~7~

Jameson was frustrated.

He was horny, he was angry, and he was upset, but mostly, he was very frustrated.

Things were not going well.

He tried being nice. It was almost physically painful for him to do so, but he tried. For her. It didn't work. He tried impressing her, showing off for her, even ignoring her. He let her get away with murder, things he never would have tolerated in the old days. And still. Nothing. Tate still looked at him like he was the devil.

For the first time ever, Jameson worried that he wouldn't be able to win her over.

Her body, though, was a different story. It still reacted to him the same way it always had. Ready. Willing. He felt if he could just touch her enough, just taste her enough, her defenses would melt away and he could lay siege to her. Win her. Claim her.

He just wanted to be absolved of his sins. He wanted his old life back. He didn't want to be obsessed with her, but he was, plain and simple. She ruled his senses. Tate hadn't learned how to do it yet, but Jameson knew when to call a spade a spade. He wouldn't waste time wallowing in denial, trying to convince himself that he didn't want her. Despite all appearances, he was much more of a go-with-the-flow kind of person.

Now if only she could learn to do that, life would be so much simpler for both of them.

So he was in a particularly dark mood when he made his way up top the next morning. Both Sanders and Tatum were already awake, dining at the table. He wasn't sure who had cooked – usually he had breakfast delivered. Tate had her mirrored sunglasses on, and she had contorted herself to fit her whole body, legs and all, in her tiny chair. She was laughing at something Sanders was saying, smiling broadly. Jameson's hand twitched, and he once again had to remind himself that she wasn't ready for him to touch her. Not in the way he wanted to touch her; not in the way she needed to be touched.

“I was just going to wake you,” Sanders said, noticing his approach.

“I'm sure,” Jameson grumbled, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Someone sounds cheery this morning,” Tate teased him. He glared at her.

“Long night.”

“Poor baby.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Ooohhh,” she almost moaned. “You're going to be extra fun today, aren't you?”

“Piss me off more than I already am, Tate, and I'll show you how 'fun' I can be,” he warned her.

She kept her mouth shut, but she smiled to herself as she sipped her coffee.

“If you are ready,” Sanders spoke up, “we could head to the apartment.”

It was an offer of escape, and Jameson took it gladly. It was hard to be around Tate, sometimes too hard. He wanted to slip in to old roles, old habits. She wouldn't let him. It was like ice skating up hill.

After they had grabbed jackets and other necessities, he and Sanders headed off the boat. Not a moment too soon – Tate was stripping off her clothing to reveal a bikini, and Jameson knew he was staring at her like a hungry wolf. He was about to follow her up to the top deck, where he would continue her efforts and help her take off the bikini, preferably with his teeth, but Sanders coughed loudly, dragging his attention away.

“May I ask what happened last night?” Sanders asked, his voice casual as they walked to the Rolls-Royce. Well, casual for Sanders.

“No,” Jameson replied, sliding into the passenger seat while Sanders got behind the wheel.

“She mentioned a threesome,” Sanders continued, pulling the car out of its spot and heading into traffic.

“No threesome, sorry to say.”

“You tried?”

“Jesus christ, Sanders, are you a girl now? What's with the gossip? No, I did not try to orchestrate a threesome. If I wanted one, I would have one. Tate laid out a dare. I called her bluff. I wouldn't have slept with that woman, and I knew Tate would stop it. That's it. No more questions,” Jameson explained.

Sanders made a humming noise, but didn't say anything else.

At the apartment building, Jameson had a chat with the manager. No one was to be allowed into his apartment, or even onto his floor. Only himself, Sanders, and Tatum were the exception. Though with the way things had been going, he wasn't entirely sure he'd ever get a chance to bring her there. The manager apologized profusely for the mistake – they were training an entirely new security team, and Ms. Ivanovic was very convincing. It was generally known that she and Jameson had been involved together. It wouldn't happen again.

Jameson warned him that it had better not.

He wasn't ready to deal with Tate quite yet, so he took Sanders to lunch at an outdoor cafe. It had been a long time since it had been just the two of them. Since well before Tate had entered the picture. It was quiet. Peaceful. Nice. Jameson sighed, feeling a little restored. He sat back in his chair, just people watching, while Sanders finished his salad.

“Sir,” Sanders' voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Yes?” Jameson asked, folding his arms.

“Things do not seem to be progressing very well.”

“I am well aware of this.”

“She still thinks you're the devil. She thinks you did everything on purpose, planned it from the start.”

“I am aware. I'm working on it.”

“Doesn't look like it.”

Jameson was a little shocked. Tate was a bad influence on Sanders.

“You don't help, you know. You have become a very effective cock blocker,” Jameson snapped. A blush crept up Sanders' neck, but his face remained impassive.

“Winning her heart is one thing. Using her for sex is another. I won't allow it,” he replied.

“Your sentimentality makes me sick, and the thing Tate and I do best is use each other for sex. Just let me do things my own way,” Jameson instructed. He took out his wallet and threw some money on the table before standing up. Sanders followed suit and they walked away from the cafe.

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” Sanders asked, for the millionth time. Jameson rolled his eyes.

“Am I ever not sure, Sanders? Just stay out of the way, let me reach her, and the rest of this month will be a cake walk,” Jameson told him. Sanders made a sound like a snort, only more dignified.

“I think you are forgetting yourself. Forgetting the past,” he pointed out.

Ego, down a notch. Sanders: 1

“I have to, Sanders, if I want to function and move forward. I laid out the deal, she took it. It has to be this way,” Jameson replied.

“Is this really about a deal? A game?” Sanders pressed.

“Of course. It's what it's always about between us. Only bigger. With smarter players,” Jameson laughed. He stopped in front of a building, stretched his arms above his head. Yawned.

“I have a question,” Sanders stated, standing at his side.

“Yes?”

