~6~

Tate yawned and stretched, unable to help the wince that followed. She felt sore just about everywhere. It was delicious. She opened her eyes, focused on high ceilings with ornate crown molding. She turned her head to the right – day light was streaming in a window next to her. She turned her head to the left – Jameson was on the other side of the king sized bed, sleeping on his stomach. She smiled and sat up.

It had been a pretty amazing night. She hadn't really known what to expect. Maybe rougher sex and less talking. The way it had all gone was better, though. Like he had said, they were getting reacquainted. Best not to get in to the crazy shit the first time they slept together. He had been almost gentle with her in his bedroom, and she could tell he was holding back for her. Prepping her. His words still had bite, though; a promise of what was to come.

Tate rubbed at her neck, working the kinks out with her fingers. She let her fingertips dance along the tops of her shoulders, and on the right side, she could feel a raised welt. She let her fingers play over it for a minute, trying to figure out exactly what it was, when she remembered him biting her.

Glancing at him, she slid out of the bed and scampered across the room, in to the bathroom. She closed the door and looked at herself in a full length mirror. Her eye makeup was everywhere, she looked like a panda. Or really, with the combination crazy bed head, a punk rocker that had escaped from the '80's.

She leaned in close, examining the bite mark. He hadn't broken the skin, but it looked ugly. It made her feel warm. She turned around, looking over her shoulder, trying to see her butt. There was no bruising, but one side was distinctly redder than the other. Her back also had red marks going down its length. Jameson had sharp claws. When she turned to the front again, she could see bruise lines forming at the tops of her thighs – she had known those would show up. She then got right up against the mirror, looking over her jaw. She had smacked the desk pretty good, but no marks. That was good. She liked it rough, but she didn't like walking around with a black eye. People asked too many questions.

She tip toed back in to the bedroom, and saw that Jameson was still asleep. She watched him for a moment. His hair was rumpled and cute, his arms akimbo to his head, hands clasped under a cheek. His position made the muscles in his broad shoulders bunch and come together, and she chewed on her bottom lip, tempted to scratch him awake.

She didn't, opting to find her underwear instead. She found her bra hanging from the side of a mirror and quickly slipped it on; she decided her underwear was a lost cause and threw them away. She was shimmying back in to her dress when she heard the covers rustle around.

“Sneaking out, baby girl?” Jameson spoke, his voice scratchy with sleep. Tate chuckled.

“No, I would've woken you up to say goodbye,” she replied, struggling with the zipper on her back. Once she had it all the way up, she looked at him. He had pulled himself in to a sitting position against the headboard, hands behind his head. His piercing blue eyes were traveling over every inch of her.

“Ah, but who told you that you could leave?” he asked. She laughed and walked over to the bed.

“I didn't realize I needed permission,” she responded, kneeling on the mattress and making her way to his side.

“You need to ask permission for everything.”

“Probably not gonna happen, Jameson,” she laughed, sitting back on her heels. He sighed and dropped his hands.

“Well at least we broke you of one bad habit. I swear, your mouth must get you in to so much trouble. Very defiant, baby girl. If I had to hear you say 'Kane' one more time,” he didn't finish the thought, just sucked air through his teeth.

“I don't see what the big deal is – pretty much everyone else calls you Kane,” she pointed out. He leaned forward.

“You're not 'everyone else', you're different. You get to see the real me,” he told her.

Her heart leapt in her chest. She was different to him, she got to see the real him. Too much info. She didn't know whether to jump for joy, or head for the hills. Ang had told her to be careful, and she had laughed at him. She should have heeded his warning a little better.

“Well, I'll have to see the 'real you' later – I have to go,” Tate laughed. Jameson narrowed his eyes.

“Why?”

“Because, it's almost eleven o'clock. I have to go home, run some errands, shower, get ready for work. I work at the bar Thursday through Saturday,” she explained. He nodded and yawned, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Right, right, the shit hole. I'll be in Manhattan this weekend, but I'll be back Sunday. I'll call you,” he told her.

“Ooohhh, Manhattan weekend. Lifestyles of the rich and the famous,” she teased. He rolled his eyes.

“There's that mouth. Hold on, I'll have Sanders get the car,” he said, leaning over and grabbing a phone that was next to the bed.

While Jameson barked orders at poor Sanders, Tate did her best to wipe away the makeup that was under her eyes. She could go in to the bathroom and wet a towel, but it was too much effort. She didn't want to move away from him until she had to go. She swept her hair up in to a ponytail just as he was hanging up the phone.

“Poor Sanders, I don't think you're very nice to him,” she commented, pouting out her bottom lip. Jameson reached out and pinched it.

“It works for us,” he replied, running the edge of his thumb along her bottom teeth.

“Where did you find him?” she asked, when he let his fingers trace over her lip and down the side of her jaw.

“London,” he answered, his fingers moving down to her throat.

“Is that the accent he has? Didn't seem British,” she commented. Jameson nodded, his fingers moving around the edge of his bite mark, which was just barely peeking out the side of her collar.

“It's not originally where he's from, but it's where I found him. He was trying to steal from me,” he continued, pushing the material to the side and leaning close so he could examine the wound.

“Steal from you!?”

