~1~

“Alright, who wants to get fucked up tonight!?”

Tate grabbed a guy by the back of the head and forced him to lean backwards over the bar. He smiled up at her and she winked at him, right before pouring straight tequila down his throat. She then clamped her hand over his mouth and shook his head back and forth. He stumbled when he stood up, but managed to turn around.

“That one's on me, honey,” she said, her voice flirty while she spun the tequila bottle in her hand. He dug around in his pocket and pulled out some bills.

“You're the best bartender ever!” he shouted, slapping the money on the bar.

“That's what they all say!” she laughed, sweeping the money off the bar top. She eyeballed it quickly before shoving it in to a jar behind her. Two twenties. Not a bad tip at all.

“You are the best, Tatey! We goin' out after this!?” her fellow bartender, and roommate, Rusty Dobber shouted at her. As loud as the music always was in their bar, a person had to shout to be heard at any given time.

“We'll see, Rus. I'm working on something,” Tate replied, nodding her head. Rus glanced over her shoulder. A sexy guy sat at the end of the bar, eyeing Tatum up and down. Brad, one of Tate's regulars.

In more ways than one.

“Oh pooh, you're so boring!” Rusty laughed before dancing away, heading to a group of guys who were clamoring for a drink.

Tate loved being a bartender. She had never gone back to Harvard. After Eloise had tattle-taled on her, her “free ride” had been stopped. But Tate would have quit anyway. She knew that before she even got home that fateful night. She hated going to college. She had hated high school. She hated studying. Hated her pastel colored wardrobe. Her pastel colored life. She got home, packed her bags, and ran. Didn't stop till she got to Boston – a seven hour drive.

Once there, it wasn't long before she got the phone call from Daddy. Her parents were beyond strict. They had their daughters' lives all mapped out. Ellie was a paralegal, on her way to becoming a lawyer – someday a supreme court judge. Tatum was going to become a political adviser, and someday a senator, or a governor.

But Tate didn't want those things. She had loved to paint, but had never been allowed to. She loved to sing, and dance, and be silly. All against the rules in the O'Shea house. So was sleeping with a sister's boyfriend – even if said boyfriend didn't even like the sister. The Kane family was very wealthy, very well connected. The O'Sheas wanted that connection. In their minds, Tatum had ruined that, had ruined everything. Worst. Christmas. Ever.

She wasn't invited back for Easter.

Her apartment had been paid up till the summer, nothing Daddy could do about that, and Tate certainly wasn't lazy. Going against her own nature for years had been hard work. She went out and found a job. Found two jobs. Made friends. Real friends, for the first time ever. Had a social life. Dated. Screwed around. Acted her age. She didn't talk to her family at all, but that was okay, because she didn't like them anymore than they liked her.

So now all these years later, life was better than ever – in her opinion. She realized that sure, maybe some of that was thanks to a certain blue eyed he-demon, but she didn't think about him too much. Jameson had awakened something in her, brought about her change, but she was responsible for her life. She had taken control. She had grown up. And he hadn't been there for that. He wasn't anything to her. Nothing at all. He didn't exist anymore.

And she was perfectly fine with that.

*

Tatum came to with a start the next morning, not quite sure where she was, at first. She squinted in the bright sunlight, held up a hand. There was an open window across from her. She moaned and almost pulled the covers up over her head, but a snort came from the pillow next to hers, and she stopped moving.

“Oh, jesus,” she groaned, bringing a hand to her head. Brad was snoring next to her.

She kind of remembered now. She had gone to an after-hours club with Rus and Brad. More drinks had flowed between them. Shots were taken. Tate was a pretty solid party girl. Under normal circumstances, she could handle her liquor and controlled substances very well, but last night had gotten a little wild, even for her. She could sort of remember stumbling up to Brad's apartment. Doing something naughty in the hallway outside his door.

There was something about going down on a guy in public that just drove her wild.

But it hadn't gotten a whole lot better from there on – a couple drinks, and Brad was pretty much done for the night. He'd passed out on the bed, right in the middle of Tate's striptease. Not confidence inspiring. But since she was already half naked, she just crawled in to the bed next to him and passed out, as well.

She was regretting that now. Brad tended to get clingy when she stayed the night. He wasn't her boyfriend. More of a stress reliever, really. She liked that, and wanted it to stay that way. But it had become more and more obvious that he didn't want it to stay that way.

Tate managed to slide out of the bed without waking him up. She tip toed around the room, collecting the clothing she'd tossed everywhere. She shimmied in to her tight white t-shirt and then hopped around, struggling more with the tight leather leggings.

“Now that's a sight I could get used to,” she heard Brad say from behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and laughed. She was bent over, struggling to get her foot through the pant leg. Her thong-clad ass was pointed straight at Brad.