“When are you going to realize it's not a game?”

Jameson swallowed thickly. He wasn't a stupid man, he knew his ego wasn't entirely bulletproof. He was very good at hiding how he felt – so good, in fact, that even he didn't know what he was feeling half the time. But sometimes, just sometimes, Sanders could create a crack. Rip right through the layers to reveal a piece of Jameson that he hadn't known was there.

“I need her to think it's a game, but I know it's not a game,” Jameson replied in a soft voice, refusing to meet Sanders' eyes.

“Good.”

They started walking again and were silent for a while. During that time, Jameson was able to cover himself back up. Don his armor. He needed to focus. He couldn't worry about anything besides what was in front of him: getting her back. Then he would worry about what all his fucking feelings meant.

It was a little hard to have focus, though, when he was sporting a hard-on 90% of the time.

Maybe I should hire a hooker …

 

*

 

Tate woke up with a start. Someone was touching her. She shoved her hat back off her forehead and looked down. Jameson was sitting on the edge of her lounger, running his fingers down her leg. She wondered how long he had been there.

“What are you doing?” she asked through a yawn.

“Touching you.”

“Obviously. When did you guys get back?” she asked, her leg starting to twitch.

“About an hour ago.”

“An hour!? Why didn't Sanders wake me?” she snapped, sitting upright.

“Because he isn't here. He's in town. It's just me for now,” Jameson told her. He still hadn't looked at her. His voice was calm, soft. Almost zen like, even.

She had never been more nervous around him than she was right at that moment.

What the fuck is he planning!?

“Oh. Well. Are we going to go see him?” Tate asked, licking her lips. Jameson didn't answer, and she pulled her legs away from him, moved to sit cross-legged.

“I hadn't planned on it. It's New Year's Eve,” he told her. She nodded.

“I know. I was going to ask what the plan was, if there was a plan,” she replied.

“There will be fireworks. I thought we could watch them together,” he said.

“No swanky party? No dinner?” she laughed.

“Well, the lobster plan didn't work out so well for me. I don't want to waste anymore of my money,” Jameson explained. Tate snapped her eyes to his, ready to be angry, but she realized he was teasing.

“I told you it wouldn't happen.”

“Yes. But I was very close.”

Grrrrrr, this man.

“Close doesn't count.”

He got up and walked away from her, stood by a railing. They were on the very top deck, the roof of the boat. Standing over the wheel house. She had never been in the room, never seen any crew. She wondered if they would ever take the yacht out, if he would need to hire a crew to do so.

“I thought we'd take the boat out. We can watch the fireworks from the ocean.”

That's right, Satan's psychic. You always forget.

“Sounds nice. I think last night was too much party for me,” Tate laughed. She had woken up determined to put on a bright smile about the whole incident. Old-Tatum would have laughed about the whole thing, so new-Tatum would, too.

“Really? And I thought it stopped just short of being a real party,” Jameson replied, then abruptly walked away, heading down the stairs.

Tate frowned after him. She wasn't sure what kind of game he was playing. He had been moody all morning, and now he was all quiet and introspective seeming; i.e., not normal. She didn't like it, not one bit. She could handle scheming Jameson. Conniving, cruel, sadistic, devilish Jameson. All-of-the-above Jameson. But confused Jameson? Troubled Jameson? Hurt Jameson?

She didn't know that man at all.

 

*

 

Tate didn't see much of him for the rest of the day. If she hadn't known better, she would've thought he was avoiding her. Pretty ironic, considering she had finally come to terms with being in his presence. The crawl-out-of-her-skin feeling wasn't as bad anymore.

Of course, it helped that while the men were gone, she had found a corner market and bought a pack of cigarettes. She had chain smoked until she thought she was going to pass out. She had even had one cigarette while lounging on the top deck. An act of defiance. Still counted, even if the devil wasn't present.

Sanders came for dinner, but he was also oddly tight lipped. They made idle chit chat, but when Tate mentioned him coming on the boat to watch the fireworks, he shook his head. He really did get sea sick, he confessed. And he didn't care about fireworks or New Year's. It was just another day. He was working on a 3D puzzle at the apartment, and wanted to finish it.

When she realized he wouldn't be there as a buffer, Tate's bravado deserted her. The puzzle started to sound like more fun than a ride on a yacht under fireworks. Tate chewed at her fingernails, desperate for a cigarette. But she knew she couldn't, not while Jameson was prowling around the boat. So she borrowed Sanders' phone and hid up on the top deck.

She tried calling her sister first. They hadn't spoken since before Tate had left for Spain. They weren't exactly best friends yet, but they did check in with one another fairly often. But Ellie didn't answer. Tate tried calling Nick. His calm, happy-go-lucky nature usually settled any nerves she had – but he wasn't answering, either. She started to grind her teeth and dialed one more number.

“Why hasn't she called me!?” Ang's voice barked the moment the line connected. Tate smiled.

“It's me,” she laughed. He snorted.

“Oh. Well. Same question,” he said.

“There was an ..., incident. I lost my phone. Happy New Year's,” she said quickly.

“Yeah, yeah, same to you. Have you fucked him yet?” he snapped.

“Jesus, Ang.”

“What? I have a radar for that kind of shit with you. It's coming, I can feel it. Don't do it,” he warned her.

“I don't exactly plan on it,” Tate replied.

“But it's a possibility?” Ang read between her words. She chewed on her bottom lip, trying not to think about the night before. She rubbed her thighs together.

“Not in my mind,” she answered evasively.

“Enough of this bullshit. Tell me everything that has been going on, so I can tell you exactly why you're being stupid,” he ordered.

“You're awfully bossy now. You used to be fun,” she told him.

“Watching your best friend try to kill herself can do that to you. Spill.”