“Yeah. He was thirteen, a pickpocket. A bad one. Probably about a week away from collapsing. I admired his tenacity. He's been with me ever since,” Jameson finished the story, smoothing her dress back in to place.

“How old is he now?”

“Twenty.”

“Wow. That's crazy, I thought he -,”

“Tate,” Jameson interrupted, his hand going to her neck and cupping the back of it. “You're obsessed with other people, I swear.”

“Says the man who stalked me to get me here,” she countered. He snorted.

“I didn't hear you complaining last night.”

“You wouldn't have listened, even if I did.”

“You're okay with all this? You're not running away to hide from me?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her. Tate laughed.

“Jameson. If you knew some of my stories. One time Ang and I got kicked out of a fancy restaurant because he crawled under the table and went down on me during the whole first course – last night was nothing scary to a girl like me. I can handle anything you can dish out,” she assured him.

“There is a big difference between me going down on you, and me calling you the 'dumbest cunt I've ever fucked'. It has been my experience that most women will say they're okay with something, and after the fact not be okay with it at all,” he said, his fingers massaging her skin. A shiver ran through her body at his words.

“I'm not most women,” she reminded him. “It's all fun to me. A game. Sometimes, I'm the dumb cunt. Sometimes, you'll get to be.”

“I very much fucking doubt that,” he snorted. She started laughing.

“I don't have time for this, Jameson,” she managed to say. “We can play some more on Sunday, I have to go home now.”

Tate started to move to get off the bed when he yanked her forward. Suddenly, his mouth was over hers, and she was gasping in to him. Both his hands went to the back of her head, drawing her forward. She followed, straddling his lap and pressing her own hands against his chest.

They hadn't kissed at all the night before – she hadn't even realized it till after she had woken up. Their lips had been all over each others bodies, but no kissing. She hadn't thought it a big deal at the time. Now it seemed like a very big deal.

Tate had forgotten what kissing him was like, like he was stealing all her breath away. Sucking it right out of her lungs. She moaned, scooting as close to him as she could get, rubbing herself against his chest while she coiled her arms around his neck. She could feel her heart palpitating, and if she hadn't been so lost in the moment, lost in the taste, and scent, and feel of him, she would've gotten nervous. Heart palpitations weren't a good thing, when it was only supposed to be games between them.

His hands dropped to her spread knees and he slid them up her thighs, under her dress. The palpitations got worse. Just as he was discovering she wasn't wearing any underwear, the bedroom door opened behind them. Jameson pulled away a little, but didn't take his eyes off of hers.

“The car is ready, sir,” Sanders' clipped voice came from the doorway. Jameson stared at her for a second longer and then flicked his eyes over her shoulder, his hands continuing their journey under her dress.

“Twenty-minutes, Sanders,” he replied, his gaze going back to Tate's. She smirked down at him.

“Very good, I'll wait downstairs.” And the door clicked shut, just before Jameson started to slide her skirt up over her butt.

“You're very authoritative, Mr. Kane,” Tate breathed, licking her lips.

“You have no idea.”

And then he was pinning her to the bed, forcing his tongue between her lips and his knee between her legs.

Why did I bother getting dressed?

*

When Tate finally got home, she rushed around like a mad man. Stopped in at the temp agency to tell them she was off the market for a while. Called Ang and left him a voicemail that pretty much consisted of just squealing in to the phone, and then hopped in the shower.

She had stayed much longer than twenty minutes in Jameson's room. It was closer to a whole hour later when she finally got out of the bed. After taking a shower together, arguing over whether or not it was appropriate for her to wear his clothing instead of her just-had-sex-in-it dress, him punishing her for arguing, and then finding clothing of his that worked for her, it was actually hours later when she finally left, closer to three. Her shift at the bar started at six.

She came out of her bathroom and walked straight in to a body. Tate screamed, slapping Ang across the face, not realizing it was him. He grabbed her arm before she could swing again.

“Jesus, starting a little early,” he said. She yanked her hand away.

“You scared the fuck out of me! What are you doing here!?” she demanded. Ang had a key to her apartment, but she hadn't been expecting him. They usually didn't see too much of each other on the weekends.

“I'm not fluent in stupid-girl-speak, I have no idea what your voicemail was about, and I had a shitty day, so I thought I'd stop by,” he explained. She frowned up at him, her anger vanishing in an instant. He looked kind of upset, and it took a lot for something get under Ang's skin.

“You had a shitty day? I'm sorry,” she said, and then led him in to her room. He stretched out on her bed while she rummaged through her closet.

“Yeah. Pedro backed out of the film, so they're pulling the whole shoot. And then my grandma stopped by. You know how joyous that can be; 'Angier, when are you going to become a respectable person!? You're going to burn in hell!' - one of my all time favorite speeches of hers,” he told her. Tate threw some clothing at the foot of the bed and then sat down next to him, rubbing her hand over his flat stomach.

“You know she's just an old bitch. Why do you let her get to you?” she asked. He shrugged.

“She just does. I can still remember when she used to bring me over to her house, bake me cookies and shit. Now I'm not even allowed to go over there,” he grumbled.

“Well, fuck her, then. She's missing out on the most amazing person I've ever met,” Tate replied. Ang rolled his eyes and looked at her.

“Like it's so easy for you to have your family hate you,” he pointed out. She blinked in surprise.

