking ocean,” she pointed out.

“Oh, yes, I should have 'just asked', because you've been so compliant up till now,” he snapped back.

She suddenly burst out laughing, coming to a stop. They were in the middle of a crosswalk and Jameson had to grab her arm, yanking her forward. She stumbled on her heels, but managed to stay upright. He pulled her to a stop on a street corner.

“I'm sorry, I just realized something,” Tate snickered.

“What?” he demanded.

“We argue and fight like an old married couple,” she told him.

“Oh, jesus. Have you been drinking?”

“No. It's just, we never used to snap over stupid shit. It's kind of funny. When we were like a couple, we didn't act like it. Now that we're not anything like a couple, we do act like it,” she wiped at her eyes.

“Maybe you should start drinking.”

Jameson led her to an upscale restaurant that was near the marina. At first, when she saw the maître d' wearing a tux, she worried that she would be underdressed. But as they were taken to a table that sat on the third level, against a railing overlooking a huge dance floor, she saw that lots of people were dressed like her.

“When I said dancing, I was thinking more like a night club,” Tate told him, sitting down as a waiter pushed in her chair.

“Then you thought wrong. Señor ...,” Jameson started talking to their waiter in Spanish. She hadn't realized he spoke Spanish. She knew he spoke German – she had heard him speaking it to Petrushka. How many other languages did he speak? The waiter nodded and scurried away.

“What was all that?” she asked. He took off his jacket and sat across from her.

“I ordered for us,” he told her.

“How do you know what I want?” she responded. Jameson laughed.

“Tatum, I always know what you want.”

She swallowed thickly and looked away. She felt stupid. Since he had come back into her life, ever since she had catered for his party, she had been able to step up to Jameson. Sexy banter used to flow easily between them. Now she felt like her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth.

Just fake it. Act like you're with someone, anyone, else.

“You know what I think you're problem is?” Tate asked, leaning low over the table. His eyes flicked down to her tits and she smiled.

“Enlighten me,” he responded.

“You think what you want is what everyone wants,” she told him. Jameson shook his head.

“No, my problem is I know what I want, and just don't care what anyone else wants,” he corrected her.

“Sounds like a pretty big problem.”

“Only for other people.”

“Still sounds like I'm talking to the devil,” she teased, and was rewarded with his eyebrows drawing together.

“Sometimes, while talking to you, I get the same feeling,” he replied. Tate frowned and shook off his words. She leaned back in her chair and looked over the railing.

“This wasn't the kind of dancing I had in mind,” she changed the subject. She watched as people moved across the huge ballroom floor, in what she assumed was a salsa dance. A live band played upbeat music, and it was nice, but not something that made her want to shake her ass.

“Once it gets late, it'll change. Stop worrying,” he instructed her, then their waiter arrived. A scotch, neat, for Jameson. Sparkling water for Tate.

They watched people dance and made idle chit chat. It was strained at first, but eventually it flowed. Jameson had always been easy to talk to, in a way. The only problem now was that they would be chatting along, and Tate would be enjoying herself, and then a memory would smack her upside the head, like a bad acid flashback. Pool. Whiskey. Supermodel. All a lie. BAM. Conversation dampener. It would take her a couple seconds to get back into the stride of talking, and he always looked at her like he knew exactly what she was thinking, which in turn made her more uncomfortable. She was grateful when the waiter finally showed up with their dinner, till she saw what was on the plate.

“You said you were craving it,” was all Jameson said as he cut in to the steak he had ordered for himself.

“You ordered me lobster,” Tate said plainly, staring at what was probably the biggest lobster she had ever seen.

“Yes.”

“You have awfully high hopes,” she pointed out.

“Only the highest.”

“This lobster could be plated in platinum, and you still wouldn't get any pussy,” Tate warned him. An older couple at the table next to them turned around, but Jameson ignored them.

“I could make you wear that lobster as a hat and I'd probably still get pussy by the end of the night,” he countered.

