~12~

Jameson convinced her to stay with him for the next two weeks. That first night back, she had fallen asleep in the car, so he carried her up to his room. He stayed awake, watching her sleep. It was easy to forget while they played their little games, but she really was a very beautiful girl. Soft. Delicate.

Tatum woke up around three in the morning to catch him staring at her, and they started talking. They talked for a long time. It was the first time they had ever spent the night together and not had sex. Before, it would have seemed pointless.

It didn't seem so pointless anymore.

She didn't talk about her family, didn't really acknowledge that weekend at all. Though the next day, she did lock herself away in a guest room for about an hour, on the phone to Ang. When she emerged, she was smiling, but her eyes were puffy and red. Apparently she could discuss things with Ang, but not with Jameson. He tried not to let it bother him. They had gone to some different stage in their relationship, but they weren't quite ready to start sharing their feelings with each other.

It took her a while to get comfortable in her own skin again, but after a couple days, Tate was back to her old self. Running around in her underwear. Clipping coupons. Teasing Sanders. Begging Jameson to do unspeakable things to her. He spent most of his days in Boston, and she would go in to town with him, spend her days doing only god knew what with Ang and Rusty. But on the days she didn't work at the bar, she would always show up outside his office building at six o'clock. She always went home with him.

He wasn't sure exactly what was going on between them. Jameson hadn't been lying in the beginning, he didn't want a girlfriend – a girlfriend usually meant exclusivity, and he liked to have sex with other people. Though sometimes, knowing Tatum was at home and that she not only liked hearing about his one-night stands, but that they actually got her hot, made it even more enticing for him to go out and have sex with random women.

So point for her.

But he also wasn't in the market to get married, and say what she wanted, Tate was a chick, at her core. Sooner or later, she would want some sort of a commitment that he just wouldn't, and couldn't really, give her. Jameson liked his life exactly the way it was; every relationship he'd ever had, had ended on a sour note. If they tried to make their relationship in to something more, it would just end badly, too.

It was just fun and games between them, and it had to stay that way.

She and Sanders had also gotten ridiculously close, ever since the weekend get-away to the O'Shea compound. They would stay up till all hours, just sitting in the kitchen, Tate babbling on and onto him – as far as Jameson could tell, Sanders virtually never said anything back. But it seemed to work for them.

Sometimes, Jameson would come out of work to discover his car sitting alone at the curb, and the two of them would be at a restaurant somewhere. Or in a cafe. Milling around a shop. One time he couldn't find them at all, and it took forty-five minutes and eight phone calls to finally get ahold of Sanders – something that had never happened in the past. Sanders and Tate had gotten distracted by some live show in a park. When they came walking towards him down the street, arm in arm, he had a flash of anger and was shocked to realize something – he was jealous. Jealous of her easy going relationship with Sanders.

Jameson knew it was a ridiculous sentiment, especially since he knew he didn't make it easy for her to talk to him, or just be with him. And really, he knew he was the one she seemed to want to be with – he was the one who got tackled in the conservatory, he was the one who got violated in the pool, he was the one who woke up to blowjobs at two in the morning. Nobody else, she hadn't even talked about sleeping with other men. Hadn't even really mentioned Ang to him.

Winning.

*

“You never have time for me anymore,” Ang was whining. Tate rolled her eyes.

“I see you almost every day. If anything, I see you more now than I did before I started sleeping with him,” she pointed out. He pouted.

“You never have naked time for me anymore,” Ang amended his whine. She laughed.

“Hush. We talked about this.”

“But you're the only one who knows what I like, what I want, what I need.”

“Teach somebody else.”

“Bitch.”

She launched a pillow at him and he caught it, laughing. They were hanging out in his room on a Saturday night. She had to go to the bar in a little while, and she had swung by Ang's to use his laptop. She didn't have one of her own and they hadn't hung out, just the two of them, in a while. Two birds with one stone.

“Shut up, there are plenty of people out there wanting to ride the Angier train,” she assured him, sitting on the end of his bed and folding her legs up lotus style. He stretched out on the mattress behind her, kneading his toes in to her lower back.

“I am very train like, and you know, Rus has been lookin' mighty fine lately,” he commented, and she laughed again.

“You better not look twice, Ang. I'm serious, I don't want you to break her,” Tate said.

“I wouldn't break her. Just bend her a little. Fold her in half,” he replied. She looked over her shoulder.

“I'm dead serious, Ang. If you fuck her, she'll, like, fall in love with you. And it'll break her heart. I would be pissed,” she warned him.

“God, you're so boring anymore. I don't understand. You and Satan aren't boyfriend and girlfriend, but you spend all your time together, practically live together, and you aren't allowed to sleep with anyone else. Ummm ..., I'm pretty sure that's the basic definition of boyfriend-and-girlfriend,” Ang pointed out.

Tate already knew this, had already thought about it, a lot. Her relationship with Jameson was a strange one. It didn't have a label, but she kinda liked that – labels were boring. Labels could ruin things, made a person feel like they always had to be living up to it. She and Jameson, they just existed. It was easier. She tried not to think about it too much.

“We're allowed to sleep with other people,” she corrected Ang.

“Oh, that's right – just not me,” he grumbled, making a face. She laughed.

“Technically, it's just me who isn't allowed to sleep with you, so you could -,”

“Don't make me sick. You said he sleeps with other women all the time, but how many guys have you slept with?” Ang asked.