“It is. I don't care that they hate me,” she responded. He shook his head and propped himself up.

“Yes, you do. Whenever you get drunk and talk about them, that's when you get the nastiest. I know when you start babbling about your sister, I finally get to pull out the ropes and lube,” Ang told her. She laughed.

“That is so not true,” she chuckled, but then his hand was on her knee, his fingers sliding up her leg. A very similar gesture to Jameson's, just a couple hours ago. Her breath caught in her throat when Ang scooted closer.

“Doesn't matter. I feel like shit. She makes me feel like shit, I hate it,” he grumbled, leaning in to kiss her neck.

Tate swallowed thickly. She was in unfamiliar territory. While under normal circumstances she and Ang got it on whenever they felt like it, it usually wasn't when one of them had just slept with another person. And she didn't know all the rules to the game she was playing with Jameson. Would he be mad if she slept with Ang? He had made it very clear that their relationship would be a purely sexual one, but that didn't necessarily mean it wasn't exclusive. She pushed at Ang's shoulders, forcing him to look her in the eye.

“You shouldn't let her get to you. I know it's hard, and sad, and kinda depressing sometimes, but it's still so much better than life with them. We always have each other, so fuck everyone else,” she said. He sighed, and then he leaned in to kiss her, his arms wrapping around her waist.

Hmmm, maybe went the wrong way with that speech.

“It was horrible. You know how she is, she stood in the hallway after I kicked her out. Banged on peoples doors, screaming about her 'faggot grandson', same old shit. I don't want to hate her ..., but I hate her so much,” he breathed against Tate's skin.

Ang had been a huge part of her life, for a very long time. Jameson may have peeled away the excess material, exposing the real Tatum – but Ang had helped mold her. She had sharpened her tongue and claws against him, amongst other things. He needed her, and while most friends hashed shit out over beers or ice cream or whatever, she and him had their own fucked up ways. It just worked for them.

So she went with it. She felt kind of guilty and wrong – feelings she wasn't used to experiencing anymore – but she also wanted to make Ang feel better. Make him forget a little bit of his pain. He pulled her over so she was straddling him, and he ran his hands up and down her back before settling them on her shoulders.

“I have to go to work soon, Ang, so maybe I can just give you a -,” she started, when he suddenly bolted upright. She clung to his shoulders, almost getting catapulted off the bed.

“What the fuck is this?” he asked, running his fingers over the welt on her shoulder.

“Jesus, you startled me!” Tate snapped, then looked at where his fingers were touching.

“Did he do this to you?” Ang asked, leaning in close to the bite mark.

“No, I was trying to chew through my own shoulder, so I could escape,” Tate laughed. Ang glared at her. He had gone from upset to angry, very quickly.

“Are those teeth? What the fuck, Tate? That looks painful,” he snapped. She laughed.

“You're joking, right?”

“And your legs! What the fuck happened!?” he demanded, his hands gripping her thighs. Her towel had ridden up, exposing her bruises. They both stared down at her lap.

“What the fuck do you think happened? Ang, it's not like any of this is new to you. A couple weeks ago, you practically gave me a concussion, when you were practicing one of your 'moves' for your movies,” she used air quotes, making a face at him.

“That's a little different, Tate. I've been fucking you for five years. This guy just found you two days ago, and you're letting him tear chunks out of you!?” Ang's voice was getting loud. Tate scowled and climbed off his lap, holding the towel secure around her body.

“That guy found me seven years ago, and not one mark on my body is unwanted, or was unasked for. If you're gonna give me a bunch of shit, then maybe you should go,” she growled, stomping over to her door. Ang stayed on her bed, running a hand through his hair.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry. You're totally right. I'm just not ..., I'm not used to seeing that, so quickly, with you. I've probably left bigger and worse marks,” he apologized. She nodded.

“No shit.”

“Look, I said I'm sorry. I came over here with this great idea to leave marks of my own all over you, and then I find out some guy got there first. Kind of puts a damper on my plans,” Ang laughed, and she had trouble containing her own smile. It sounded so ridiculous when said out loud.

We are ridiculous.

“Well, sorry, but you knew where I was last night,” she replied. He groaned and fell back onto the bed.

“Arrrrrrg, I just wanted to get laid. Is your roomie here?” he asked, lifting his head and giving her a sideways smile.

“No way, buddy. You are never laying a finger on Rus,” Tate laughed, turning and digging some underwear out of her dresser.

“Why not? You said she's hot for me. I think she's hot. Sounds like a party,” he said from behind her. She snorted and managed to pull on the underwear while still wearing the towel.

“As far as you're concerned, Rus is the Virgin fuckin' Mary. Off limits,” Tate replied. She let the towel drop and put on her bra. She turned around and Ang's eyes raked over her body, but he didn't say anything.

“Rus is a virgin?” he asked. She shook her head, shaking a tiny skirt out of the pile of clothing and sliding it on.

“No, but as far as you're concerned, she might as well be. She's a beautiful, tiny, angel, sent from heaven to be sweet and strawberry blonde. You are not allowed to corrupt that. You are not fucking her,” Tate stated, staring him in the eye.

“You ruin all my fun.”