Tate decided to ignore him. She wasn't going to give anything up, but she did love lobster. And this one was delicious. She dipped the pieces in a buttery garlic sauce, savored every bite. Moaned out loud a couple times. Was contemplating lifting the shell to lick it clean when she realized Jameson was staring at her.

“What?” she asked, glancing down at herself to see if she'd dribbled butter down her front.

“You are the sexiest woman I know,” he replied.

She coughed and laughed at the same time.

“I think there is a supermodel who would very much argue that point,” she managed to choke out. Jameson sighed and pushed his plate aside so he could rest his forearms against the table.

“You love to bring her up, but then change the subject. Let's just get this over with so we don't have to keep going in circles. I left home. I went to Berlin. I ran into her at a function, she was there with a mutual acquaintance. I didn't see her again for a week. I saw pictures of you with your new boyfriend. Then old pictures of you with me. More with him. It made me angry. Then people, employees, were pointing them out to me. I got angrier. So I called her up, I took her to dinner, I took her shopping. I asked her if she wanted to come back to the states with me, for a vacation. She asked about you, I told her you would be fine with it – that's the only lie I've ever told about us,” his voice got serious during the last part.

“Good to know,” Tate whispered, looking anywhere but him. She did not want to be having this conversation.

“Before we even left Germany, I told Pet that there was nothing between her and I, that I just wanted to have fun. She agreed. I was so angry at you, Tate. I thought you had lied to me, about him, about how you felt about me, about everything. I felt played. I am not a man people do that to,” Jameson explained.

“Clearly. I never even thought of trying.”

“I didn't realize that, not until it was too late. Look, she was nothing to me, except a huge mistake. Every interaction I've ever had with her is a mistake. I have said this to her. It doesn't make up for what I did to you, but it's the truth. I didn't care about her then. I don't care about her now. You're the one sitting across from me,” he informed her.

It certainly did not make up for it, at least not in Tate's mind. She sat there, still looking away from him, trying not to cry. It was blunt, and it made him sound like the worst kind of asshole, but in Jameson-speak, it was all very sweet. He had been jealous, angry, and upset. He had lashed out. He had been childish, petulant, and mean. He had been hurt. She had unknowingly hurt him.

You can't hurt Satan. This is all part of his game. Note that he said he didn't care about her – but he never said anything about caring for you. Do not lose to him again.

“You know what I think?” Tate began, turning towards him and leaning against the table as well. He quirked up an eyebrow.

“I'm scared to ask.”

“I think you wanted to hurt me. I think you planned it before you even left Boston. I think hurting my body was beginning to bore you – you wanted bigger game. You loved degrading me, now you wanted to do it in front of other people. I think it was fun for you, and I think you enjoyed it,” she called him out. There. Now he knew exactly what she thought about the whole situation.

“Well then. Once again, you would be thinking wrong,” Jameson replied, his tone cool, his eyes hard.

What does it take to get under this man's skin the way he gets under mine!?

“I'm going to dance,” Tate said abruptly.

“Excuse me?” he asked, obviously caught off guard

“Dance. They've turned down the lights, the band is gone,” she explained, scooting back from the table. He looked at her like she was crazy.

“Tate, I think we ne-,” he started, but she held up her hand.

“I don't want to do this with you. Please. Let's just ..., be friends for tonight. Okay? Just friends,” she stressed.

“Tate, in a million years, you and I will never be 'just friends',” Jameson replied in a low voice.

She got up and walked away from the table. She didn't think she could handle a heart to heart with Jameson. He already owned a large piece of real estate on hers, she couldn't afford to give him anymore. One more piece, and that pool in her memories would swallow her whole.

She went downstairs, moved straight onto the dance floor, shoved her way right into the thick of everyone. Wanted to get lost in the people. In the music. She moved her body, working her hips back and forth. It had been a really long time, but Tate still knew how to dance. Her skills had been legendary, back when she had been a bartender. She had spent many a night raking in the cash for shaking her ass. Ang had once tried to convince her to become a stripper, but she couldn't get into the idea.

