“Clever girl. Now get out of here, you've wasted enough of my time and some of us have real jobs – not all of us can be whores. Be ready at eight,” he instructed her.
“What's at eight?” she asked.
“You're coming over to my house.”
*
Tate went for drinks with Ang first, to steady her nerves. She let him prattle on about his porn shoot, and then she spilled all the details on her dirty banter with Jameson. Ang had her repeat the “punish your mouth” story – it was one of her favorite parts, too. They agreed that she should play it cool, just see what Jameson's deal was, what he was thinking. And then she could pounce. Blow his mind, see if he was able to blow hers, and then they would go from there. While drinking, she got a text from Jameson, giving her his address.
“You're so tense, it's hilarious,” Ang laughed, massaging her shoulders while they waited outside for a taxi.
“He makes me nervous.”
“Did I ever make you nervous?”
“Of course you did,” Tate replied.
“Really? You never acted like it,” Ang pointed out, moving around to stand in front of her. She guffawed.
“Ang – you're frickin' gorgeous, and the first thing you ever said to me was 'you've got the perfect look for facials, wanna do porn?'; of course you made me nervous!” she chuckled. He shrugged.
“Well, you always seem so comfortable around me. You never get all stupid and brainless, like you are for him,” he replied. She smiled and pressed her hand against his cheek.
“Oh my god, Ang, are you jealous?” she asked. He tried to pull away and she put both hands on his face, following him as he moved backwards.
“Shut up, you stupid cow. Go fuck your abusive billionaire, have a blast,” he snorted, batting her hands away.
“You'll always be my fave, you know that. C'mon, we can go have a quickie, real fast,” she laughed, backing him up against a wall. He grabbed her by her wrists.
“I'm not jealous, Tate,” he said, staring down at her. She stopped laughing. Ang very rarely ever said her name. Baby, honey, sweetie, kitten, fuck-bunny, everything under the sun – when he said 'Tate', she knew it was time to listen.
“What's wrong?” she asked. He sighed, pulling her hands to his chest.
“Look, I'm very excited that you're going to be fulfilling a fantasy tonight,” he said. She went to argue, but he squeezed her wrists. “I just want you to be very careful.” Tate frowned.
“I'm always careful, you know that,” she replied, but he shook his head.
“It's all fun and games with the two of us, but this guy is new – he can say whatever he wants, but he doesn't know you like I do. The way you've talked about him ..., sounds like running with scissors. Play with him, hurt him, let him hurt you a little, but be careful,” Ang instructed her.
“You've been psyching me up for this for the last couple days, and now it sounds like you're trying to talk me out of it,” she told him. He shook his head.
“No, I want you to have fun – but only fun. You've got this look in your eye, and it spells trouble. You think you're playing a game. Don't lose to him.”
The cab driver whistled at her, but Tate stayed were she was, blinking up at Ang. He was staring down at her, his eyebrows drawn together. Not a natural look for him. She smoothed her fingers across his forehead and down the side of his face. She felt so comfortable with his skin, like it was her own.
“I never lose,” she said with a smile before giving him a quick kiss. Ang rolled his eyes.
“That's the worst part about you, you know. You think you're winning, when really you're always losing,” he replied, and then spun her around, smacking her on the ass.
She stumbled to the cab and got in the backseat, waving an arm out the window at him. He waved back and then wandered back in to the bar. She frowned after him. He had never shown concern like that before, and he had been present for many a pre-date-jitters drink. She hoped it wasn't jealousy. She couldn't handle that, not from Ang.
She gave the address to the driver and they took off. It was going to be a long drive. She tried not to think about the cost. She had been living on the fringe for so long, that buying a vehicle was something she didn't even think about, it wasn't even on her radar. She had kinda assumed Jameson might send a car for her, but no offer had been made to do that – maybe he was more of a liberal kind of guy.
He lived all the way out in Weston, the wealthiest suburb in Boston. One of the richest towns in America. Figures. She lived in an apartment in North Dorcester, right in Boston. Kind of sketchy at times. She had been to Weston before, but with her parents, and since then, she'd never had a reason to go back.
When the taxi started pulling down a long, wooded driveway, Tate tried to not to gag at the sixty dollar tab and began rooting around in her purse. There went some rent money. She wondered if Jameson would actually give her any money, or if it had all been play. She was just starting to uncrumple some twenty dollars bills as the taxi parked, when the front passenger door swung open.
“Here you are, and thank you,” a crisp, cultured sounding voice said, followed by a hand holding out two one-hundred dollar bills. Tate and the driver stared at the cash, both a little shocked. The money was exchanged and then her door was pulled open, a hand reaching in for her. Tate took it and was pulled to her feet.
A slender man stood in front of her, wearing an impeccable suit. Very expensive looking. He wasn't a very big man in general; she was around five-foot-six, and he wasn't that much taller than her. Maybe five-foot-ten, give or take an inch. His dark hair was gelled and styled, brushed to the side. He looked like something out of GQ magazine – very handsome, with fair skin and stormy blue eyes. He gave her a tight-lipped smile.
“Hello, Ms. O'Shea. I am Sanders, Mr. Kane's assistant,” he said in a polite voice. There was a hint of an accent there, but she couldn't place it. Not Boston, but a distinct burr, something else East Coast-y, or maybe even European. His fricatives were sharp, his voice soft.
He should do books on tape.
“Hi, I'm Tatum,” she greeted him, holding out a hand. He clasped it briefly, not really shaking it, just pressing his skin to hers and then letting go.
“Welcome. Please, follow me,” he instructed, and then turned to lead the way.
She hadn't gotten a good look at the house on the drive up. She gaped at it now. It was like something from a hundred years ago. Huge, and gorgeous. Lots of brick, with white pillars in the front. She wondered if Jameson had bought it when he moved to Boston, or if it had been in the family. It looked like something that would be on the National Historical Registry.
“Were you with him at the office, today?” Tate asked as they crunched across the pebble stone driveway.
“No.”
“Do you go in to Boston a lot?”
“No.”
“I got the impression he travels a lot, do you go with him on those trips?”
“No.”
She smirked at the assistant's back as he held open the front door for her.
“I'm going to assume that living with Kane is what has given you this anti-social personality disorder,” she said in a sweet voice. The man didn't even blink at her statement.