Tate suddenly had a very acute sense of how Jameson must have felt, every time she threw that night in his face. Only her guilt was worse. Jameson deserved to be hassled for his part in everything that happened. Ang hadn't asked for anything, she had dragged him into it.

So she told him everything. Told him about the first kiss, about Jameson throwing her purse into the ocean. Told him about the phone call with Nick, though she conveniently left out what a heartless bitch she had been, just said how Jameson had thrown her phone into the ocean, as well.

Told him about her run in with Pet. It was the only part of the conversation Ang stayed entirely quiet for, and at the end, he congratulated Tate on how she had handled it. But then when she talked about making out with Jameson and practically giving him a lap dance on a VIP sofa, Ang's congratulations were gone and he called her a stupid slut.

“If you're desperate for sex, I get that – it's been a while. It's probably grown over down there. But for god's sake, find someone else. Sanders, anyone, hell, I'll fly over there,” he told her. There was a sound in the background, then Tate could tell the phone was being muffled. Her ears perked up.

“Ang. Is that your girlfriend?” she asked. He grumbled.

“We're not talking about me, we're talking about -,” he started.

“No, no, no. Your girlfriend is there! I can hear her! How does she feel, hearing you talk about flying all the way out here to fuck me?” Tate asked.

“She doesn't care.”

“I have to meet this woman. Put her on the phone!” Tate laughed.

“No. Listen. This is all history repeating itself, Tate. I'm not trying to be a Debbie Downer, or a bossy boots, or whatever. I just ..., I would die if anything happened to you, and I'm not there to save you this time,” his voice grew quiet. Her heart cracked a little.

I am such a horrible person, and my punishment is life with Jameson.

“I know,” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “But I had no idea what I was dealing with last time. My eyes are wide open now. I know what I'm dealing with, and I have Sanders. I promise, I won't do anything I don't want to do.”

“That leaves a pretty wide scope,” Ang snorted. She laughed.

“Once upon a time. Honestly, Ang, am I boring now? Jameson kept calling me a Stepford-wife,” Tate told him. There was a pause.

“Normally, agreeing with him would make me wanna puke, but he's got a point. You were like a Stepford-wife. All that boring clothing your sister bought you, I almost wondered if she was doing it to be mean,” he laughed. The girlfriend piped up in the background, but Tate couldn't hear what she was saying.

“God. Well, you will be happy to know I have bought an entirely new wardrobe,” she told him, looking down at herself and plucking at the tight tank top she was wearing. “Most of it is see-through, and most of it is ridiculously tight. They probably won't let me through customs.”

“Good. I've missed your tits.”

She burst out laughing, and a shadow fell over her. Tate looked up and realized Jameson had joined her. He smiled down at her and her laughter died in an instant.

“What's so funny?” he asked.

“It's Ang. Talking about my tits,” she replied.

“Don't say 'tits' to him, it'll probably make him all rape-y!” Ang yelled down the line.

“May I?” Jameson asked, holding his hand out for the phone. Tate's jaw dropped open.

“I don't think Ang wants to speak to you,” she said quickly.

“No, Ang most certainly doesn't want to fucking speak to him,” Ang agreed. Jameson rolled his eyes and plucked the phone out of her hand. She groaned and turned away, leaning against the railing and looking out over the dark horizon.

“Angier. How are you?” he asked. He always stretched Ang's name out, like a sneer. Tate couldn't make out the words Ang was saying, but she could tell they weren't nice. “That's lovely language, I'm sure my proctologist would get a kick out of that idea. Anyway, I have a question for you.” Jameson paused, and there was more yelling from the phone. Tate chewed on her nail. “If you're finished ..., if you're finished, I wanted to say – my birthday is in a week. I am taking Tatum and Sanders to Paris. I wondered if you'd want to join us.”

Tate spun towards him so quickly, her foot slipped out from underneath her. She started to fall and he grabbed her by the waist, hoisting her up against him. She righted herself, but Jameson didn't let her go, staring down at her as he listened to whatever Ang was saying. She pushed at his chest, but he didn't move.

“What are you doing?” she hissed. She vaguely remembered before they left Boston, Sanders had said something about them taking a weekend in Paris. But that was before his little Jameson-surprise-party. She figured it had been part of the ruse, to get her to leave.

“Of course I'm serious. Very serious. She misses you. Despite what all of you think, I want to make her happy. So, I am offering you an all expenses paid vacation to Paris,” Jameson barked into the phone.

He wanted to make her happy? Tate almost snorted. He wouldn't even begin to know how.

He used to be very good at making you happy.

“Give me the phone,” Tate demanded, reaching for it. He leaned his head away, but kept a grip on her waist. They stumbled backwards, her pawing at him, him pulling away.

“This is an expiring offer, Angier. Take it or leave it. I know she wants to see you. It's up to you,” Jameson said. She slithered around him, and he was forced to switch hands, trading off the phone. She almost nabbed it, but then he tightened his grip around her waist and picked her up with one arm, clutching her to his side. “Yes. Yes, you can. Of course. What? Don't fucking insult me, Angier. I'm offering you a gift, but I won't fucking ..., okay. Okay. Thank you.” Tate was squirming back and forth, making it hard for him to keep his footing, when he abruptly ended the call. He pressed a button on the phone and dropped it into a chair.

“What the fuck was that all about!? I didn't even get to say goodbye!” she shouted at him.

“I just agreed to pay for your best friend, a man you fuck on a regular basis, to come to Paris for my birthday. I think a little gratitude is in order,” Jameson informed her. She shoved at his chest, trying to pull away.

“Fuck off. I haven't fucked Ang since you asked me not to,” she snapped, and they both paused. Tate hadn't meant it like that; she had made it sound like she still wasn't sleeping with Ang because of Jameson. But that wasn't true.

Was it?

“Very considerate, baby girl,” Jameson murmured, smoothing her hair away from her face.