It wasn't long before a guy moved up next to her. He wrapped his arm loosely around her waist and leaned in close, saying something to her in Spanish. She leaned away and tried her best to communicate via sign language, explaining that she didn't speak Spanish.

“No hablas español?” he yelled over the music. She nodded.

“No. I mean, yes. Si, no hablo español,” Tate finally got it right. He laughed.

“Ah. You are  American, yes?” he asked. His Spanish accent wrapped itself around the English vowels. Tate felt a shiver creep across her skin, and she wondered what Jameson was doing, wondered if he could see her.

“Yes, very much so,” she laughed again. The guy nodded.

“I like America, American girls. I was saying, do you want to dance?” he asked again. She flicked her eyes around the room, then nodded.

His name was Alvaro, and he was from Barcelona. He was in Marbella on vacation. He was only twenty-one, but he could dance really well, so she overlooked his age. They chatted while they danced, and when he grew bolder, he wrapped an arm around her waist, taking one of her hands in his free hand. He showed her some basic steps to a rumba. Dipped her once. Let his hand wander lower on her waist.

Tate pulled away after that, keeping it strictly PG-13. She caught sight of Jameson once, at the edge of the dance floor. A flash of angry eyes and a sharp smile, then he was gone. She figured she had pushed her luck far enough. If she went too far, he would drag her off the dance floor, and then she would pull back. Then they would fight again.

And not in the fun way.

Between songs, she made her excuses to Alvaro and left the dance floor. She wandered through the crowd, wondering where Satan had gone. She didn't see him anywhere, and after three circuits of the downstairs, she began to think he had left her. Not a complete shock.

Then she finally spotted him near a small hallway. He was talking to someone, another man in expensive clothing, with a watch even bigger than Jameson's. Through her bartending job, Tate had learned that she could tell a lot about a person by their watch. They could be wearing shit for clothing, but if a man was wearing an Audemars, he was the business.

She started heading towards them, pushing her way through people. But then, at the same time, someone broke away from the crowd and stepped up next to Jameson. A dark shape, a shadow. A nightmare.

I'm so stupid. How can I be Lillith? Lillith was first, and I certainly wasn't that.

Tate thought she was going to faint. Before Jameson, she had never been that kind of girl. Now, he was right. She was all damaged and weepy. She hated that feeling, but she couldn't stop it. The edge of her vision started going black as she watched Petrushka slime against his back, her harpy claw gliding over his shoulder.

He did it again. All of this, all a lie, all a game, he did it again, I knew he'd do it -,

Tate was shocked out of her reverie, however, when Jameson turned to look at who was touching him. He snatched Pet's hand off his shoulder, as if her touch burned him. He yanked her around till she was standing in front of him, and he did not look happy. In fact, he seemed to be yelling about something, as he held fast to her wrist. She tried to take a step towards him, but he held her at bay.

What the fuck is going on?

There seemed to be a lot of yelling. Pet was yelling at him, Jameson was yelling at her, the man in the suit was yelling at both of them. Tate wasn't near enough to hear anything that was being said, not with the music so loud. Jameson pointed a finger in Pet's face, before letting go of her wrist, forcing her backwards. Then he pointed his finger at the man, who just nodded and pulled out a cell phone. Jameson whirled around and stomped off in the opposite direction. The man was on his phone, glaring at Pet. She melted back in to the crowd, and the guy yelled after her. Pointed in her direction as two large men in suits walked up.

Tate turned around and hurried across the dance floor, elbowing people out of her way. She wasn't sure what had just happened, but she could have sworn that it looked like Jameson had been telling Petrushka to fuck off. But what was Petrushka even doing there, if Jameson hadn't invited her? How could she be at the same restaurant as them? Didn't Pet live in Berlin? Didn't she have the whole world as her goddamn playground? Why couldn't Tate get away from this chick!?

Tate broke free of the dance floor and spied some leather couches tucked in a recessed corner, next to a tiny, narrow hall that lead to the bathrooms. She made a beeline for the sofas, just wanting to sit down and breathe. Collect her thoughts, figure out what was going on. But as she stepped down into the sitting area, a large man jumped out of nowhere, holding his arms open in front of her.