And that's where the “open relationship” aspect fell apart. Jameson had told her she could sleep with other men, and the independent-slutty-woman inside of her told her she could sleep with other people, but the desire wasn't there. She only wanted him.

And it was just her own thinking, just something inside of her, but Tate had the distinct feeling that though Jameson said it was okay, it was actually not okay. Not at all. Jameson Kane didn't like to share his toys, and Tate figured she was one of his better ones.

“Just because I haven't slept with anyone doesn't mean I can't, or won't. Besides, why go out for hamburger when I've got steak at home?” she offered as an explanation, trying to lighten the mood. Ang snorted.

“Sounds like bullshit. If your relationship didn't disgust me so much, I'd bug you more about it. Let's do something fun!” he proclaimed. She turned her attention back to the computer.

“Like what?”

“I don't know. What is Satan up to, anyway?”

“He's at home, going over some paperwork for some big to-do that's coming up in Europe,” she replied.

“Some big to-do? In Europe? Like what? Where?” Ang pressed. She shrugged.

“I don't know, I don't really ask. He has a house in Denmark,” she told him.

“Denmark? Odd, I would have figured him for a London man, or Berlin, or something. Why Denmark?” he asked. She shrugged again.

“I don't know. I told you, I don't ask,” she replied.

“Jesus, Tate,” Ang laughed, sitting upright. “He could be a serial killer, or a human trafficker, or a pedophile hiding from the law, or ...,” he kept listing stuff off. She turned to face him, smacking him in the leg.

“Shut up!” she laughed.

“... or a drug smuggler, or a thief of rare art work, or secretly married with a family, or -,”

They both stopped at that idea. Tate stared at Ang. It was a secret fear of hers. Jameson went away a lot. New York for a weekend. L.A. For a week. Back to New York for a day. Miami for a day. Back to New York. The ex girlfriend lived in New York, Tate was pretty sure. Though she wasn't sure at all about the “ex” status.

“He's always been honest with me. He would have told me,” Tate said in a soft voice. Ang snorted.

“Apparently you guys have more of a 'don't ask, don't tell' relationship. Some people don't consider a lie by omission really a lie. Look him up,” he suggested, nodding at the laptop. She glanced down.

“What do you mean?” she asked. He groaned and took the laptop from her hands.

“What's Satan's last name?” he grumbled. She chewed on her bottom lip.

“This isn't right, Ang. He doesn't pry in to my stuff,” she mumbled. He guffawed.

“Are fucking serious? Tate, he blindfolded you and made you spend the weekend with your family from hell. You're right, he doesn't pry – he rips shit open and makes a mess. Full name,” he demanded.

Tate gave it to him.

After Ang typed it in to the Google search bar, he handed the computer back to her. She was shocked at how many things came up right away. Jameson was a lot more “famous” than she would have ever guessed. She clicked on the images tab, and there were tons of him, in paparazzi photos. Him two years ago, at an L.A. movie premiere, some actress on his arm. Him at New York Fashion Week, just last February, a famous singer on his arm. Him standing next to a pool in swim shorts, soaking wet, talking on a cell phone while some ridiculously beautiful girl floated in the pool underneath him – some model whose name she didn't recognize. Most of the photos were because he was with famous people. They were getting photographed, and he was just caught in the cross-hairs.

But there were some of just him. He was very wealthy, which made him an attraction in his own right. A lot of the photographs were from European tabloids, talking about his playboy lifestyle over the past couple years. Nothing too bad, nothing she hadn't already known about or assumed. None of it bothered her, and she could look at Jameson all day, so the pictures were fun.

She skimmed through the years, catching up on his past. Wondered if she'd ever been secretly photographed with him – and then she found one. She and Ang giggled over it, a grainy photo of her, Sanders, and Jameson, standing outside of some restaurant that they had gone to on its opening day. A pretty swanky place, with some local celebrities making appearances. She hadn't thought much of that night, but there she was, on Google. It was from a local newspaper, and they didn't list her or Sanders' names, didn't even mention them at all, just that Jameson Kane had been in attendance, but still. She felt giddy.

But then she began to notice a cluster of other pictures, all of Jameson with the same girl. Them walking down a street together in Paris. Them entering a tube station in London. Lots of them eating in restaurants. Posing, with their arms around each other, at fashion events and movie premieres and award shows. Leaving nightclubs together, Jameson pulling her by the hand. Holding her hand. It made Tate feel a little nauseous.

“Who is she?” Ang finally asked. Tate sighed.

“I think she's his ex.”

“What ex?”

“The ex.”

She was absolutely. Drop. Dead. Gorgeous. Some super-dooper-model, half Ukranian, half Danish. Danish. Tate's heart stopped a little. That must be why he owned a home in Copenhagen – he had bought it to be close to her. Shocking. The model was internationally famous and retardly beautiful. Jameson was so rich, it was obscene. A match made in heaven. There were pictures of them all over the globe together.

He barely leaves the house with me.

“She hasn't got anything on you. Look at those skinny hips, I would rip her in half,” Ang said quickly. Tate chuckled.

“She's gorgeous, Ang. I can admit when someone is better looking than me,” she replied. Tate wasn't shy about her looks, she knew she was hot, knew she was downright sexy. But this woman, she was beautiful. Stunning.

“No, you're just as pretty as she is,” Ang assured her. Tate snorted.

“No, I'm not. But I would put money on the fact that I'm better in bed,” she said back, and Ang laughed.

“That's my girl. How long did they go out for?”