“Oh, get over yourself. I haven't slept with anyone since that night. The idea of sex kind of makes me want to puke,” she told him.

“You didn't seem so adverse to it last night.”

He let her go, and she stumbled backwards. She straightened out the bright maxi skirt she was wearing, adjusted her tank top. Glared at him. It wasn't fair. He was the reason she hadn't had sex in so long. He shouldn't get to have first go. Ang was right, she should go find someone else. Anyone else.

“Yet it still didn't happen,” Tate pointed out. He quirked up an eyebrow.

“You know, I find it hard to believe that you haven't slept with anyone. I know your baseball player is somewhat of a saint, but he's still a man. Is it still boring with him? Are you still holding his hand?” Jameson asked, disdain dripping from his words. Tate laughed.

“Jealous. And nothing with Nick is ever boring,” she taunted. It dawned on her that he honestly thought she and Nick had some sort of actual relationship going on; Jameson was actually jealous. She wanted to laugh.

Stupid Satan, don't you know you've ruined me for other men?

“Somehow,” Jameson whispered, leaning close to her, “I highly doubt that.”

And then he left her, making his way downstairs.

Tate grabbed the phone and followed after him. She gave Sanders his cell phone back, then he said goodbye. She hung onto his sleeve, all the way down the plank. Pleaded with him. Begged him to stay. He refused. He was working for the devil, after all. She glared at him as he walked back to the car.

She milled around below deck for a while, tried reading in her bedroom. She felt the boat move, knew when they had left the dock. She wondered if there was a whole crew of people wandering around, or if Jameson could really operate the whole thing on his own.

After about an hour, her curiosity got the better of her. She wandered upstairs. Out the back of the boat, she could see Marbella, getting smaller and smaller. Just twinkling lights on a coast. In the distance, a couple other lights bobbed around. Other boats, barely pin pricks against the dark sky.

She didn't see or hear any other people, so she made her way to the upper deck. It was barren – Jameson hadn't replaced the furniture that the scorned maid had thrown away. Tate thought about continuing on up to the very top deck, but instead she made her way into the wheelhouse. Jameson was leaned back in a large chair, one foot propped on the edge of it, the other leg stretched out so his foot was against the dash. Very relaxed. The lights were off in the room, and he was staring out over the sea.

“What are you doing?” Tate asked, moving to sit in another large chair that was next to him.

“What does it look like I'm doing?” he countered, not looking at her. She smirked at him.

“Is it safe, operating this thing all by yourself?” she asked. He nodded.

“Safe enough. I'm not taking us out very far,” he replied. She leaned back.

“Why don't you hire a crew? I was surprised that you didn't have a chef on board, or a full time maid,” she told him.

“Same reason I didn't keep them at home.”

Jameson didn't like people. Plain and simple. In Weston, he had a cleaning service that came out on the weekdays, every day after he left for work, but that was it. No full time, live-ins, though his house was built for it, had the room. So she wasn't too surprised that he refused to even hire a captain for his boat.

“What time is it?” Tate yawned, leaning her head back. She saw him move, and then his wrist was held out towards her, his fancy watch facing her.

“Just after ten,” he answered anyway.

There was a heavy silence between them. Something had happened that morning, though Tate didn't know what. It was almost as if Jameson had suddenly woken up with a conscience, and it was bothering him. He seemed upset, and she knew she was the reason.

It wasn't fair. She should be upset. She was the one people looked at funny, like she was crazy. She was the one who spent a week in a hospital. She was the one who got ripped in half. Jameson was still in one piece. He wasn't allowed to feel upset. It wasn't fair.

So why do I want to make him feel better!?

Those were the thoughts Tate didn't like, the confusing ones. Sure, it was all a game, and she knew she should be rejoicing in the fact that she had gotten to him. If Jameson was actually upset, to the point of showing it, then he cared. That meant when she won his game, he might be ripped in half a little, as well. Finally. Happy days! She hadn't even had to try that hard, and her goal had been achieved.

So how come all of a sudden, none of that seemed so important anymore?

In fact, it all kind of made her feel sick.

“Jameson,” Tate sighed, feeling very tired of their game. “Maybe we should just stop -,”

“Do you remember the maid outfit?” he interrupted. She looked over at him.

“Excuse me?”

“That maid outfit you wore. Remember?” he asked.

Oh, their little games. She had bitched about doing her own laundry. Sanders did Jameson's clothing, but refused to touch hers. Bras and panties gave him the vapors. Tate hated to do laundry. Jameson had made a deal with her. If she could go a whole day without touching him, he would hire someone to dry clean all of her clothing, every day. If she lost, she had to be his personal maid for a whole day, and clean whatever he wanted. Seemed like an easy win.

Wrong. Not only had it been the warmest day in September, the sun blistering hot, but he had just gotten back from a business trip. Tate had wound up watching him sunbathe, nude, while he told her all about a particularly steamy encounter he'd had with a waitress in a bathroom at Tavern on the Green. Tate didn't even make it through ten minutes of him talking before she was on top of him. All over him.

He came home the next day with a slutty maid costume in tow. She hadn't expected it to last long, but Jameson had stronger will power than she did. Tate wound up cleaning the whole bottom half of the house before he ripped the outfit off of her.

Fun times.

“I had forgotten about that,” she laughed softly.

“I could never forget that day.”

“Why are you doing this?” Tate asked, glancing at him. Jameson kept staring ahead, but he reached out and pushed some buttons. Pulled some levers. The boat slowed, came to a stop.

“Because I want you to remember.”

“Remember what?”

“That things used to be good between us. They used to be fun,” he told her. “Remember that sometimes, just maybe sometimes, I wasn't the devil.”

She took a deep breath and stared out over the ocean.

“All I remember is a swimming pool,” she whispered.

“Excuse me?”

“This isn't going to work, Jameson,” she blurted out, suddenly jumping out of her seat. He looked totally caught off guard.