“No, go back the way you came,” he grumbled at her with a thick Middle Eastern accent.

“Excuse me?” she bristled, trying to step around him. He matched her move for move.

“This area VIP,” he informed her. Tate snorted.

“No one is even sitting in there,” she pointed out. He shook his head.

“VIP. You go back the way you came,” he repeated. She opened her mouth to tell him where he could go, when someone stepped in between them.

“Where the fuck have you been? I've been looking everywhere for you,” Jameson demanded.

“Uh ...,” Tate answered articulately.

“You cannot be here, please leave!” the security man was snapping.

“We're leaving,” Jameson informed her, ignoring the guard and grabbing her by the elbow. She didn't budge.

“Good, yes, you leave now,” the guard agreed, ushering them away.

“Now,” Jameson growled.

“STOP.”

It came out as a shout, even though she hadn't meant it to. Both men stared at her, the security guard looking shocked. Jameson just looked angry.

“I don't have patience for your bullshit, Tate, not right now. I want -,” he started.

“I want to sit down. Please,” she asked. He blinked down at her, his lips pressed into a hard line. She could tell he wasn't happy. Could tell that he really wanted to drag her out of there. By her hair, if necessary.

“I don't think -,” Jameson began again.

She brushed past him. He was blocking the security guard, so she made it all the way to one of the couches before all hell broke loose. The security guard started yelling, which set Jameson off. Jameson never yelled, not unless he absolutely had to, but he did stand toe to toe with the larger man, quietly explaining that he and his guest could sit wherever the fuck they wanted to sit. A second later, the man in the suit from earlier, the one who had also yelled at Pet, showed up. This seemed to settle everything. The security guard slunk away, followed by the suit-man, and then Jameson came and sat down next to Tate.

“Thank you,” she said. He raked his hand through his hair.

“You're not welcome. What the fuck are you doing?” he asked, stretching an arm out across the seat behind her. She kept her eyes trained on the dance floor.

“I just wanted to sit down. I was dancing, I wanted to cool off,” she replied, trying to sound casual.

“Tatum. You're a horrible fucking liar.”

They were interrupted by a scantily clad waitress. She was carrying a bottle of Louis XIII cognac. A gift for Jameson, compliments of the owner of the club. An apology for any distress caused by the staff or guests. Tate's eyes nearly fell out of her head. At home, a bottle cost anywhere from $2,000 to $3,000. The price in Spain, in Euros, in a nightclub ..., she was impressed. Beyond impressed.

The waitress poured out a shot, to taste. Jameson nodded his approval, so the woman filled up two old fashioned glasses, neat, and then left them alone. For the most part, Tate had avoided alcohol ever since her stint in the hospital, but when someone put a drink in front of her worth $166 a pour, she wasn't ever going to say no. Jameson sipped at his drink. She downed hers in one shot.

Before he could interrogate her some more, Tate skittered away and hustled into the bathroom. She had to get herself together enough to ask him about Pet. He must have known she was in Marbella. Maybe he was mad because Pet had almost blown his cover, his secret. Maybe the worst was yet to come. Maybe Jameson's sole purpose in life was to slowly drive Tate mad. He had almost succeeded last time. Maybe he just wanted to finish the job.

Five minutes later, she dragged herself back out of the bathroom, not feeling anymore “together” than before she had gone inside it. She dragged her feet as she walked down the hallway, dreading going back to Jameson. But just as she was about to exit the hall, she almost rammed into someone.

“I have been waiting to meet you.”

For someone so pretty, she sounds like she has a dick in her mouth.

Petrushka was much taller than Tate. Both women were wearing heels, which put Pet at around six-foot-three – easily Jameson's height or taller, and well over Tatum. It made Tate feel even more insignificant. Pet was also even prettier up close than she was in all those pictures on the internet. Tate was getting smaller and smaller by the second.

“I didn't know you were here,” Tate blurted out. She knew she had no right to be angry at Pet – Jameson had done everything. Pet had been used just as badly in his little game.