They did some digging. The earliest mention of them together was two years before – it had been on and off, apparently pretty rocky. Rumors of crazy fights and wild sex. The model's name was Petrushka Ivanovic. They went to her website, but it wasn't very helpful. Just depressing. Then they went to her Wikipedia page, and the words on the screen slapped Tate across the face. And not in the good way.

Partner(s): Jameson Kane, American financier. Status: Engaged.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Tate whispered, and went back to Google.

She typed in their names together. A lot of the same pictures came up, but also ones she hadn't seen. A couple were pretty recent. She pulled the websites they were from – they were very recent. Like three weeks ago. Three weeks ago, he had gone to New York for the weekend – she remembered him mentioning it to her. They looked like they were arguing in the photographs, standing on a sidewalk. Another set of photographs were from two weeks ago, them walking down a street. One was from yesterday. He had just gotten back from New York, last night. They were sitting down across from each other in some sort of lobby, the picture taken through the windows.

Tate turned away from Ang, back towards the foot of the bed, and put her head in her hands. She wasn't going to cry, but she kind of wanted to hyperventilate. She kept reminding herself, over and over, that Jameson wasn't her boyfriend. Technically, he could do whatever he wanted. She could do whatever she wanted.

But we had a deal. He couldn't be with her. We had a deal.

She felt Ang move, slide down the bed behind her. His long legs went around either side of her and then his arms were around her, hugging her from behind, pulling her in to his chest. She took deep breaths and leaned against him, let him rock her back and forth. She felt horrible. She felt angry.

“It's okay, Tate. It's just pictures, we don't know what they mean,” Ang said softly.

“I know. I know that. It's just ..., hard,” she replied, dropping her hands in to her lap.

“You really like him, don't you?” Ang asked. She sighed.

“Yeah, I think I kinda do,” she told him. He chuckled.

“Good girl Tate falls for Satan, who would've thought,” he teased. She rolled her eyes.

“I'm not a good girl,” she pointed out.

“Yes, you are. You've just gotten very good at hiding it,” he replied.

“I don't want to see him tonight,” she whispered. Ang's laugh was dark.

“Stay with me,” he whispered back, his lips against her ear. She shivered.

“No. He may be an asshole, but I'm not. When I confront him about this, it will be with a clear conscience. If it turns out he's a massive, lying, dickhole, with some secret supermodel wife, then I'll come fuck your brains out to get back at him,” Tate explained. Ang laughed.

“Cheers, thanks for that. Glad I have a say in this, that I'm good for something to you,” he snickered. She laughed as well.

“Shut up, you love it,” she told him.

“More than you know. I will happily be your revenge fuck, darling,” he assured her. She took a deep breath.

“You're too good to me. I have to go, thanks for letting me come over, and for horrifically depressing me,” she laughed, untangling herself from him and climbing off the bed.

“Where are you going?” he asked, standing up behind her. She bent over, pulling on her shoes.

“Home. Gotta get changed, head to work,” she replied. She felt his hands slide over her hips, pulling her back against him, and she glanced over her shoulder.

“Just getting reacquainted,” Ang told her. She stared at him for a moment, watched him as he looked down at her back, at her hips, his hands sliding back and forth. His voice was soft, but nothing else about him was.

Uh-oh.

“Save it for your porno, Ang. I'll talk to you later,” she said, managing a laugh as she pulled away from him. He gave her a tight lipped smile, but didn't say anything as she walked out of his room.

At home, she put on some tiny black shorts, and a cropped Red Sox jersey. Her knee high black wedge boots. Did her eye makeup extra heavy, pulled her hair up in to a “just fucked” looking ponytail. She wanted to look bad. Slutty. Angry.

The Sox had played the day before, and her jersey got a lot of compliments – as did her stomach and ass. She slung drinks and flirted a lot more than she usually did, all while watching the front door. Sometimes, on a Saturday, Jameson would come to town early, sit at the end of the bar. Watch her in a way that usually had her squirming to get him alone.

He didn't show up, but while she had her eye on the door, another good looking man walked through it. Warm brown eyes. Shaggy hair. Open smile. Broad shoulders, thick arms. She recognized him, and suddenly a thought burst in to her head.

She couldn't sleep with Ang, and since she and Jameson had started sleeping together, she hadn't felt the urge to be with anyone else. Well, right then, the urge was upon her. The man was sexy as sin, and he was a baseball player. The first baseman for the Boston Red Sox, Nick Castille, to be exact. Wealthy. Semi-famous. A challenge.

A threat.

She laid it on thick with him. Leaned over the bar to deliver his drinks, winked at him, touched Rusty inappropriately in front of him. He watched her with hooded eyes, obviously liking what he was seeing. He finally called her over.

“I like your jersey,” he commented. She spun around, showing him the back while shaking her hips.

“Good, I'm glad,” she laughed.

“But it's the wrong number,” he informed her. She turned back, sauntered up and leaned against her side of the bar.

“And what number should I be wearing?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow up.

“Mine,” he replied.

“Ooohhh, and how would I go about getting one of your jerseys?” she asked, lowering her voice.

“You could have it tomorrow, when you wake up wearing it,” he suggested. She laughed.

“Sounds like a plan.”

They chatted on and off for a while. He was actually pretty funny, and very nice. He left after about two hours, but came back when the bar was closing. She chased everyone out, locked up. Didn't even ask to go back to his fancy hotel room, or penthouse condo, or whatever. Just straddled him right on his bar stool. Gave him a lap dance. Let him carry her to a booth and spread her out on the table, like she was Sunday dinner.