“Huh?”

“This. You can't just ..., bombard me with old, sexy memories, and ..., what? Ooohhh, swoon, I fall all over you? It doesn't work like that!” she snapped at him. He stood up as well.

“Then tell me how it does work, Tate. Because obviously nothing I'm doing is working,” he replied, standing close to her.

“But that's just it! There's nothing you can do. You ruined it, and now it's over. Do you really want to go another three weeks, just to hear that? It's over, Jameson. It's over,” she stressed. He stared down his nose at her.

“See, if I believed you, I would agree. It would be a waste of time. But you're still such a horrible liar, Tate. Things will never be over between us,” his voice was soft.

She let out a frustrated yell and stomped out of the wheelhouse. Stomped downstairs, all the way back into her bedroom. She didn't want to hear anything else he had to say. Fuck him. Fuck Jameson Kane. She hated him.

Hate it when he's right.

Of course, Tate knew that; somewhere, deep in her brain, she had always known that things weren't over between them. Which was why she had been a nervous wreck for the last two months. Her subconscious had known it wasn't over, and had just been waiting for him. Had always known it. Had known it the first time they parted ways. Had known it the second time. When would conscious-Tate clue in to the fact?

Pool. You were in a pool. He brought her into your home. Brought her between you. Didn't care. He does not care.

She grabbed her purse and steamed back out onto the deck. As she was digging something out, she saw Jameson coming down the stairs, so she scooted away, made her way to the bow of the boat. There was only so far she could go to get away from him – they were in the middle of the ocean, and none of the bedroom doors had locks.

No escape. Well played, Mr. Kane. Well played.

“You better leave me the fuck alone,” Tate yelled when she heard him approaching. “I need this right now.”

She lit up the cigarette and took a deep, deep drag. Closed her eyes and slowly exhaled. There. That burning sensation in her lungs, that's what she wanted. Smoking was still new to Tate. She didn't do it because she craved it, or because she liked it. She did it because it hurt a little, every time she inhaled.

Something is so very wrong with me.

“Tatum. Put out the cigarette and come talk to me,” Jameson ordered. She laughed and turned towards him.

“What's the point? You never listen. How about you have a conversation with yourself, then just answer the way you want me to answer, and we'll call it good,” she hissed, moving past him.

The deck on the bow of the yacht was large, and came to a sharp point. Shiny silver railings and glass panels surrounded it, except for two breaks, where ladders folded out down either side of the boat. She went to stand back away from the railing, under a slight awning. They glared at each other, her smoke curling up between them.

“I have been trying to listen. For the first fucking time ever. But you're not saying anything. Now put the goddamn cigarette out,” Jameson told her. Even though she was too far away, she blew a stream of smoke at him.

“No. And I don't have to say anything, I didn't ask to be here. I was brought here, taken here, tricked in to coming here. I don't want to talk to you, I don't want to hear anything you have to say. I don't want to be here,” Tate replied. He narrowed his eyes.

“We had a deal. You agreed to play. You're not allowed to lie, or fake anything,” he reminded her.

“I haven't lied or faked -,”

He slammed his hand down on the railing, hard, making a gong-like sound. He was angry. It had been a long time since she had seen him that mad. She felt her insides turn to mush, her brain turn to putty.

“Don't fucking lie to me. You wanted me in that club, and you wanted that to happen in my bedroom. I have let you pretend like you didn't. You dared me into taking that maid. That was all you, yet I let you blame me. I am tired of taking your shit. My patience is running out,” he growled at her. She guffawed.

“You're tired of taking my shit? My shit!? Mister, you haven't even begun to eat shit for the things you did to me! And you're calling me out on breaking the rules!? You fucked your psychotic supermodel girlfriend and then brought her into our home! How's that for a broken fucking rule!?” Tate screamed at him.

Suddenly Jameson was storming towards her, thunder in his eyes. She pressed herself against the glass door behind her, trapped. He stood in front of her, and she swore she could almost see smoke coming out of his ears. He. Was. Pissed.

“I did not fuck her. I have apologized for bringing her home. Now stop fucking screaming, and put out the goddamn cigarette. I will not tell you again,” he hissed at her. She shivered and raised the cigarette to her lips. Took a deep drag.

“Make me,” she whispered, and then blew a smoke ring in his face.

Jameson grabbed her around the waist, and Tate shrieked as she was hoisted into the air. Thrown over his shoulder. She yelled at him to put her down, pounded on his back with her free hand. She was tempted to grind the cigarette into his shoulder blade, but she didn't think she was ready for that kind of punishment.

“Goddamn Tatum. Always fucking pushing me,” he growled.

“Stupid fucking Jameson, always where he isn't wanted,” she snapped back.

He didn't respond. He reached the edge of the bow, and she thought he was gong to put her down. Or spank her. Or fuck her senseless. Something. What she didn't expect was for him to throw her. Into the air. Over the railing. She screamed and hit the water, ass first.

“When are you going to learn not to push me!?” he called down to her, after she had resurfaced.

Tate hacked and coughed up salt water, bobbing along. It took Jameson a second to open the little compartment that hid the stairs, so it felt like an eternity before she hauled herself out of the water. She slowly made her way up the side of the boat. Her skirt, with all its excess material, weighed a ton. She flopped onto the deck like a fish, shivering and scrambling across the surface.

“There is something ..., so very wrong ..., with you,” Tate gasped for air, pushing herself onto her knees.

“Considering that there isn't very much right about you, either, I'm going to ignore that comment. C'mon, it's freezing, let's get you -,” Jameson started, grabbing her by the arm. She shrieked and slapped his hand away, hurrying to her feet. She skipped out of his reach, circled around till she was safely away from the railing, putting him between her and it.