“I knew you were here. It is why I came here. I had to see you, with my own eyes,” Pet replied. Tate swallowed thickly, glancing around.

“I'm sorry, you know. About ..., how everything happened. I didn't know, just so you know. I didn't know he was bringing you home,” Tate stammered.

“It was all in good fun, I think,” Pet laughed, as if she knew some sinister joke. Tate was confused.

“Well, I didn't really see it that way.”

“That's because you are garbage, you couldn't possibly understand the things that people like us do.”

Tate was shocked. Here she was, assuming a kind of kinship with this woman. Sure, Jameson had painted a very psychotic picture of the supermodel – but god knew what he said about Tate when she wasn't around; she didn't trust anything that came out of his mouth. Plus, he had used Pet. Didn't that make them, like, sisters-against-the-cause? Judging by the pissed-mist rolling off of Pet, the answer was apparently fucking not.

“Excuse me?” Tate squeaked, not sure she'd heard right.

“You, you are ..., are trash. A silly piece of desperate trash. He uses you for his filthy sex, and that is it. He always comes back to me in the end,” Pet talked down at her.

Tate narrowed her eyes. This was a woman scared, not gloating. Pet was threatened by Tate, that's why she was angry. She wasn't there to brag about what a cruel and sadistic joke it was, Jameson bringing Tate to Spain. Pet was there trying to scare Tate away – because she hadn't expected to see her.

“Then why is he here with me?” Tate challenged. Pet flicked her wrist dismissively.

“Because he is perverse. He likes rolling in the mud, he has always been this way,” she replied. Tate stepped up close to the other woman, got right up in her space.

“You know what? I couldn't give two fucks what you think. What either of you think. He chased me here – not you, who can't seem to stop chasing after him. So who's really the desperate one? Now get the fuck out of my way, before I knock you on your ass,” Tate hissed.

Pet seemed shocked. She probably wasn't used to someone swearing at her and threatening her with physical violence. Tate took the opportunity to brush past her. She wasn't about to fight over Jameson. He wasn't worth it, on any level.

Though the idea of bouncing Pet's head off the ground like a tennis ball did hold a certain appeal.

When Tate got back to the VIP area, Jameson was sitting in the same spot, but leaning backwards over the couch a little, talking to the man in the suit. Tate was pretty sure suit-man was the owner of the club, the gifter of the cognac. She sat down beside Jameson, tucking her feet up under herself. She was feeling hot after her run-in with Pet. Flustered. A little giddy. She had just confronted a nightmare, and instead of melting in to a self-loathing puddle, she had threatened to beat its ass. She felt amazing.

I can do this. I can win this game. I can knock this game out of the park.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement. Pet was sidling up to the edge of the VIP section. A new security guard was in place, and she was getting the same turn down Tate had received. As Pet argued with the guard, her eyes flicked to Tate, then glared. Tate glared right back. Then Pet reached out, running her fingers down the lapel of the guard's suit. The man laughed, obviously not immune to Petrushka's stunning good looks. It wouldn't be long before she weaseled her way into the sitting area. How awkward would that be? Jameson would probably love it. Just sit back, sip his cognac, and watch the two women wrestle around on the floor. Awesome.

Or he could walk away with her, leaving you a broken mess, floating back in that pool.

No. Tate wouldn't let that happen. Not this time. She was stronger, bolder, better; she knew that, now. The only person who would be broken at the end of this would be Jameson fucking Kane. She would win this game. Without thinking about what she was doing, Tate reached out and grabbed Jameson's head, roughly pulling him away from his conversation.

“What the fuck do you -,” he started to snap, but he was cut off. Mostly by her tongue in his mouth.

She moaned and raised up onto her knees, yanking him even closer. One of his arms wrapped around her, the only thing keeping them balanced, what with Tate suddenly leaning all of her weight against him. His other hand still held onto his drink, keeping it out away from their bodies, obviously trying not to spill anything.