It wasn't the most exciting sex she'd ever had, but it wasn't bad, either. He was different than what she'd been dining on lately, and that made it fun. He was more than capable and she really put on a show for him, coming loudly and hard. Then she backed him in to a chair, sat down on him, made him say her name like it was a swear. Slid under the table, wrapped her lips around him, and made him whisper her name like it was prayer.

I still got it.

Afterwards, he asked for her phone number. She laughed and said she didn't really plan on seeing him again. He shrugged and gave her his phone number, and then really did give her a jersey. She thought it was cute and put it on, gave him a lingering kiss goodbye at the door.

“You're a pretty amazing girl,” he mumbled, clasping his hands around the back of her neck. She laughed.

“No, just a huge Sox fan,” she teased. He rolled his eyes.

“You didn't even know any of my stats, or what my number was,” he pointed out.

“Well, I'm a huge fan now. And I will definitely remember your number,” she assured him.

“Most girls want to give me their phone numbers, you know. I usually have trouble getting away. You seem like you're pushing me out the door,” he told her with a laugh.

“I guess tonight's your lucky night. No strings attached, one night only, totally awesome sex,” she said, laughing as well. He raised an eyebrow.

“One night only, huh. So if I come back, I won't get a repeat?” he asked.

Now that was surprising. This guy really seemed to like her. She didn't know why. She was a succubus. Couldn't he tell when he was being used? That they were using each other? But as she let her eyes wander over him, she bit in to her bottom lip. He was very good looking, and it hadn't been a bad time at all. He was very nice to her. She wondered if he'd ever call her a waste of time.

“Not an exact repeat,” she started, pressing herself against him as her voice fell in to a breathy whisper. “I like to change things up, keep things exciting. There's a pool table in the back that is just the right height for -,”

He pushed back in to the bar and it was another hour before they said goodbye for real.

*

She could have gone to her apartment, but she took a cab to Jameson's. She wanted to get it over with, end her suspense. Confess to her sins. Find out if they even really were sins. It was after four-thirty in the morning, and she didn't expect anyone to be awake, but as the taxi rolled up to the porch, Sanders came outside.

“I can get it, Sandy,” Tate assured him, hurrying to dig money out of her bag. But he already had bills in his hand and she hadn't even fished out one twenty dollar bill before the cab was rolling away. Sanders turned towards her.

“I was worried,” he said very simply. She blinked in surprise.

“Really? I'm sorry. I should have called,” she replied quickly. She never wanted to hurt Sanders. Jameson was fair game, but Sanders was special.

“May I ask where you were?” he questioned. She turned and started making her way in to the house.

“At the bar, I got stuck behind,” she gave an evasive answer.

“A call would have been appreciated, ma'am,” he said in a terse voice, holding open the door for her.

“I'm really sorry. I will call you next time, I promise,” she assured him, leaning against him as she pulled off her boots.

“He's in the kitchen,” Sanders informed her. She stood upright.

“Really? You've both just been awake?” she asked.

“I waited up for you,” Sanders replied. She smiled.

“Ah, and he didn't,” she finished his statement.

“He has been ..., concerned,” was all Sanders would say.

Oooohhh, translation: pissed off.

As Sanders headed upstairs, Tate made her way in to the kitchen. Jameson was sitting at the island, a coffee mug in front of him. He glanced up at her entrance but didn't say anything, just went back to looking at his phone. She looked around the kitchen. A bunch of dishes and cups and bowls were stacked up next to the sink, sparkling clean. She frowned.

“Have you been cleaning!?” she exclaimed. There was a dishwasher that she and Sanders usually took turns working. Jameson never touched anything.

“Yes,” he replied.

“You cleaned them all, by hand!? I've never seen you wash anything,” she laughed, heading over to look at them. All white, porcelain dishes, so clean, they looked polished.

“It calms me down. Where have you been?” Jameson asked, and she turned around to see him setting his phone down.

“At the bar,” she replied, grabbing a mug and filling it with water.

“A call would have been nice.”

Tate was surprised.

“Aw, Kane, I didn't know you cared,” she teased.

“Fuck you, O'Shea,” he said back. “Now. The truth, please. Why are you late?”

“I was fucking the first baseman for the Boston Red Sox,” she told him bluntly. His eyebrows shot up.

“Really. Wasn't expecting that,” his voice was soft.

“Does that bother you?” she asked. He shrugged.

“Hmmm, not sure. Have you ever slept with him before?” Jameson questioned, standing up and leaning against the fridge behind him.

“Never met him before tonight,” she answered, sipping at her water.

“I see. Must have left quite a mark on him – that's his jersey, I presume?” Jameson asked, his eyes wandering over her clothing. She nodded.

“Yes. He gave me his phone number, too,” she told him.

“Are you going to call him?” Jameson continued. Tate smiled. He was cool, calm, and collected – but she could tell, he was actually a little nervous. Deep down.

Good.

“I told him I probably wouldn't. I don't plan on it,” she replied. Jameson nodded.

“Good.”

Tate laughed.

“You fuck other girls all the time. You came home the other day from Miami, with that crazy story about that ribbon dancer,” she pointed out.

“You love hearing those stories,” he reminded her. She nodded.

“Yeah, but I was under the impression I was allowed to do the same,” she said. He nodded as well.

“And so you are. So how was he? I want to hear all the details. Better than me?” Jameson asked, folding his arms across his chest. She shook her head.

“I don't want to talk about it right now.”

“Well, I want to know about it right now, so -,”

“I want to know about Petrushka Ivanovic,” Tate stated. Blunt was apparently the soup du jour that night.

