“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.