“You have like a ton of people on speed dial who would jump on you if you so much as breathed in their direction. Call one of them,” she suggested, squeezing herself in to a tiny cropped top that had long sleeves and a scoop neck.

“But I wanted my honey-bunny, and you won't play with me,” he said in a whiny voice. She rolled her eyes and turned to face her mirror, spreading out her makeup supplies.

“Stop being ridiculous,” she told him. He leapt off the bed.

“I'll go be a normal person, drown my sorrows, find some whore to take home. Wanna crash a show this weekend? I've got a guy who will let us sneak in during the second act,” Ang offered, leaning against her doorway.

“Totally. And see if you can find any more gym stuff – I actually kinda liked the Zumba class,” she laughed. He nodded.

“I'll keep my eyes peeled. See you later, don't let Mr. Mean take too many bites out of you,” he cautioned her. She laughed again.

“He's in Manhattan for the weekend, so I'll be bite free for a couple days,” she assured Ang. He thumped on her door and then took off down the hallway.

“Later, kitty-cat,” he called out.

“Bye!”

She did her makeup heavy, but left her hair to air dry – sometimes the unpolished look worked really well on her. She finished off her outfit with a pair of wedge boots that went to her knees and then grabbed a large jacket, covering everything up for the bus ride to work.

The bar she worked in was always popular, though Thursday wasn't as rowdy as the actual weekend. The next night was better, the Red Sox had won a home game, and the city went crazy. Tate wore a baseball jersey and Rus even got her to do a line dance on the bar top. They wound up getting wasted at a hotel party afterwards. Though she had a very tantalizing offer to join some guy for a sexual romp in the hotel's lobby bathroom, she declined. Even in a drunken haze, Tate held out. She would try to be a good girl till she heard from Jameson.

Her will power didn't hold out very long. Saturday night, she stood behind the bar, clapping and moving her body to the beat of the song that was playing. She was laughing at something one of the regulars was saying, when someone caught her eye.

Ang was walking through the room, a head taller than most people. It wasn't often that he came to see her at work, and she gave a broad smile in his direction. He was making his way towards the bar, but he wasn't looking at her. He was flirting and having eye-sex with some sexy Korean girl as he moved through the crowd.

Tate didn't think she was a nymphomaniac; she could go for long periods of time without sex, and had done so. But she did like it a lot and had a tendency to use it as a kind of therapy. Angry at someone? Have angry sex. Sad about something? Have fun sex. Just plain old bored? Have exciting sex.

And when she was in the mood, she had a lot of trouble resisting. It was like a switch that she couldn't turn off. She had been thinking about Jameson non-stop, remembering their night and morning together in vivid detail. Fantasizing about what she would do to him when he got home. What he would do to her. Her switch was halfway flipped already, and as Tate watched Ang work his magic on the girls in the bar, the switch completely flipped on.

He was wearing a long jacket, the kind with a stiff, stand up collar that buttoned all the way to the chin – he looked stylish and handsome. His hair was messy, as usual, and his grey eyes were smiling, as usual. He had an impish smile, one that some how managed to look innocent and naughty at the same time, and she knew it drove most women nuts. It was in full effect, and Tate wasn't immune to it – add that to the fact that his body was almost as familiar to her as her own, and it was hard to resist him. She took a deep breath through her nose, letting her eyes wander over his frame.

Sunday night is so far away ...,

When she dragged her eyes back up to his face, he was looking right at her. Smirking. He said something to the girl in front of him and then continued on his journey. He jostled and moved people out of the way, until he was leaning against the bar across from her. She stayed in her spot, still moving a little to the music.

“Well, well, sweetie pea, how're things?” Ang asked in his sexy voice, his eyes traveling up and down her body before going back to staring her in the face.

“Good. Busy,” Tate replied.

“You don't look very busy,” he pointed out. She shrugged.

“Lull in orders. We still going to the theatre?” she asked. He squinted his eyes at her.

“Hmmm, I don't think so,” he replied. She finally moved forward, leaning against the bar in front of him.

“Why not? I thought you wanted to hang out,” she said.

“I do. But I think little Tater-tot has something other than dinner and a show in mind,” he told her. She laughed.

“Oh, there will definitely be a show later.”

They didn't even make it till “later”. When Tate went on break twenty minutes later, Ang followed her in to the back of the bar and then dragged her outside. Pressed her up against a wall, raked his hands over her body. He had borrowed his roommate's car, and when it started to rain, he pulled her in to the backseat with him. As his tongue ran across Jameson's fading bite mark, she groaned and dragged her fingernails across his scalp.

I should really feel like a bad person most of the time.

*

“Do you always keep it this hot?”

Tatum was laying on the floor in Jameson's library, a little ways back from the wingback chairs. The fire was raging again and the room was almost stifling. Sweat was causing her hair to stick to her face, her shirt to stick to her skin. Jameson was in his chair, his feet stretched towards the fire. The heat didn't seem to bother him.

Why would fire affect the devil?

“I like it hot,” was all he said in response. She snorted, almost upsetting the glass she had balanced on her stomach.

“You like it too hot,” she corrected him.

“If it's too hot for you, take off some clothes,” he suggested. She smirked at the ceiling and moved the glass off her stomach before shimmying out of her jeans. She lifted her head enough to be able to see where he was, and then threw the pants at him. They caught him in the side of the face.