But none of that seemed to catch Jameson off guard or slow him down. He dove in head first, went right along with her and kissed her back, his fingers digging almost painfully into her waist. She broke away to gasp in air, and he pulled her right back in, kissing her like she was priceless cognac, and he wanted every last drop.

Tate squeezed her eyes shut tight and tried not to think. Tried not to notice how all the nerve endings in her lips were coming alive. Tried not to notice how kissing him made every hurt go away, just a little. It wasn't fair, Jameson had caused the hurts. But it was true. She felt like a live wire that needed grounding.

As if he could read her mind – which she was pretty sure he could, he was Satan after all – he suddenly gripped her waist even tighter and leaned back into the couch, yanking her around to his front. Tate moved her legs so she was straddling him, and she suddenly, most definitely, felt grounded. Right against the massive bulge in his pants. She moaned into his mouth, raking her nails down his chest.

Hope you love a show, Pet. Jameson and I know how to put on a good one.

“A moment, please,” Jameson panted, before pulling far enough away to down the rest of his drink. Then he jumped right back into it, trailing his lips along her neck, down to her cleavage. Tate let her head fall back, her arms wrapped around his neck. She slid her eyes back to Pet and smiled before blowing her a kiss.

Petrushka. Went. Ballistic. Started shrieking at the security guard in some language Tate didn't quite recognize, maybe Russian. There was a flurry of activity and several more guards showed up, along with important looking suit-man. All the while, Pet kept shouting, pointing an accusing finger at Tatum. Tate just smiled back, gave a small wave. By then, Jameson had leaned away so he could take in the commotion, though both his arms remained around her waist.

“Your girlfriend is a real catch,” Tate commented, watching as the security team began bustling Pet away. Jameson snorted.

“Yeah, and what's even stranger – I don't have a girlfriend,” he replied, and then she felt his tongue tracing along the neckline of her shirt. She glanced down at him.

Her heart was skipping beats, she was pretty sure. She had been kissing him for show, to piss off Petrushka. Tate didn't really want to be doing this, not with him. She should let him go, get off of him. Go take twelve cold showers, then fly the fuck back to Boston. She could work out the reappearance of her sex drive with Ang, just like old times.

But she couldn't move.

“Jameson,” she breathed his name. He lifted his head, but didn't look at her. He kept his eyes on her chest.

“Hmmm?” he replied, lifting a hand and tracing a finger along her breast bone. Down in to her cleavage. Pulling slightly at her shirt. She licked her lips.

Do not do this. Do not do this. Do not do this.

“We shouldn't do this,” she whispered. He quirked up an eyebrow and finally looked at her, his intense blue eyes boring holes into her head. Into her soul. She had never handled his stare very well. He continued slowly rubbing his finger up and down her skin.

“And why is that?” he asked, his eyes hooded and sexy. Tate cleared her throat, looked away from him.

“Because I don't want to.”

“I wasn't the one who just sexually assaulted another person while they were in the middle of a conversation,” Jameson pointed out with a laugh.

“Yeah, but I only did that because of her,” Tate admitted. His finger stilled, then moved, tracing along the edge of her shirt until his whole hand was cupping her breast. She closed her eyes. It felt like it had been so long since anyone had touched her like that. Since he had touched her.

“Really. That was a pretty dirty game to play, baby girl,” Jameson said in a low voice, his palm gliding back and forth. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Stared down at him.

“I learned from the best,” she whispered.

He stood up abruptly, but held onto her, so she couldn't fall. Tate's legs went out from under her and she had to stay on her tip toes as Jameson forced her backwards. Out of the VIP. Down the narrow little hallway, past the bathrooms. He stopped by the last door, a large “SALIDA” sign casting a read glow over both of them. All the oxygen rushed out of her lungs as she stared up at him.

Satan is most definitely back.

“You didn't learn well enough,” Jameson growled at her, his hands on her hips, fingers digging in to her flesh.

“How so?” she breathed.

“You're still a horrible fucking liar.”