There was a violent kind of silence. The rage that washed over his face; she was almost a little scared. Definitely a little turned on. Nick had been a lovely appetizer, but she wanted dinner now. She wondered if Jameson could get mad enough to actually be turned off.

“How the fuck do you know about her?” he demanded.

“Google is an amazing tool.”

“You Googled me!?”

“Ang did.”

“Fucker.”

“I would have found out sooner or later, Jameson,” she pointed out. “You were with her yesterday. People take your picture. Did you know there's even a picture of us online?”

He looked surprised.

“No. Where, when?” he asked.

“Don't worry, no one can tell you're with a whore,” she assured him. He frowned.

“I wouldn't care if they did. So that's why you slept with the baseball player? Because you saw pictures of me with Pet?” Jameson asked. She glared at him.

Pet. Of course that's her nickname. Goddammit.

“No, I fucked him because he was hot and he was there, same reason I fuck anybody,” she snapped. Jameson laughed.

“Liar. You're very angry, baby girl. Tonight should be extra fun,” he chuckled. Her anger went through the roof.

“Tonight should be extra boring. I'm all full up on good times,” she told him. He laughed.

“A baseball player couldn't possibly satisfy you,” he said.

“Funny, cause I feel that same way about 'financiers',” she snapped back.

“Watch your mouth, baby girl,” Jameson's voice was like ice.

“It said you were engaged,” she blurted out. More silence.

“Stupid girl, reading the tabloids. I knew you were fucking stupid, Tate, I just didn't realize how much,” his voice was quiet.

Tate shrieked and launched her coffee mug at him. She played on the bar's softball team, she was an athletic girl and knew how to throw a ball. The mug missed him by an inch, crashing in to the cupboard next to him. He didn't even blink. Didn't even move.

“Don't call me stupid,” she hissed.

“Those cups are expensive,” he warned her. She turned, picked up a plate from the stack, and threw it to the ground. It exploded.

“How about that? Was that one expensive?” she asked.

“About fifty bucks a plate. More than you can afford,” he assured her. She grabbed three more plates, slammed them to the ground, one right after the other.

“Just take it out of my salary,” she replied.

“I don't think I'm going to be paying you for tonight,” Jameson laughed in a dark manner. She grabbed one of the stacks, flung all the plates across the kitchen in one toss.

“You promised! Remember!? Nothing to do with her! I wouldn't give a shit if you fucked her, if I had known from the get go – but this whole time, you told me there would be nothing! There are pictures of you two together, every time you went to New York!” Tate shouted at him, grabbing plates and flinging them at his feet. He didn't move, not once.

“Careful, jealousy is not an attractive trait,” he pointed out.

“Lying isn't an attractive trait,” she snapped back.

“Are you done?” he asked, glancing down at the shattered chunks of porcelain covering the kitchen floor. She looked down as well, then glanced at the remaining dishes. Only a dinner plate and two cups remained. Enough for her and Sanders to enjoy a late night meal together. Good enough.

“I think so,” she replied.

He slowly started walking towards her. He wasn't wearing any shoes or socks, and she could hear the porcelain scratching and crunching under his feet. She winced. One wrong step, and he would cut himself. But silly, Jameson Kane never made a wrong step. He didn't stop moving till he was right in front of her.

“I am not a liar,” he said, his cold, blue eyes staring very hard at her.

“Not according to what I read. Engaged? That would most definitely make me the other woman, liar,” she snapped.

His hand was instantly at her neck, squeezing hard. She reached behind her and gripped the counter, squirming under his grasp. He pulled her up a little and she was forced onto her toes. Forced to drag miniscule gasps of air through her nose. She relaxed her throat, let her tongue go flat in her mouth. She knew this game.

“I am not a liar. We were engaged,” Jameson hissed through clenched teeth.

“Then why have you been seeing her?” Tate croaked out.

“Because I can see whoever the fuck I want. Because we were involved in a lot of the same businesses and it takes time to dissolve all of that shit,” he told her.

“Then why didn't you just tell me?” she asked. His hand squeezed harder and she grabbed onto his wrist.

“Because I don't have to tell you shit, Tate. I told you I wouldn't sleep with her, and I haven't. End of story. You said you trusted me – apparently you don't. Sounds like you're the liar,” Jameson growled, dragging her face close to his own.

“You still ..., should've told me,” she gasped, her voice a thready whisper.

“You should've just asked, instead of going out and finding the first available person to fuck, just so you could rub it in my face. Did you actually think that would work? Stupid fucking whore,” he chuckled in a menacing tone.

Ah, there's my Satan.

“I guess I'll have to try harder,” she managed to squeak. “Next time I fuck him, I'll make it really spectacular.”

“There won't be a next time with him,” Jameson informed her. She brought both hands to his wrist, attempted to laugh. No sound came out.

“You can't tell me what to do, Kane,” she replied.

He slammed her down onto the ground, then hovered over her. Shards of porcelain dug in to her back, and she hissed through clenched teeth. His hand was sill tight around her neck, his other hand on the floor by her head. She squirmed and moved underneath him.

“I tell you everything you're allowed to do,” he growled.

“And there's that illusion of power,” she breathed. She was starting to feel dizzy. How much was too much? When should she stop him? Did she want to?

“Let's get something straight about this power situation, Tate. I fuck you when I want, where I want, how I want. You come when I call. If I want to see my ex girlfriend, or any ex girlfriend, I will. I'm with you right now, this moment. That's all you get from me,” he told her. Her eyes rolled back, her lids fluttering shut.