“Much better, thank you,” she told him in a happy voice.

Tate hadn't heard from him Sunday, but then Monday afternoon, she got a text message telling her to be ready by six o'clock, and to pack some clothes for an “extended” stay. Ooohhh. She was ready to go hours before she needed to be, and was waiting on the stoop of her building when Sanders pulled up in their sleek Bentley.

Jameson hadn't been too chatty once she got to the house, just content to sit and work. His home was enormous, but as far as she could tell, he spent most of his time in the library. She asked him why he had sent for her, if he was just going to work the whole time, and was told that just because he was working, didn't mean he couldn't appreciate something nice to look at once in a while.

They ate dinner and talked about the benefits of socialized health care versus private industry. Tate was a smart girl, she had gotten in to Harvard, after all – she kept current. She just usually didn't have anyone to talk to about that kind of stuff. Ang was more interested in talking about which porn star made the most money and what angle was best for backside shots. Rus just wanted to talk about boys.

She loved her friends, she really did, but sometimes Tate wanted to shoot herself.

Jameson was like a breath of fresh air. He was smart, he was cultured, and he knew how to have a conversation, when someone was deemed worthy enough for him to talk to them. And he always kept his cool, even when she purposefully tried to get a rise out of him. The Unshakable Jameson Kane.

After dinner, he led them back in to the library. The fire had already been going when she got there, but he kept building it higher, adding more logs. That was why she had opted to lay on the floor. The chairs were too hot.

“Sexy socks, Tate,” Jameson chuckled. She lifted her legs, pointing her feet at the ceiling. She was wearing a pair of purple-striped socks that went all the way to her knees. Her guilty pleasure in life. If she was stranded on a desert island, and could only have one thing, it would probably be a pair of knee length socks.

“Thank you, I think so,” she laughed, kicking her legs up and down before dropping them back to the floor.

“Are you drunk yet?” he asked. She shook her head and reached out a hand, running her fingers up and down the bottle of Jack Daniel's that was sitting near her.

“No. Do you want me to be drunk?”

“Could be interesting.”

“You're in a dark mood tonight. What's wrong?” she asked. Jameson chuckled.

“Am I ever in a light mood?” he responded. She nodded.

“Sure you are. Sometimes you're downright happy. I mean, you're always mean, and kind of a bastard, but at least you're happy about it,” she told him, and he burst out laughing.

“Okay, okay, stop with the flattery,” he joked.

“So what's wrong?”

“Had a run in over the weekend. With an ..., ex, of sorts,” he said. Tate stilled her fingers. He was speaking slowly, choosing his words carefully. Protecting her? Or hiding from her? She couldn't be sure.

“Bad kind of ex?” she asked.

“Is there any other kind?”

“Some people end on good notes, Jameson. It is possible to have an amicable break up,” she pointed out. He snorted.

“Bullshit. Do you have any good exes in your past?” he asked. She laughed.

“I'm not a very normal person. I told you about the one guy, we don't exactly speak anymore. Another guy cried when I ended it – which was weird, considering I hadn't even known we were dating. Funny how some people mistake sex for a relationship,” she replied.

“Now that's the truth.”

“So what happened? Big fight? Stalker? Oh my god, please tell me it wasn't Ellie!” she suddenly gasped, sitting upright. He had turned to face her, and his Satan's smile was in place.

“Wouldn't that have been hilarious. You know, it could be interesting. Maybe we should arrange a family reunion,” Jameson suggested. Tate narrowed her eyes.

“I don't think so. Look, if you don't wanna talk about your ex, fine, not a big deal to me, but you need to get in a better mood, or I'm gonna go find something else to do,” she informed him. His eyebrows raised up.

“Oh really. Ms. O'Shea, talking tough. You really want me to talk about her? Most women don't want to hear men talk about other women. Particularly women those men have slept with,” he pointed out.

“I'm not most women. How many times are we going to have this conversation? Fine, I'll take the lead. Is she hot? Did she dump you, when it ended? Did you guys fight, this weekend? Did you get in one last closure-fuck? Did you fuck her this weekend?” Tate prattled off. He smiled, turning his head back towards the fire.

“See, this is why I keep you around. No bullshit; so straight forward. I just might consider being nice to you tonight,” he offered. She snorted.

“How boring.”

“She's very hot. I guess you could say I dumped her. Yes, we argued this weekend. I can still fuck her whenever I want, so a 'closure-fuck' wasn't necessary. I did not fuck her this weekend,” Jameson answered every question.

Tate had meant to be cheeky. Prove that she didn't mind. He could sleep with other people. But when he had said that he could still sleep with the woman whenever he wanted, something happened to Tate's insides. Fucking some random woman was one thing – sleeping with an ex, someone he'd had a relationship with, that was dangerous. It made Tate nervous. She hadn't expected to feel that way.

She suddenly felt very guilty about her weekend.

“Would you? If the opportunity presented itself?” Tate asked, laying back against the floor.

“Sounds like it would bother you if I did.”

“I don't really know. It might.”

“Why?”

Tate had to think about it for a minute or two.