“Don't fucking touch me! You don't get to touch me! You don't believe that I haven't slept with Nick? Why would I ever believe you didn't fuck her!? That's all you do, fuck people! Fuck you!” she yelled at him.

Tate could feel her sanity unraveling. He'd always had that effect on her. It was like they weren't in Spain anymore. They were in his house. It was that night. She wasn't high in the bathroom with Dunn. Jameson wasn't flirting in the kitchen with Pet. They were back in his bedroom. Only this time, he wasn't walking out on her. This time, he was holding his ground. He was talking to her. Fighting for her.

The way it should have been.

She felt ill.

“Baby girl, are you really worried -,”

“Don't call me that! You make me sick! God, fucking touching her, touching me. I want to be sick,” she hissed at him.

“I touched dozens of women while we were together,” Jameson reminded her. Tate narrowed her eyes and stepped up close to him, tilting her head up so he could see the anger on her face.

“And I only ever asked you not to touch one. Just one. And you couldn't even manage that. You're the stupid whore. You loved calling me that. A slut, a whore; but really, you're a bigger whore than I ever was. Whore,” she swore at him.

He lifted his hand then. Slowly. Traced a finger down her neck, from under her chin to the hollow of her throat. It was a hint, a shadow, of what he really wanted to do. He was holding himself back. The air was vibrating with the tension between them. She could feel it. Someone was going to get hurt that night. Tate just had to make sure it wasn't her.

“You know, you should really watch the way you speak to me,” Jameson said softly, his finger taping against her collar bone.

“I'm not scared of you,” she whispered. He leaned close to her, pressing his hand flat against her chest.

“Liar.”

She shrieked and shoved him. As hard as she possibly fucking could. He lost his footing, stumbled backwards. Right into the gap in the railing Tate had crawled through only a moment ago. Good. She shouldn't be the only one to take a dip. She hoped he hit the water flat on his fucking back. Be bruised for a week.

Something wasn't right, though. Her eyes had recognized it instantly, but her brain took a second to catch up. Jameson wasn't a man that could easily be knocked off balance, especially when he had been ready and waiting for her to push him. He had taken a step back, to brace himself, and his foot had landed on a pile of chains. Slipped inside them, got tangled in them. He couldn't get any purchase, so he went over.

Tate suddenly remembered talking to Sanders that morning, him saying that someone would be working on the boat. Something was wrong with one of the anchors. In the wheelhouse, she hadn't seen Jameson release any. She didn't know much about boating, but she knew that most people dropped anchor when they stopped a boat. Jameson hadn't done it because the chain for one of the smaller, front anchors wasn't attached to the yacht. Now that same chain was wrapped securely around his ankle.

Jameson hit the water hard, on his back, just as she'd cursed him. Tate dropped to her knees, but she wasn't quick enough and the anchor was yanked out of its cubbyhole in the side of boat. It flew after him, falling into the water at the exact same spot he had, disappearing in the splashes.

She shrieked, laying flat. God, had it hit him!? It wasn't a big anchor, but it was big enough. And it was a long way down. Oh god, had she just killed Jameson!? Typical. That would be just like him – he finally talks to her, really talks to her, and then goes and dies.

Stupid dick.

Tate screamed his name, pounding her hand on the deck. He didn't resurface. She pulled herself to her knees, raked her fingers through her hair. He still didn't come back. She thought she was going to throw up. She had killed him. They were alone on a boat in the Mediterranean. Everyone knew they weren't getting along, that Tate was very angry at him. No one would believe it was an accident. She would go to jail for murder. Sanders would be an orphan.

I'll never see Jameson again.

And that thought, more than anything, absolutely terrified her.

She scrambled over the side of the deck, making it down a couple rungs before she lost her grip and fell into the ocean. She couldn't see shit, but Tate dove under water as far as she could. Resurfaced. Went back. Screamed his name. Over and over, screamed his name. She had never wanted to hear his voice as much as she did in that moment. Wanted to hear him yelling at her to shut the fuck up. Yelling at her to stop fucking screaming.

“Stop fucking screaming.”

I've gone crazy. I killed Jameson, and I've gone crazy.

She went still, treading water, looking around her. There was another sound, a cough, and she looked up. Jameson was standing on the deck, staring down at her. She gasped and fell under the surface of the water. Struggled to swim back up. She was having trouble – her heart seemed to have fallen out of its cavity and was now somewhere in her stomach.

She gagged and broke the surface, gasping for air. She couldn't see anything, her hair was covering her face, but something grabbed her arm. Strong fingers wrapped around her forearm, hauled her up against the boat. Pulled her onto the ladder. She found the railings and clung to them, wiping her hair out of her face as best she could with her shoulder.

“Dead ..., I thought you were dead ..,” Tate gasped. Jameson was on the ladder next to her, leaning out over the water.

“If you want to kill me, Tate, you're going to have to try a little harder. C'mon,” he urged, curling an arm around her hips and pushing her upwards.

When she got to the top, she stumbled away from the railing, pressing a hand to her heart. She stood with her eyes closed, trying to catch her breath. She had thought he was dead. Gone forever. And that had terrified her. More than jail, more than murder, more than anything. Not seeing him, ever again. Extinguishing him. If Jameson was gone, what would become of her?

Stupid girl. It was never a game.

“I thought you were dead,” she breathed, turning around to face him. He was walking towards her, running his hand through his hair, shaking the water out of it.

“Not quite,” he laughed.

“But ..., I saw the anchor, I thought it hit you. You didn't come up,” Tate said.

“It didn't hit me, I didn't die. The anchor, unfortunately, did die. The chain wasn't attached to the boat. It's somewhere on its way to the bottom now,” Jameson sighed, almost sad sounding as he glanced behind him at the water. Tate was a little blown away.

“You're sad about losing an anchor, and you almost died. Where the fuck did you go!? I screamed at you for forever!” she demanded.