What if I want more?

“I can't ..., I can't ...,” she gasped for air, digging her nails in to his skin.

His grip loosened considerably, but didn't let go. She gasped in air, her body going limp underneath him. She had been very close to passing out. She heard a clanging noise and opened her eyes. His free hand was rooting around in a drawer above them, searching for something. After a moment, a large pair of solid silver scissors appeared in his hand. Her eyes got wide.

“Stupid bitch. Stupid fucking bitch. Doesn't even know when to say enough. Fuck,” Jameson swore, bringing the scissors down to her stomach.

He glanced at her, but she didn't say anything, didn't make a move to stop him, so he continued on with whatever it was he was planning. It was rough going, using only his left hand, but he managed to make a jagged cut up the center of the jersey she was wearing. When he finally sawed through the thick lining at her collar, he rested the point of the scissors under her chin. Dug them in a little.

“Go ahead,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Just another mark, right? Not like I'll even notice.”

“I will say this only once, Tatum. I am not engaged. I wll continue to fuck other women. But I am with you,” he said in a very serious voice.

Since that night, seven years ago, he hadn't ever made her cry again. Not with his harsh tone and degrading words. Not with any of his sadistic games. Not with his punishing hands. He had choked her to the point blood vessels broke in her face, squeezed her to the point there were whole hand prints around her thighs, held her down for so long that she didn't think she'd be able to find her way back up again.

But speaking nice to her, that was too much. Saying sweet things, even in the fucked up way they had, was more than she could handle. Tears filled her eyes, spilled over her temples. Ran in to her hair. She hadn't wanted to care about this man. Not at all. She had wanted to play with him. Turned out, he was much better at the game.

“Liar,” she whispered.

He moved off of her then. Pulled her away from the floor enough to yank the remnants of her jersey off, and then let her fall back down, only wearing her bra and shorts. She watched as he shoved the jersey in to the garbage disposal, ran the machine till it clogged and stopped moving, smoke coming out from underneath the sink.

“I never lie, Tatum,” was all he said as he strode out of the kitchen.

She started to laugh. Really laugh; a sort of body heaving laughter, lifting her shoulders off the floor and causing her to shake. She could feel the porcelain cutting in to her, but she didn't care. She laughed, and the tears streamed down her face.

“Let me help you, Ms. O'Shea,” Sanders' soft voice was above her. She opened her eyes.

“Oh, Sandy. Sandy, why didn't you tell me?” she gasped for air, pressing a hand to her chest.

“Tell you what, ma'am?” he asked, grabbing her arm and pulling her in to a sitting position.

“That none of this is a game,” she breathed. He grimaced as he looked over her back.

“Because I knew you'd figure it out sooner or later, ma'am,” he replied, and then pulled her to her feet.

“I didn't want to like him, Sandy. I really, really didn't. I thought, if we just played. If we slept with other people, and just played around, I would finally beat him. I would win,” Tate babbled while Sanders wrapped an arm around her waist.

“If it's any consolation, ma'am, I think you have won,” Sanders told her, helping her walk up the stairs. She shook her head and leaned in to his shoulder.

“It's not fun anymore. It's scary. I don't know this game,” she whispered. He nodded.

“I know, ma'am. I know.”

*

Jameson was woken up a couple hours later to the sound of footsteps in his room.

Tate?

He had stayed up for a while, waiting for her to crawl in to bed, or to hear her sneaking out of the house. He had maybe gone a little too far with her, but she had made him so mad. How dare she Google him. How dare she look in to Petrushka. How dare she not trust him. How dare she fuck some guy just to get back at Jameson. Wear that guy's clothing home, to Jameson's home. He wanted to put her in her place. Remind her exactly what she was to him – even if he, himself, wasn't exactly sure.

But her eyes had looked so detached. Telling him to mark her with the scissors. Daring him. She wasn't present. She wanted the pain – not to remind her that she was with him, but to make her forget. He never wanted her to forget.

It broke his heart a little.

“Jameson.”

Sanders was in his room. He couldn't remember the last time Sanders had fully entered his room. Jameson sat up, rubbed his face, and then climbed out of bed. There was morning light shining through the windows, and the clock said it was six-twenty. He looked around him. Tatum wasn't in the room.

“Where is she?” he sighed. Sanders turned and left. Jameson followed close behind him.

She was asleep in Sanders' bed. Jameson was a little shocked – he was pretty sure no one else had ever been in Sanders' room. Jameson hadn't been in there since the remodel. She was laying on her stomach, and she didn't have anything on her top half. He winced when he saw the nicks and cuts on her back. They had been cleaned, there was no blood, but they still looked evil.

“I tried to take her to your room, but she wanted to get cleaned up first. She fell asleep. She was going to join you,” Sanders explained in his soft voice. Jameson sat on the edge of the bed, traced his fingers down her spine. She shivered in her sleep.

“No. She wanted to be with you. She feels safe with you,” Jameson replied.

“No. She wants you. She has been waiting for you.”

Jameson scowled. He wasn't in the mood for Sanders' little riddles. He stood up and pulled Tate to the edge of the bed, picked her up in his arms, curled her in to his chest. He nodded at Sanders and then strode from the room.

Once he had her laid down, he stripped the rest of her clothing off. She slept through the whole process, breathing heavily through her nose. She rolled back onto her stomach and he let his eyes wander over her body. He stretched out next to her, massaged his fingers against her skin. There were no signs on her body that another man had been there. She must have been a lot gentler with strangers. She started to move under his touch.