“I might be a slut, but ..., okay, I'm most definitely a slut, and I like to sleep with guys, and have no qualms about who or when or where. But I am not a cheater. I never cheated on any of my boyfriends. I won't sleep with a guy if I know he has a girlfriend or wife. I will not be that girl. If you start sleeping with your ex, you might get back together with her. Or really, she might just think you're back together – women are stupid that way. And if that happens, I would immediately become the other woman. I won't do that,” she explained, ignoring her glass and dragging the bottle of Jack to her lips, taking a sip.

“You cheated on your boyfriend, with me, when I had a girlfriend, who also happened to be your sister,” Jameson reminded her. Tate chuckled, took another swig of whiskey.

“So you understand why I'm so scarred about the whole thing. I don't want to be that girl ever again. It was a stupid accident, and look what happened. No thank you,” she replied.

“It was probably the best thing that could have happened to me at that time, so I have the opposite view of it,” he laughed.

“Po-TATE-o, po-TOT-o.”

“Maybe. Maybe you're just too hard on yourself. I mean, yeah, every time I've ever slept with someone outside of a relationship, my girlfriends always knew. I made sure they knew – lying is ridiculous. If someone doesn't like it, they can get the fuck out. But you and I, we were young, dating the wrong people. It's not like either of us planned it. And we didn't even get a chance to hide it. We weren't trying to hurt anyone,” he pointed out. She nodded.

“True. Still. You asked. That's my answer. No, I probably wouldn't like it if you started sleeping with this ex girlfriend. But I'm also not gonna stop you,” she wrapped up their conversation.

“Well, thank you for that, Tate. I'll be sure to tell you before I start plowing my way through my little black book.”

Tate rubbed her lips together, staring at the ceiling. Now was definitely the time to say something. Part of her didn't want to upset him or make him mad. She drew her knees up and rubbed her thighs together. Another part of her really wanted to make him mad, and see what would happen.

“I slept with Ang.”

God, I just blurted it out. Like a slutty-goat. Jesus.

“Excuse me?”

She cleared her throat.

“I slept with Ang. Had sex with him,” she clarified.

“What, like this weekend?” Jameson asked. She winced.

“Yes. Saturday night,” she replied.

“So I can't sleep with my ex because I might get back together with her, but you can sleep with your best friend-slash-tripod?” he questioned, but there was laughter in his voice. He didn't sound angry.

“I'm horrible. I didn't want to, at first. But I was lonely, and I was thinking about you all weekend, and then he was right in front of me, and it just ..., happened.”

Three times.

“Okay. Thank you for telling me,” Jameson replied in a simple tone. She felt a little like throwing up.

“I wasn't sure what is and isn't allowed. Ang and I have known each other forever – sex is more like a pickup game of basketball to us. We just do it, for like sport. But then I kept thinking that maybe it wasn't okay. I didn't know if we were allowed to sleep with other people, or what exactly is going on here, and I ..., I felt kinda bad afterwards,” Tate told him. It was the truth. She'd spent most of Sunday working out rehearsed speeches to beg for his forgiveness. Jameson chuckled.

“I don't care if you sleep with other people when I'm not around. We're the same animal, you and I, so I get it. But I gotta be honest, I have the same issue you have – you're a little too close to this Ang guy for my tastes. What if the same problem happens? I don't really care about being the other man, as long as I'm the man. Can't be that, if you go off and fall in love with your best friend. I'm not quite ready to stop playing with you yet,” he tried to explain. She laughed.

Oh, you are most definitely the man, Satan.

“That won't happen, trust me. But there we go – you can't sleep with ex girlfriends. I can't sleep with Ang. Deal?” she asked.

“If that makes you happy.”

There was a long pause after that, Tate drinking more from the bottle and Jameson just being quiet. She rubbed her legs together, lifted them back in to the air and did slow high kicks. She was pretty flexible, she could almost bring her knee to her chest. She let go of the bottle and laced her fingers behind her knee, gently pulling down. Just another inch, and -,

“Did you think about me?” Jameson's voice cut through the room.

“Excuse me?” she asked, letting go of her leg and propping herself up with her hands. He wasn't facing her, his eyes on the flames.

“While you were fucking Ang, did you think of me. You said you were lonely, that you had been thinking about me all weekend. When he was fucking you, were you thinking of me?” Jameson asked, finally turning to look at her.

Tate stared back, taking a deep breath. She didn't want to tell him, because the answer made her feel bad. Made her feel like a traitor. The other reason she had felt so bad all weekend. But he just kept staring at her, his eyes boring in to her soul.

“Yes,” she whispered. He smiled and leaned foward, over his arm rest.

“So while this guy, Angier, was inside of you, you were imagining it was me, weren't you?” he asked her. Tortured her.

“Yes.”

Usually, Ang was so amazing, he was able to obliterate any other person from her mind. She could barely think straight, let alone think of another man. But Jameson had her all messed up. He'd gotten under her skin and was running rampant through her system. It wasn't a matter of one being better in bed than the other – they were both spectacular. But only one of them captured her mind.

And it wasn't her best friend.

“Good. New rule. Anytime you fuck someone else, you picture me. Understood?” Jameson demanded.

“I don't think that even needs to be a rule; it'll just happen on its own,” Tate laughed. He gave one more tight lipped smile and leaned back in his chair.

“Jesus christ, that we even need these kinds of rules, really says something about us,” he mumbled.

