“You haven't paid your rent, Tatum?” he asked in a soft voice. Only she knew better now – Jameson was only soft before he did something sharp.
“Well, someone wasn't being very truthful about paying me – I've only worked six days in the last two weeks. Not exactly raking in the dough, so I couldn't pay. I have to start temping again; I have to pay my rent, Jameson. Rus depends on me,” she told him. He snorted.
“I'm not just going to give you a thousand dollars -,”
“Four thousand dollars.”
“Any amount of money, in cash, to run around with – you're insane. You'd probably spend it all on hookers and cocaine.” She didn't deny it. “I'm going to set you up an investment portfolio. As fun as sucking dick for money at eighty probably is, I don't think you want to be doing that.”
“Doesn't change the fact that I need to make rent. I need to eat, I need to pay my bills. Three days a week just doesn't cut it, I told you that,” Tate reminded him as she smoothed out her skirt. It had climbed up to her hips during her struggle with her purse.
“I'll feed you, and don't worry about the rest,” was all he snapped before turning away, looking out his window. Subject apparently closed. She snorted.
“You're too extra. What's got you in such a sweet mood?” she asked.
“Your life is ridiculous. You were skipped ahead in school, graduated at the top of your private school, and you were accepted in to an accelerated program at Harvard. Why are you fucking around? Such a fucking child,” Jameson growled.
She stared at him for a second. He sounded angry. Like, for real angry. It didn't make sense. Why did he care what she did? Since asking about Ellie that first night, Jameson hadn't asked her one single other thing about her life or family. She was kinda shocked he even remembered that she had been moved ahead in school. Tate frowned at him.
“You call it being a child. I call it living my life the way I want to,” she replied.
“But it's the wrong way,” he informed her, his voice dripping with disdain.
Who the fuck was he to judge her life!? She wasn't good enough to be his girlfriend, but he still got to boss her around and pass judgement on her life? She didn't think so. Her anger started to boil.
“Says who? The great Jameson Kane?” Tate snapped at him, her voice loud. “What, I should live a life more like yours? Why on earth would I want to do that? I get to be who I am, the real me, every single day. I say what I want, and do what I want. You hide behind your money, and your business, and your suits, and your intellect. Pretending to be this suave guy, when we both know you're two steps away from being a complete sociopath who -,”
She didn't get to finish her sentence. He turned around on her in an instant, grabbing her by the throat. She didn't miss a beat – Jameson Kane had yet to learn that Tate was usually capable of giving as good as she got. She knocked his arm loose, but by then he was halfway laying on top of her. It was a blur of hands and arms, her trying to push him back, him batting her away. They wound up stretched across the back seat, one of her arms pinned under his knee as he knelt over her. Her free hand pulled at his wrist, trying to yank away the hand that was back around her throat.
“You think I hide, Tate? You think I pretend?” he hissed, his face close to hers. She glared up at him.
“I don't think, I know,” she snapped back.
“And what is it you're doing, baby girl? Ran away from home. Ran away from your family. Ran away from school. That's all you do, run away. I'm counting down the days till you do it to me,” he told her. She sucked in air through her teeth.
“You call it running, I call it freeing myself.”
“Bullshit. If that was true, you wouldn't be so upset over what I said,” he pointed out.
“I'm not upset, I -,”
Suddenly he was shaking her. She dug her nails in to his wrist and he let go of her, but only long enough to pin that arm between her body and his thigh. His hand immediately went back to the base of her neck and he lowered his face till he was directly above her.
“Don't ever fucking lie to me, Tate. Stupid fucking girl. Put your fucking hands on me like that again, and you'll see how mean I can really get,” he warned her, his lips so close they were brushing against her own.
She felt her temperature soar through the roof. Jameson had an uncanny gift that made it impossible for her to be truly mad at him – the angrier she got, the more she just wanted to have sex with him. He was blessed that way; or rather, she was cursed.
“You keep promising to show me. Still waiting,” Tate whispered back. He chuckled, and the anger in his eyes cooled a little. There was a long pause while he stared at her, and then there was a cough from in front of them.
“One block away, sir,” Sanders' voice carried in to the back seat. Jameson glanced at him and then returned his attention to Tate.
“You just want to piss me off, I swear to god. You have no idea, the things I want to do to you,” he told her.
“The windows are tinted. Sandy would probably like the show,” she offered, sliding around underneath him, rubbing her body against his legs. Jameson quirked up an eyebrow.
“I doubt that. We'll go home, and I'll put a happy end to this argument,” he informed her. She narrowed her eyes.
“We can't go home – we're going to dinner,” she reminded him. He shook his head.
“Bad girls get sent to bed without dinner,” he stated. She began to struggle against his weight.
“No. You agreed to go, so you have to go. I told everyone we would be there,” she said.
“Do you really think I give a fuck?” he asked with a laugh.
“That's not fair. You agreed,” Tate stressed.
“Why is this so important? You want me to meet your friends? I don't care about your friends, Tate. If you think I care about your life, you're mistaken. Stupidity annoys me, whether it's you, or some guy down the street, or something on TV, doesn't matter. I think you're stupid, and that annoys me. Don't read in to things. We are going home, and we will finish this discussion there. The only reason I'm not fucking you right now, is because I have too much respect for Sanders,” Jameson spat out at her.
But not for me.
The problem with playing her games, Tate had long ago learned, was the line between fun and bad was too blurry. For instance, Ang had called her just about every dirty name they could both think of, but one time, while just hanging out at his apartment, he made a sarcastic remark about her family hating her because she was a huge whore. She didn't speak to him for two weeks. Took him even longer to get back in her pants.
What was real, and what wasn't real? Calling her a “dumb cunt” was fine, as long as Jameson didn't really think she was one. Knowing and thinking she was a whore was fine, as long as she was treated with respect. Was he playing a game now? If he had said all those same words at another time, a different situation, she would have already been thinking of ways to get him naked in the car. But it didn't feel like he was playing. If he was, it wasn't fun anymore. Her feelings were hurt. She hated that.
“Get off of me.”
Surprisingly, he complied without hesitation. Tate pushed away from him, getting as much distance between the two of them as she could on the seats. Sanders was just pulling in to a parking spot outside of her friend's apartment building. She refused to look at Jameson, just went about straightening her clothing.