His mouth was on hers, punishing her with his roughness, and she was powerless against him. Like always. Any sort of self preservation flew out the window. Coherent thought flew out the fucking window. She wasn't pain, anymore. She wasn't hurt, or memories, or anger. She was just Tatum again. Tatum with Jameson.

Finally.

She moaned and pressed her hips against his, dug her nails in to the back of his neck. His hands pressed flat against her waist, then slid up her body until they were covering her breasts, squeezing before they worked their way back down to her butt. She pushed back against him, and he let her move them across the hallway, till it was his back against a wall.

Tate was back on her tip toes, her teeth skimming the corded muscles in his neck. Tongue trailing along his clavicle. Jameson's hand was in her hair, but it was gentle, and he turned them again, so she was once again pinned between him and the wall. She moaned loudly, and his mouth was back on hers like she had called for him. Tate couldn't get enough. She had always been an addict, and he was a drug. She wanted more. More than that, more than he was giving. All that he had to give.

She felt his hand on her bare thigh, and then he was roughly grabbing at her, lifting her leg to his hip. Trying to get closer to her, as close as their clothing would allow. She stretched her leg out, pressing her toes against the wall across from them. Jameson sunk his whole body down, kissing his way to her breasts, and then he grabbed her butt, lifting her as he stood up straight. Her legs went around his waist. She felt drunk. She felt wasted. She didn't care where she was, or what she was doing. As long as it went on and on and on and on and …,

“You're coming home with me,” Jameson breathed against her mouth. Tate nodded, running her hands down his chest, pulling at his shirt, working her way underneath.

“Yes,” she whispered, groaning when she felt skin beneath her fingertips. She scratched her nails around to his back.

I know this land.

“No more bullshit,” he continued, kissing her throat. He lifted one hand away from her ass, skimmed his fingers along the waistband of her shorts.

“No,” she shook her head, mimicking his movements as she trailed her fingers around his belt.

“I want you. You want me,” he stated, moving his fingers to the top of her shirt and yanking it down, exposing all of her cleavage, down to her bra.

“Yes,” Tate agreed. Her hands were on auto-pilot, sliding his belt out of its buckle. This was her job, after all. She was so good at it.

“It has been three months, Tate,” Jameson groaned, raking his fingers across her breasts.

“Oh my god.”

“I'm going to be inside of you tonight. We can't stop this.”

“I know. I want ...,”

She was in a dream. A love-drunk haze, it had always enveloped her when she was in Jameson's presence. Tate had been stupid to think that a simple near-death experience had cured her of it. His lips, his body, his words, none of that could snap her out of it. But his hand. His hand, creeping onto her throat, seemingly of its own volition, that stopped her.

He felt it, too. She could see it in his eyes. It was like they were both waking up. Jameson's absolute favorite body part, on any woman, was the throat. Tate knew this, because her favorite body part for him to touch was her throat. It was like a calling card, a stamp, a brand. At night, she would dream about his fingers around her throat. Pray for them. Sure, before him, she'd had men grab her by the throat. But no one did it quite like him. He did it like it was something he needed to do, like he had to do it because he owned her.

Probably because he does.

Her feet hit the ground with a thud. Tate stared at him, her hands still gripping his belt. One of his hands was still on her ass. The other rested just below her throat, pressed across her clavicle, his index finger stretched halfway up her trachea.

Such a sexy word.

“Too much for you, baby girl?” Jameson asked in a soft voice, a smile on his lips as he gently tapped his finger against her throat. She swallowed thickly, tried to collect her thoughts in a flash.

“No. I'm just not going to suck your dick in some Spanish night club,” she replied.

Oh, there's some bravado! Almost sounded believable, too! A for effort, you stupid bitch.

“You were about to,” Jameson called her out. Tate snorted.

“Then why aren't I?” she asked, letting him go. He finally stepped away, and she hated that she missed his warmth.

“Because. You're scared of me. I'll have to work on that,” he told her.

“I'm not scared of you,” she argued. He laughed.

“You're terrified. But sometimes, that can make things interesting. Let's go home,” he said, and then he just walked away, leaving her standing there alone in a horny, confused, breathless, puddle.