“Jameson,” she mumbled, her face turned away from him.

“You sure it's not Sanders?” Jameson teased. She managed a laugh.

“Oh, I'd know his fingers anywhere,” she joked back.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, smoothing his hand over her back. She shrugged.

“Yeah. Nothing a tough chick like me can't handle,” she replied.

“Sometimes I wonder.”

“I was just so angry. You had promised, and there were all these pictures of the two of you, and I just ..., I got upset. I didn't have any right to, I'm sorry,” she said softly. He sighed. He liked to pretend he didn't, but he knew he owed her something.

“I got upset when I realized you were wearing his shirt,” he replied.

“You sleep with girls all the time,” she pointed out.

“I still got upset.”

“So I can't sleep with other guys?” she asked. He thought for a second.

“I just don't want you using it against me, trying to upset me with the fact. I've never done that to you – if anything, I sleep with other women because I know it turns you on. I've never done it to hurt you. You wearing his shirt, in my house, though, trying to upset me; it worked,” Jameson growled at her.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

He rubbed a hand across his face. How far did he really want to go for this girl? He looked down at her, stretched out beside him. When he had first seen Tatum, at that party, he hadn't believed his eyes. A dark haired sex kitten engaging in dangerous banter with him. Then again at the meeting with his lawyers. Pulling her panties off in a room full of people; she had blown him away. He had wanted to play with her some more, maybe finish what they had started seven years ago. Only now, there wasn't an end in sight. He'd already gone too far.

“I met Petrushka at a party, a couple years ago. She's a huge bitch, so we hit it off. She's a freak in the sack, you'd love it,” he said. Tate laughed.

“Sounds like a keeper,” she chuckled. He put his hand back on her back and her skin jumped at his touch. Just like the first time they had ever touched. Just like every time.

“She's fucking crazy. We fucked, we fought, we broke up. Got back together. She wants everything her way, very demanding. We stayed together mostly because of our positions, I think. Supermodel, rich guy, I don't know. I was doing a lot of work in Europe at the time, it was easy,” he tried to explain.

“You have a home in Copenhagen. She's Danish,” Tate commented. He laughed.

“Seriously, Tate, sometimes I forget what a girl you are. I owned my home before I even knew her. We met in Germany,” he told her. She sighed.

“I'm so stupid.”

He moved his hand up and down her back, touched his fingers to her scratches.

“Sometimes,” he agreed. “I was unhappy. Pet dug her claws in, distracted me from that fact. I was angry a lot of the time, and sometimes she would let me treat her badly,” he continued.

“Like me?” Tate asked. He laid down on his side and leaned close to her.

“No one is like you, Tate. You're the real deal, she was an act. She likes to play my part, she wants to be the one holding someone down. She faked everything for me. I don't think she ever really liked me, or that I even ever really liked her. We just liked how each other looked, liked how we fucked,” he said.

“You spun two years away on liking how someone fucks?” Tate asked.

“You've been doing the same thing for seven years,” Jameson pointed out.

“Yeah, but with different people, different flavors. Not just one person that I don't even like. And if you didn't like her, how did you wind up engaged?” she pressed. He groaned and rolled onto his back

“It was an accident, I was kind of tricked in to it. I was picking up a ring from Harry Winston, in New York. It was my grandmother's ring. Huge, gorgeous. Pet and I had just had a very public fight, it was all over the tabloids. Some fucking paparazzi piece of shit took a bunch of pictures of me in the store with the ring, talking to the jeweler, taking it out of the store. It was everywhere. She freaked out, got all excited. When I told her what had really happened, she freaked out even more, pointed out that it would be everywhere, if I took it back. How could I take it back, when I'd never put it out there?” he asked.

“What a prize bitch,” Tate mumbled.

“I don't know, it was easier to go with the flow. There I was, almost thirty, and utterly alone; aside from Sanders. Who hated her, by the way. A very good judge of character, Sanders,” he pointed out.

“Duh. I would trust anything Sanders said. I would trust him with my life,” she was quick to comment.

“Goddamn, Tate, maybe you should be sleeping with him,” Jameson laughed.

“Who says I'm not?”

He smacked her on the ass, and some of the awkward tension between them eased as they laughed.

“Shut up, don't make me kill him. He's my favorite person – you can be replaced, Sanders can't,” he teased. She chuckled. “Anyway, I figured why not. She was one of the hottest fucks I'd ever had, she was gorgeous, and I had gotten pretty good at tuning out her bitching. I went with it. Gave her the ring. Big mistake. I never got it back.”

“What made you finally end it for real?” Tate asked.

“I had tried to break it off a couple times; once when she flipped out after she caught me fucking this tennis player – she was not as free a thinker as you. She never wanted to have sex anymore, and when we did, it was always kind of weird. Well, you know, weirder than usual. I finally told her it was over, for real over. That I had never wanted to marry her, and would never marry her. She begged and pleaded. Cried. I could never resist tears, you know.

“We wound up fucking, and she asked me to hit her. She never let me do that before, never asked me to – she would let me do other things. Hot candle wax, cat-o-nine-tails, paddles; things she had the option of doing back to me. But hitting ..., it's kind of a one way street. You'll never be able to hit me as hard as I can hit you,” Jameson said softly. Tate laughed.

“We'll see about that.”