“You could take a picture,” she offered, and then succeeded in getting her foot through. She got the other leg in no problem and yanked the leggings up over her hips.

“You'd really let me do that?” he asked. She shrugged, pulling on her boots.

“Maybe. Depends. Not with my face in the picture,” she said, grabbing her jacket off a chair.

“Why are you always in such a rush? I could use some help here,” he chuckled, gesturing to the tent that was happening in his sheets. Tate laughed out loud.

“Are you joking? You owe me one, after last night,” she pointed out, searching around for her purse.

“What are you talking about? I thought we had a great time,” he said. She gave him a Look.

“You had a great time, coming in my mouth after about two seconds, and then passing out. You have the the worst case of whiskey dick, of anyone I've ever met,” she informed him, and then spotted her purse, halfway under the bed. She crawled around, struggling to get to it.

“I could make up for it now,” he offered, his hand stroking his erection. She snorted.

“No thanks, that train has left the station. See you around!” she sang, dashing out of the room.

She stood on the corner down the street, waiting for Rus to come pick her up. She sipped at a coffee she had bought, playing on her phone. After about fifteen minutes, a beat up looking VW Beetle pulled up to the curb. She slid in to the passenger seat.

“So, was it amazing? Fireworks?” Rus asked. Tate chuckled, resting a booted foot against the dash.

“Pshaw, not hardly. I don't know why I keep trying with him. It used to be fun. Now it's just like ..., eh,” she replied, pushing her aviators higher up on her nose.

“You say that about every guy you're with, you know. Even back when you used to date. Now you don't even do that – just screw 'em and lose 'em. What kind of man does it take to satisfy the insatiable Tatum O'Shea?” Rus asked.

“If I'm 'the insatiable Tatum O'Shea', then by definition, I can't be satisfied,” Tate joked.

“No, seriously. What would it take? Perfect man. What do you want?” Rus pressed.

“I don't want a boyfriend. I've tried that, don't like it, over it. I like playing around,” Tate replied. Rus shrugged.

“Okay, so what would it take for a guy to be so good in bed, that you'd never want to leave it?” she changed the question.

Tate pressed her lips together and stared out the window, silent for a minute. It wasn't a line of questioning she liked too much. Made her think about the past, which she didn't like to do, at all.

“Someone a little domineering, someone who can handle my crazy, weird, personality. Someone who can make my eyes roll back in my head. Someone who can talk absolute filth to me, but still know where the line is, and even know when to step over it on occasion,” Tate started. “Someone who ..., will just let me be me, and be cool with it. Let me come and go.”

“Emphasis on the come?” Rus asked, and Tate burst out laughing.

“You have the maturity of a twelve year old. Let's get some tacos, I'm starving,” she groaned.

They sat outside, on top of a picnic table. Tate threw excess lettuce to some birds while Rus chattered on about her own guy problems. She was always looking for Mr. Right, and her current boyfriend wasn't stacking up. She was explaining how Vinny wouldn't know his way around her body even if she printed him a map, when Tate's phone went off. She glanced at the screen and then groaned before answering it.

“Yeah?” she answered, her voice muffled by almost half a taco.

“Tate, sweetie, cover for me tonight? I'll make it up to you, I promise,” a voice whined over the other end. Rachel. Another friend, who worked for a catering business. Tate temped with them on occasion, so Rachel would call her to cover every now and then.

“I don't know, I had kind of a late night last night,” Tate grumbled.

“This'll be easy. Drinks and hors d'oeuvres at some swanky building downtown, seven to ten; get there at six, done by eleven. Please, please, please, I will owe you my life,” Rachel begged. Tate rolled her eyes.

“Keep it, it's not worth anything anyway. I'll do it, I'll do it,” she responded. She could always use more money.

“Eeeeek! You're the best, Tatey-Watey, the absolute best,” Rachel gushed, and then passed along the address and event info. Tate hung up the phone and sighed.

“Her voice is so hard to resist. Wha'd she rope you into, this time?” Rus asked, finishing off the last taco.

“Just some party, cocktails and stuff. Some new company that just opened downtown, kind of a welcome event thingy. Kraven and Dunn, brokerage firm or something. A bunch of suits, people that are rich out the ass,” Tate explained.

“Oh, so your kind of people?”

“Shut up,” Tate snapped, punching Rus in the arm when she started to laugh. “Not anymore. My mother would die if she saw the way I lived.”

“We're not so bad,” Rus piped up. Tate nodded.

“I know – it's more of a comment on them than us,” she explained before jumping off the table. “Let's get out of here. I gotta go shower and find that uniform.”