“I think they're a good idea,” she told him. He laughed, and it was an evil sound. It sent shivers down her spine.

“You would think that, Tate, because you're a whore,” he stated.

Ah, now we're getting somewhere.

“Maybe. But at least I'm a responsible one,” she teased.

“That's an oxymoron,” he told her.

“You're an oxymoron,” she taunted him, laughing.

“That makes no sense.”

“You make no sense.”

“Stop it, Tatum.

“You stop -,”

“Don't make me come over there. I'm not in a good mood,” Jameson warned her.

“Maybe if you come over here, I could cheer you up,” she offered.

“Maybe I don't want to cheer up. Maybe I want to be in a bad mood,” he countered. She rolled her eyes.

“You sound like a little kid who wants to bitch just to bitch,” she told him. His head snapped towards her.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

“I think you heard me,” she said with a smile. He stood up.

“I think you want to get hurt,” he replied, moving to stand over her. She leaned back on her elbows, smiling up at him.

“I live to make you happy,” she told him, sighing melodramatically. He squatted down next to her.

“Are you ever scared of me?” he asked, his voice soft. Tate shook her head.

“No, not even a little,” she assured him.

“Sometimes I wonder if maybe you should be,” he added.

“And why is that?”

“Because, I have the strangest feelings about you. Like I want to take you everywhere and have you by my side, but I also want to hold you down. Make you beg and cry,” he told her. She kept her eyes focused on his, didn't move a muscle.

“Sounds like a pretty good plan to me,” she whispered. He reached out and traced a finger down her leg, from the hem of her underwear to her knee, and then back up again. His eyes watched his finger.

“How did I find you?” It was obvious that he was thinking out loud.

“That's pretty easy – you made me,” she responded. Jameson's eyes cut to hers, flashing blue in the shadowy room.

“I didn't know that's what I was doing, at the time,” he told her, and then started digging his nails in to her thigh, dragging them up her skin. She hissed.

“Me, neither. Maybe we found each other,” she breathed, letting out a sigh when he lifted his hand. He moved back down to the same spot and repeated the motion. She hummed and let her head drop back, closing her eyes.

“Sometimes I still can't believe you're here, Tate. That it's really you. Tatum O'Shea. Mathias O'Shea's daugher; Ellie's little sister,” he said, moving his hand to her other leg.

“I haven't been any of those things in a long time, maybe that's why it still feels so weird to you,” she suggested.

“If you aren't those things, then what are you?” he asked. She thought for a second.

“Just Tate. Bartender. Party girl. Ang's friend,” she prattled off things that came to mind when she thought of herself.

“Slut?” Jameson whispered. She opened her eyes.

“Oh yes. Most definitely that,” she sighed. His nails moved to her throat, so she kept her head back.

“Pain,” he added through clenched teeth. She gave a small nod as he dragged a sharp nail from underneath her ear down to her collar bone.

“Maybe just sex, period. Kinda encompasses it all,” she suggested.

“Very thoughtful of you.”

“I like it. Tatum 'Sex' O'Shea. Why not,” she laughed. Suddenly his hand was tight around her throat, squeezing. She rolled her eyes to look at him. He was staring at her neck.

“Sounds good to me. We could -,” he started, but he was interrupted. The library door swung open. Tate didn't have to look to know it was Sanders. It was strange - he walked in and out of rooms without knocking, all the time, but he never seemed intrusive. She hardly even noticed him. She kept staring at Jameson, who gripped her neck even tighter. She took shallow breaths through her nose.

“Tokyo, sir. The eight o'clock meetings,” Sanders' even voice carried over the room. Jameson sighed and finally looked her in the eye. She smiled at him.

“Gotta go, baby girl. No rest for the wicked,” he told her, before letting her go. He leaned in quick and kissed her throat before getting to his feet.

“Gonna be a while?” she asked. He nodded.

“Probably. You know where the kitchen is, or you can go up to my room. If you need anything, just ask Sanders,” Jameson instructed, looking back and forth between the two of them. Tate gave him the biggest smile she could manage. Sanders stared at the wall.

“Got it. Go make my money,” she told Jameson. He snorted.

“That's not even funny.”

He strode out of the room and Tate stayed as she was for a moment, looking after him. Then she sighed and sat all the way up. Sanders was still standing in the room, still staring at a wall. She looked him over.

“Got a hot date tonight, Sandy?” she asked. She loved to tease him. She would crack him some day.

“No, Ms. O'Shea,” was all he said.

“You look awfully nice tonight. New suit?” she pressed. He cleared his throat.

“No, Ms. O'Shea.”

“Are you ever going to call me Tate, like I asked you to?”

“Probably not, Ms. O'Shea.”

She had an idea. She got the impression that Sanders and Jameson virtually never left the house, unless it was to go to Jameson's office. Not right. Jameson hadn't ever asked to go back to her place, or taken her anywhere fancy. Tate loved every second she spent alone with him, but she didn't want to be someone's dirty laundry, either.

“Do you have any newspapers, Sandy?” she asked, climbing to her feet.

“Several. Which would you prefer, New York Times? LA Times?” he listed them off.