“It dragged me under the boat – when I came up, I almost smacked into the bottom of the hull. I swam to the back, came up those stairs,” he explained. She shoved at his chest, albeit gently this time.

“It didn't occur to you to fucking say something!?” she snapped.

“No. You had just shoved me overboard, with an anchor chained to my ankle. I didn't think you really gave a fuck,” he replied. Tate shoved him again.

“Of course I give a fuck! I was freaking the fuck out! I thought you were dead! Why didn't you say anything!?” she shouted, slapping her hands against his chest.

“You were screaming enough for the both of us. I'm surprised the Servicio Maritimo isn't out here, the way you were carrying on,” Jameson told her, grabbing at her wrists. She yanked away.

“Well, I thought you had died, you stupid fuck! Do you have any idea how horrible that feels!?” she shrieked at him. He glared down at her.

“Yes, you stupid fuck, I know exactly how that feels!” he yelled back.

She gasped, and it was like a dam inside her broke. A wall collapsed. A series of explosions, bringing down all her defenses. What a horrible world it would be, if she couldn't wake up and play with Jameson. Fight with Jameson. Be with Jameson.

Tate practically jumped on him, her mouth on his before her feet had even left the ground. He knew it was coming – he always knew – and his arms were around her, holding her up. Holding her to him.

Jameson stumbled towards the door, pressed her against the wall while he struggled with the door handle. She kept trying to lift her legs, but her stupid skirt was in the way. When they got inside, she let go of him long enough to shove the soaking wet material off of her body, and then Jameson grabbed her again, his hands on her ass, guiding her legs around his waist.

Tate groaned, letting her head fall back while he kissed her neck. He walked them downstairs, holding onto her the whole way. His shirt had a tear at the back, from his adventure with the anchor, and she pulled at it. Ripped a seam across the top, let her hands dive inside, let her nails score across his skin. He hissed, and his lips were replaced by his teeth. They pushed and pulled at each other, bumped into walls, ricocheted off, stumbling around in their need for each other.

He kicked open his bedroom door, breaking the frame, and Tate was suddenly very glad that he had left Sanders on shore. Jameson held onto her hips as he turned around, sitting at the foot of the bed while she pulled her tank top off. His mouth immediately went to her cleavage, while his hands slid up to her shoulder blades.

She pushed him away, forced him back so she could rip his shirt off. It felt like she was in hyper-drive. If she slowed down, not all of her molecules would stop with her, and she would burst into a million pieces. How would Jameson ever find her then?

“This is happening,” he breathed, his lips moving across her face as he reached around and undid her bra. “Please, please, please, please ...,”

Is Jameson Kane begging!?

“Yes,” she breathed back, tossing the bra to the other side of the room. His hands gripped her hips and he rolled them over, moving them up to the center of the bed.

“This was always going to happen,” he told her, working his way down her body. Tate nodded and stretched out underneath him, gripping at the blankets above her head.

“Yes,” she agreed.

She felt his teeth low on her stomach, scraping against her underwear. Then he was biting at the satin, pulling it over her hips. He worked it all the way to her knees before he stood up, yanking them past her feet. He dropped his pants to the floor and then he was covering her again, his hands everywhere.

“I'm sorry I threw you over overboard,” he whispered. Tate managed a laugh.

Is Jameson Kane apologizing!?

“I'm not sorry I pushed you,” she replied. He snorted.

“Yes, you fucking are.”

“Yes.”

His fingers kneaded into her flesh, almost massaging her. It had been so long since he had touched her like that; she practically leapt at the feel of his hands. He left scorched flesh in his wake, a burning sensation in her soul. When his fingers were swimming in and around her, all over her, reaching deep inside of her, she gasped and cried out. Arched away from the bed as his lips covered her nipple. Then he was moving between her legs.

It flashed across her mind that maybe this wasn't the best idea, jumping into sex with Jameson when only an hour ago she had been ready to tell him she wanted to go home – near death experiences were no excuse, she of all people knew that.

But then he was demanding entrance, and Tate had never been very good at denying him. Probably because she never wanted to. His erection pressed against her, pressed inside of her. She dug her nails into his back, hard, and raked them across his shoulders while she gasped. Jameson groaned loudly, pressing his hips tight to hers.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his forehead dropping to her breast bone. She wiggled her hips against him, rotated her pelvis in a circle, and he groaned again.

“Yes,” she whispered back. Chanted. “Yes, yes, yes, yes.”

He moved out, then pushed back in, and she cried out. Even she was surprised by her response to him. In previous times, Tate had always been up for some good sex. Orgasms typically came easily and readily for her, she was very lucky, she knew. But usually some work was required.

Not this time. She felt like she was going to explode, immediately. Like a corked bottle, full of fine champagne and effervescence. Her breathing hitched and she knew she was whimpering, whining. Praying.

“Holy shit, Tate,” Jameson whispered, one of his hands covering her breast. She moved her hand over his, squeezed.

“Please. Please, god, please,” she begged, not even able to move anymore. She felt tiny tremors beginning to run all under her skin.

Suddenly, he was rolling them again. She felt dizzy as she tried to steady herself, her eyes shut tight while she clung to his shoulders. He sat upright with her straddling him, then he put his hands on her knees. He pushed them wider, causing her to slide lower on his shaft. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip and the tremors turned into all over shaking as he slid so deep inside of her, there was no going back.

“It's okay, baby girl,” Jameson whispered against her ear as he moved his hands to her hips, urging her to move. Rocking her hips against him. She groaned and let her head fall back, her eyes fluttering closed.

“Jameson, I'm ..., I'm ...,” she gasped, running her hands into her hair as they picked up speed. He always filled her up, so much. There wasn't enough space for both of them. Just him. Why didn't she ever remember that? She was going to explode.

“It's okay,” he urged, fingers biting into her flesh.