Tate showed up at the address at six o'clock sharp. The whole office building belonged to the firm, and the party was being held on the top floor. Ooohhh, big money. Could mean big tip. Or no tip. Rich people were funny that way, she had noticed.

She changed in a bathroom stall, and then examined herself in a mirror. She hadn't really been sure how cleaned up she should get – when she catered, she always tried to score more low key events. She hoped her heavy eye makeup wasn't too much, she didn't want to go through the hassle of scrubbing it all off. She pulled her hair in to a high ponytail and made her way in to the kitchen.

All the servers were gathered together and walked through the event space, a large conference room that had been cleared of all its furniture and set up for the party with little tables everywhere. No guests were there yet, but some guys in suits were wandering around, looking things over. Tate sighed and picked at her nails, ignoring the run through; blah blah, serve the drinks, blah blah, don't talk to the guests, blah blah, drop a tray and instant death. It was always the same.

There wasn't a whole lot to do till guests got there, and Tate was a mover by nature. She didn't like standing around doing nothing. She began prepping drink trays, preloading some with champagne glasses that had been designed special for the occasion – there was supposed to be a toast at the end of the night, and all of the glasses had a large, cursive K etched in to the glass. She set them up in the kitchen, and then carried them to a table where the other trays were filled with food, ready to go. She was on her last tray when she turned around and rammed right in to somebody.

“What the shit!” she exclaimed, dropping the tray and falling to her knees.

“Excuse me,” a man's voice floated down to her. She grumbled and began grabbing at the broken glasses, slamming them onto the tray.

“Walk much!? Or is this your first time as a pedestrian?” she snapped. The guy squatted down next to her.

“Sorry, I didn't see you there,” he repeated, though his voice sounded anything but sorry.

She flicked her eyes to his face, giving him her most severe glare before concentrating on the glass in front of her. She frowned. Light eyes. Dark hair. He had been staring at her. He was very good looking, and wearing an expensive looking suit. God, had she just told off one of the guests? What was a guest doing in the kitchen?

“Sorry, I shouldn't have snapped. You just startled me,” Tate mumbled an apology. He laughed.

“That didn't exactly sound genuine,” he chuckled.

“Just doing my job, sir,” she managed a tight lipped response.

“You work here?”

“No, I just like to wear aprons and run around kitchens for fun,” she said before she could stop herself. He laughed again.

“Ah, a caterer. C'mon, get up. Ignore those, I'll get someone to clean it up,” he said, and then grabbed her arm, forcing her to climb to her feet. She was a little shocked at the audacity of just grabbing her like that, but she didn't say anything. Couldn't. His fingers felt like they were burning holes through the oxford shirt she was wearing.

“But I can't just leave that, I -,” she started, trying to bend back down. He kept his grip on her.

“Leave it,” he ordered, and a shiver ran down her spine. She finally looked at him again.

“You can't just tell me to leave a mess there, and it's okay. Who are you?” she demanded. He smiled down at her, and something fluttered in her chest.

No. Not possible.

“See the K on those glasses?” he asked. She glanced down at the tray.

“Yeah?”

“That's me. I'm the Kraven in Kraven and Dunn,” he explained. She managed a nod.

“Oh.”

“You seem surprised.”

“No. Just really wishing I hadn't yelled at you now,” Tate replied. He laughed again, loudly. She frowned. Something wasn't right. Her universe felt like it was tilting to the left.

“It's fine. I wasn't paying attention, I shouldn't have just barged in here. I just thought ..., thought I saw something,” he told her.

“I should probably get back to work,” she said, staring in to his eyes. His blue, blue eyes. He squeezed her elbow and then let it go. She took a couple steps away.

“You probably should. See you around,” he said. She nodded and walked off.

See you around.

Tate stopped breathing. Almost stopped moving. She made it to the end of a short hall and then stepped to the side, pressing her back against a wall. She felt like she was going to hyperventilate. It was ridiculous. It couldn't be, that guy said his name was Kraven. Not Kane.

She leaned to the side and peaked her head around the corner. He was still standing there, his hands in his pants pockets, looking down at the mess. She studied his profile. Dark hair. Strong features. Light eyes. Broad shouldered, and tall, probably like six-foot-two, or so. Very sexy. So good looking ..., she felt like if she stared at him for too long, she'd go blind.

Oh my god.

She hurried off, pushing her way through the other waitstaff till she found one of the event coordinators. The poor girl looked like she was on the verge of a nervous break down, but Tate didn't care. She had to know something.

“Who is hosting this event?” she demanded.

“We went over this earlier, Kraven and Dunn,” the girl responded.

“Yes, I know that – what are their names, Kraven and Dunn? Their full names?” Tate asked, struggling not to shake the girl.

“Never address the hosts by their first name, call them -,”

“Just tell me their goddamn names!” Tate snapped. The woman began flipping through pages on a clipboard.