“Just Boston papers, any you got. And any weekly periodicals you have,” she added, running her hands over her legs to shake off any carpet dust. She was standing in front of Sanders only wearing knee high socks, boy-briefs style underwear, and a tight white tank top. She should probably feel bad, she didn't like to make people feel uncomfortable – but if Sanders was uncomfortable, he didn't show it. If anything, he looked bored.

“Is that it?” he asked.

“Just that. Hurry back, it gets lonely in here,” she teased him. He rolled his eyes and headed out of the library. She laughed and then went over to the fireplace, determined to figure out how to turn it down.

*

Jameson strode back in to his library just over two hours later, and was in for a little shock. The fire was much smaller, and the over head lights were turned on – he almost never used them, himself. Tate was sitting cross legged in the middle of his floor, surrounded by newspapers and clippings. She was cutting something out of one of the papers, the tip of her tongue visible at the corner of her mouth.

Almost cute.

“What are you doing?” he asked, striding through the mess of papers.

She looked up at him and broke in to a big smile. He had to steel himself against it. If he wasn't careful, he was going to get too comfortable with her, and Jameson tried to make it a habit to never get too comfortable.

“Coupon clipping!” Tate responded in an excited voice.

“Excuse me?”

“When I first met Ang,” she started. He had never met the man, but Jameson already kind of hated her best friend. “I was really desperate for money. My jobs sucked, I was a shitty waitress. Scraping the bottom of the barrel. Ang showed me how far coupons can get you. He goes on Groupon all the time, too. We get in to places free, get all kinds of free food, and free swag. It's pretty awesome.”

“'Awesome.' Why are you doing that here, now?” Jameson pressed. She smiled up at him again, only this time it was a devilish smile. That was the smile he liked, the one he wanted to slap off her face.

“Because I'm taking you out on the city, mister. You and Sanders. We're gonna go out, and you're gonna live like a real urban-ite for a day,” she informed him. He laughed.

“There is no fucking way I am ever fucking doing that, so get that out of your fucking mind, right fucking now,” he suggested. She shook her head.

“Oh, you're going to do it, and afterwards we're going to a dinner party. I had already agreed to go to dinner at a friend's house. You can come with me,” she told him. He scowled.

“And if I don't go?” he asked. Tate shrugged.

“Not that big of a deal. We can just officially declare you the king of all pussies. And not in the good way. You don't have to go, I can go as Ang's date,” she assured him.

“I guess I'm going to a fucking dinner on the bad side of Boston. You get two hours, no more,” he told her. She laughed.

“You hear that Sandy, you're getting out of here!” she called out. Jameson hadn't even realized the other man was in the room – he was in for another shock. Sanders was behind the desk, snipping and cutting away at a newspaper, as well.

“Sounds exhilarating. If no one requires my services anymore, I'm going to get back to work,” Sanders said, getting up from his seat. Jameson nodded.

“We're not doing early tomorrow, so sleep in as late as you want,” he told him. Sanders nodded, and walked forwards. Tate held up her hand, palm facing backwards.

“Up top, Sandy,” she said, her eyes never leaving the paper she was scanning. Sanders high fived her and then continued out of the room. Jameson stared after him.

What just happened?

“I think he likes you,” he mumbled. Tate shrugged.

“Most people do. I'm pretty fuckin' awesome,” she told him. He burst out laughing and walked over to her, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her to her feet.

“Yes, but usually, Sanders doesn't like anybody,” Jameson laughed, pulling the scissors out of her hand and tugging her away from the sea of newspapers.

“But I wasn't done. What are you doing?” she asked.

“Oh, you're done. Time for good girls to go upstairs and show me how bad they can be,” Jameson told her.

“I don't think there's very much that's good about me anymore,” she laughed, following him out of the room.

“I think you have no idea what bad really is – you almost have too much good,” he replied.

“I don't think -,”

“Stop arguing, or I'll make you crawl up the stairs.”

Tate was silent for about two seconds, and then turned in to a prosecuting attorney, arguing all the points on how she couldn't possibly be good. Jameson stopped moving, smiling at her back as she started up the stairs. Then he reached forward and grabbed her ankle, pulling her leg out from underneath her. She went to her knees, hands flying out to catch herself.

“Shit!” she cursed. He moved a few steps ahead of her, then squatted down and fisted his hand in her hair.

“Why are you always set on defying me, baby girl?” he asked, his voice low as he pulled her hair, forcing her head up towards his own. She looked up at him, a smile playing on the edge of her lips.

“Because it's always so much fun.”

“You are such a mindfuck, Tate. Something is wrong with you, that you want to be treated like this, that you like being a whore,” he hissed at her. She chuckled low in her throat.

“Hmmm, but really, what does all that say about you? That you want to treat someone like this? That you want to be with a whore?” she replied.

“I've made peace with my desires.”

“Like you said, we're the same animal. You had a bad weekend. Let's go upstairs, and you can take it out on me,” she whispered. He tugged harder on her hair and she raised up onto her knees.

“Sounds like that works out more in your favor, than mine,” he pointed out. She laughed, reaching out to scratch her nails down his arm.

“Baby, all I do is give you favors. You should feel blessed, to have such an accomodating whore,” she purred. He snorted and shoved her forward, forcing her back onto her hands.

“Burdened is more like it. Now fucking crawl.”

And she did, all the way to his bedroom.

Maybe I should keep this one ...,