“Very few women will let you do that to them, I've discovered. Lot's of other crazy shit, but not that, so it was kind of like dangling forbidden fruit in front of me. I was gentle, I didn't do anything crazy. Slapped her once, maybe twice. She went fucking nuts. Fucked my goddamn brains out – almost comparative to you,” he told her.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Tate snorted.

“I mean, it was crazy. Even for me. We were all over the place, every surface in the apartment. But then she started hitting herself. Hard. It got a little strange. I tried to stop her. She gave herself a bloody lip, pulled out a hank of hair, and when she came, she gave herself a black eye. I like some freaky shit, but that was too much. I got off of her, made her stop. She laughed at me, said that I was the freak, that there was something wrong with me for liking the things I like, said she was gonna tell everyone, sell pictures of her face to the press. Fucked up. I packed a bag and left. I've never gone back to that apartment, though I'm pretty sure I'm still paying rent on it,” Jameson said.

“Fuck the apartment! What happened to crazy bitch!?” Tate exclaimed, propping herself up on her elbows so she could look at him. He smiled and traced a finger down the side of her face. Her hair was a mess and her eye makeup was smeared down her cheeks, but she was looking at him. Really looking at him, all of the detachment from earlier gone.

She is so beautiful.

“I should've looked you up,” he blurted out. Her eyes got wide.

“Excuse me?”

“Seven years. I should've looked you up. I thought about you. Wondered what you were doing. That night was a pretty big deal. I never imagined that you would turn out like you did,” he told her.

“What, like you?” she asked. He nodded.

“Yeah.”

“I wouldn't have imagined it, either, back then. You unleashed something in me. Thank you,” she told him. He laughed and pushed himself so he was sitting up, resting back against the headboard.

“Don't thank me yet. You were ready to kill me earlier,” he reminded her.

“I was hurt. I was stupid. I'll get over it,” she assured him. He shook his head.

“It wasn't stupid. I could've told you. I would've wanted you to tell me, I guess. Dealing with her isn't always the most pleasant experience. We broke up last year, but besides having some investment plans together, we just run in to each other a lot. Sex happens sometimes. Old feelings get stirred up. It's fucked up, but I'm kind of a fucked up guy,” he told her. She laid back down, facing away from him, and there was silence for a few moments.

“Old feelings, huh,” she said softly.

“Tatum.”

“Hmmm?”

“If I tell you something, will you please, please, not be a girl about it? Not read too much in to it?”

Tate propped herself back up. Pushed her messy hair out of her face. She scooted closer and rested her chin against his knee. He smiled down at her, reached out and ran a hand over her hair.

She deserves better than me.

“I make no promises, but I'll try. I'm usually pretty good about it. Just not today,” she replied.

“I didn't want to like you,” he stated bluntly. She held her breath, but kept staring at him. “When I first saw you, got them to hire you as a temp. I had no intention of knowing you. I just wanted to sleep with you again. You looked so amazing, and god, your mouth. That was my plan the whole time. I wanted to see if you were like how I remembered, if anything could ever be that good again. It was better. You weren't scared of me, you stuck around. Were willing to take more than I was even prepared to dish out,” he told her. She laughed, leaned to the side and nibbled on his thigh.

“I told you, flattery will -,”

“I like you, Tatum. A lot. I don't want you to leave. When you didn't come home tonight, didn't answer your cell phone, that was my first thought. That it was over, you were bored, didn't care. I always thought it would be me first. I was upset. I don't want to let you go, not yet. I like you,” he stressed.

She frowned at him, her brows creasing together.

“That's very sweet, Jameson, but I'm not sure I understand. Why am I not supposed to be a girl about that?” she asked. He sighed, running his fingers through her hair.

“Because it won't ever be more than that. You're a friend, a very good friend. But that's it. There will never be a ring from Harry Winston. I will never ask you to marry me. I don't want those things, I never did. Not with Pet, not with anybody. I like to have fun, I like to fuck. I don't want to put stars in your eyes, I'm not that guy. I'm the devil, and I don't have any plans to change. But I like you, and I would like you to stay with me, for a little while longer,” he said.

There. He didn't know how else he could say it. How did he explain to a woman that he only ever wanted to be ..., how had she put it? “Fuck buddies”? He liked Tatum, probably a lot more than he was admitting to himself, or to her. But he didn't want to get her hopes up. Things had gone so badly between him and Pet; he didn't want that happening with Tate. She was someone he always wanted to call a friend. He wanted to hold her down, and bend her to his will, and make her do degrading, horrible things with him.

And I want her to be my friend.

“I'll stay, Jameson. I'll stay,” she murmured, moving away from him to lay back on her stomach.

“You're okay with all that?” he asked. More silence.

“I have to be. It's all you have to offer,” she finally replied.

“You don't want more?” he pressed.

“Do you want me to lie?”

“No.”

“Of course I want more. I am a girl, you're right. I want Prince Charming to ride up on a white horse, and carry me off to his castle. The only difference between me and other girls is once I get there, I want him to bend me over the throne and pull my hair while he fucks me hard and calls me names. But I know that'll never happen with you. I'm not sure I'd even want it to be you – you are the devil,” Tate agreed with him. Jameson laughed.

“Prince Charming could never treat you as good as the devil,” he teased. She shrugged.

“Maybe not. But maybe so. What'll happen to you, if I'm ever so blessed to find this magical S&M Prince Charming?” she asked. He looked at the ceiling. He didn't want to think about that moment.

“Go back to hell. Find another succubus,” Jameson replied.

“Whoever she is, I hope she's as good as me,” she whispered.

“No will ever be as good as you, Tatum.”