When his teeth clamped down on her nipple, she lost her fucking mind. Actually screamed. One hand went to his head, pulling his hair while at the same time holding him to her. It felt like she came forever, shaking and gasping for air on top of him. Her body turned to jell-o, all of her muscles dissolved.

When the biggest part of her orgasm had subsided, Jameson laid down, taking her with him. Tate panted against his chest and his arms came to rest around her waist, his fingers drawing lazy circles in her skin. She shuddered and pressed her face against him, ran her teeth along a muscle.

Something was different. It was so different. She couldn't put her finger on it at first. Sex between them was always amazing, so the orgasm didn't shock her. He hadn't come, but that wasn't necessarily a surprise, either – Jameson usually liked to wring a couple orgasms out of her first, before giving her one of his own. It had been a lot quicker than normal, but they had all night, so it wasn't that. Sure, it had been a little quiet, but ...,

Tate's eyes snapped open and she grew still on top of him. They were never quiet during sex. Jameson was the most talkative man in bed she'd ever met – and that was saying something, considering she used to sleep with Ang on the regular, and he never shut up.

Jameson used words the way other people used toys; vibrators, whips, ropes. Backed up by his hands, so demanding in their grab and pull. But not this time. Tate felt amazing, like she was glowing. God, he'd been so gentle. What the fuck did that mean!? It certainly wasn't anything like the sex they used to have, back in Boston. She suddenly felt ill. Jesus, they weren't ..., they didn't ..., they hadn't just made love, had they!?

You're losing again, baby girl.

“Get up,” Jameson suddenly urged, slapping her on the ass. She was still reeling from her moment of introspection, and just fell off of him as he started to sit up.

“Huh?” she asked as he got off the bed.

“Get up, let's go,” he said, grabbing her arm and yanking her to her feet. She almost didn't make it, and he grabbed her around the waist.

“I'm sorry, wait. What's going on?” Tate asked.

“You were laying there thinking, never a good thing. Stop it. Follow me,” Jameson said, then he was pulling her across the room.

“I was only -,” she started to argue.

“Shut up, Tate. Don't ruin this.”

He led her across the large room, into his master bath. She had never been in there, and was a little stunned. There was a huge circular jacuzzi tub. Did Jameson take baths? There was also a large, glass enclosed shower stall. He turned both taps on, then pulled her into the shower while the tub filled up.

“What are we doing?” Tate asked, slicking her hair away from her face. He  grabbed her hips and pulled her close.

“Getting reacquainted.”

“I thought we just did that,” she laughed.

“No, we had sex,” Jameson replied, pinching her chin between his fingers and forcing her to stare at him. “Now that it's out of the way, maybe you'll hear me.”

She swallowed thickly and pulled herself free of him. The sex hadn't been quite as scary as she thought it would be, it hadn't quite broken her. But talking – now that was really dangerous. If he started saying things she'd always wanted to hear, she wouldn't be able to handle it. He would really win, once and for all.

It's still a game. Sex doesn't change anything. It has to be a game. You'll never be anything more than that to him, and if you ever forget that, he'll put you back in that pool.

Tate turned around and leaned into him, pressing her back against his chest. Jameson moved and she moved with him, standing under the spray of water. She felt his hands in her hair, working the water over the strands. She sighed, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I've never been on a yacht before,” she commented. He chuckled, his hands moving back down to her hips.

“Really? I would've assumed your family had one,” he replied. Tate shook her head.

“There's like a family boat, parked in the Hamptons, but I never got to go on it. Yours is nice,” she told him.

“My god, she says something nice to me. I didn't think it would ever happen again.”

“Don't get used to it.”

“Tatum, I want you to know, I always -,”

Stop him. It's too much. You'll overflow. Shut down. Break down. Fall apart.

“Have you owned this boat long?” she interrupted, lifting her head away from him. He sighed.

“Years. I bought it after I left Harrisburg,” he answered.

“Did you -,”

“Tate, since when do you give a fuck about boats?” Jameson demanded. She laughed and stepped away from him.

“Since you tricked me in to staying on one. Very dirty game, Mr. Kane,” she teased him.

“I'm not playing any game.”

Tate almost swallowed her tongue. She didn't know what to say to that, so she chose to ignore it.

“Your bath is full,” she told him.

“Our bath. C'mon.”

It was big enough to fit both of them. She asked for bubbles, and he gave her a dirty look, but he did turn on some jets. Tate pressed him against the side of the tub and then settled herself in front of him, between his legs. He wrapped his arms around her waist and she fought down a feeling of panic.

How can someone who bears such a striking resemblance to Satan be so lovable!?

“God, this feels good,” she groaned, sinking down so the water was up to her chin. Jameson's hands crept onto her shoulders, began massaging her.

“Good. I thought you'd like it. I had it installed before you got here,” he told her. She perked up.

“This tub is new?” she questioned.

“This whole bathroom was completely remodeled,” he answered.

“Why?”

“It was too small before, I wanted enough room for both of us to move around.”

“You had awfully high hopes.”

“Only the highest.”

“Seems kinda extravagant,” Tate told him.

“You deserve it,” Jameson whispered in her ear.

She couldn't handle him talking to her like that, not if she wanted to win this little game. They'd had sex, and they would most definitely be having sex again – like in the next five minutes – but that didn't mean she had lost. That didn't mean she couldn't still walk away unscathed. It was just sex.

Right. Sure it is.

Tate pulled away from him, turned around and laid against him. Jameson kept trying to talk – it was obvious he wanted to tell her things. Things she wanted to hear. Things she probably needed to hear. But she wasn't falling for that trick again. She ran her tongue along his skin, her hands along his body. The devil was surprisingly easy to distract and soon enough, neither of them were thinking about talking.

See? That wasn't so hard. Now, just don't think about tomorrow ...