“Wenseworth Dunn and ..., hmmm, let me see,” she kept flipping. It took forever. “Ah! Kraven. Jameson Kraven.”

Jameson Kraven. Not Kane. Still, what are the chances!?

Tate didn't have time to ponder it – another coordinator rushed in and clapped them all to attention. They were handed trays and sent out in to the fray. Tate balanced a platter of crab cakes on her palm and made her way in to the crowd of suits and cocktail dresses.

She didn't want to see him, but her eyes kept searching for him. She hadn't thought about Jameson much during all the time that had passed since that crazy night; except for when she was alone in bed. Or the shower. Sometimes on the couch.

But other than that, he had been absent from her mind. He had scarred her to a certain extent. For a little while, right after, her silly heart had hoped and prayed he would get in touch with her. “I will if I want to,” he had said about seeing her. Very soon, it became apparent that he didn't want to – he never contacted her. Then her life had gotten so crazy, Tate hadn't had time to dwell on him, she was too concerned with figuring out where her next meal would come from, or how she was going to pay her rent, to care about Jameson Kane. He hadn't ever really been anything to her. Just a moment in time, that had happened to change her life forever.

She served crab cakes and shrimp balls, delivered drinks and took empty glasses. She smiled and flirted, encouraged everyone to drink more, and assured them that everything tasted amazing. She knew she didn't look as polished as most of the other waiters, but sometimes that worked to her advantage, especially with uptight suit types. They saw her nighttime makeup and mussy hair, and tended to think naughty thoughts. Naughty thoughts equalled bigger tips – and in this case, where the tips were pooled together, it meant more for everyone. So she worked it.

After the toast – which she made sure to miss – the place started to thin out. No one was eating anymore, and they were encouraged to not serve anymore alcohol. She had busied herself with clearing off tables, starting in the back corner, when she heard a noise behind her.

“It is you, right?” he asked. Tate sighed and stood upright.

“I was wondering that myself,” she replied, slow to turn around. Jameson was smiling at her.

“God, you look so different, I didn't even recognize you at first. How long has it been? Six years?” he asked.

“More like seven. What's with the Kraven?” she asked, holding up a champagne glass with the etching facing him. He chuckled.

“Mother's maiden name – Jameson Kraven Kane. Has a nice ring,” he explained.

“Makes sense.”

“Are you a waitress?” he asked. Tate laughed.

“Like I said, I just wear aprons for fun,” she responded. He made her uncomfortable. Tatum didn't get uncomfortable anymore, so it was a foreign feeling.

“Cute. So do you just work catering gigs?”

“Among other things.”

“Like what?'

“I'm a bartender on the weekends. Temp a lot. Walk dogs. Taught yoga at a retirement home the other day. Do bicycle tours, walking tours, riverboat tours -,” she started to list off when he held up a hand.

“Tours. I get it. I thought you were going to Harvard. You were gonna change the world, or something,” he remembered. She laughed again.

“Once upon a time. But then I had this epiphany – I fucking hated school. I hated my life. I hated my parents. They pretty much hated me, so it worked out great. I left school and got a job,” she recapped her life.

“Why do they hate you?” he asked, his eyebrows raised.

“One guess, Mr. Kane.”

“No shit,” Jameson said in a low voice, looking down his nose at her.

“Yup. Eloise was never one to take things lying down. Though you would know more about that than me,” Tate teased. His eyebrows went up even higher.

“You are so ..., different,” he told her, his voice soft.

“Well, you never really knew me,” she pointed out.

“I think I got to know you pretty well.”

She sucked in a quick breath and held it. It got about ten degrees hotter in the room. Tatum was no blushing girl, not anymore – she had broken up with Drew that same night, and since then she had slept with a lot of guys. Probably more than she'd like to admit. She wasn't shy about sex. But something about him, made her feel that way. She didn't like it. She had to regain the upper hand. She stepped up close to him, almost close enough for their chests to meet.

“It was one night, Jameson. You don't know anything,” she whispered the last part, staring up at him.

Before he could respond, she turned and walked away. She halfway expected him to follow her, but he didn't. When she got back in to the kitchen, she peered out the porthole in the door. He was still standing there, staring after her. She smiled to herself.

Upper hand, achieved.

She didn't know why she felt the need to “beat him”; she didn't matter to him. He didn't matter to her. One fucked up, incredibly hot night together didn't mean anything, in the grand scheme of things. He had done her a favor, if she was honest with herself, and he had seemed to enjoy himself in the process, so it all worked out.

Closure. It was closure, Tate figured, for a chapter in her life she hadn't even known needed closure. Jameson Kane was most definitely a thing of the past. For real, now.