“Oh, Tatum. So optimistic. I'm going to tell you right now, it's not the Bahamas. You should be very, very afraid,” he teased. She rolled her eyes.
“We'll see.”
He told her the flight would take about two hours, but that's all he would say. When they took off, they headed over land, so she knew they weren't going East. Somewhere West – back to Los Angeles? No, that would be way longer than two hours. How long did it take to go to Chicago? Did Jameson even like Chicago? She had no clue where they were headed, and his words started to get to her. She got nervous.
She talked Sanders in to playing a couple rounds of gin rummy with her. Jameson produced a chess board, and beat her so quickly, it was embarrassing. Then he got Sanders to play, and that was actually interesting. They were both very good. She wondered if either had competed, and realized she knew almost nothing about either of their pasts. Jameson won, but it was a hard fought battle. Sanders made a noise in the back of his throat, and it took her about five minutes to realize it was a laugh.
This is going to be a hell of a weekend.
“Time to clip your wings, baby girl,” Jameson commented after the pilot announced their descent.
“Excuse me?” Tate asked as he dug something out of his bag. A long, black sash appeared in his hands.
“You said you trusted me,” he reminded her as he sat down next to her. She edged away from him.
“Yeah, with both eyes open. Not so much in the dark,” she joked, even though she was a little nervous.
“I'm not asking, Tatum,” he said in a stern voice.
The blindfold wrapped around her eyes, and she was left in darkness.
Tate had never really been in to the whole bondage scene. Sure, it was fun once in a while, but she liked to touch, and she liked to be touched, too much for it to be a real thing. And blindfolding was the worst. She had said it once, she was a very visual person. She wanted to see everything. Ang loved it and was forever trying wrap things around her head. It was usually a battle that he won only after copious amounts of liquor.
After the plane landed, she stayed sitting in her chair, as still as a statue, while people and the crew moved around her. At one point, someone leaned close, and she jerked away, but then there was a hand covering her own. Sanders' voice assured her that everything would be just fine. She managed a smile and tried to grab onto his arm, her fingers trailing down his sleeve as he pulled away. Then Jameson was next to her, she recognized his cologne, and he pulled her out of her seat, led her down the aisle.
Her nerves abated a little when they had to figure out how to get down the stairs. She stumbled on the first step and refused to go down anymore while wearing the blindfold. Jameson simply picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, carried her all the way to a car. By the time she was ensconced in a back seat, she was laughing hysterically.
She made a mental checklist as they drove. They were somewhere that wasn't any warmer or cooler than Boston, really. Wherever they had landed, Tate could smell foliage, a heavy forest. Something familiar. She figured they were still in the Northeast. Maybe he was taking her to some getaway in Maine. Or Vermont – she remembered Jameson saying he owned a farm in Vermont. Her outfit wasn't very conducive to a weekend in a cabin, though. She hoped for a five-star hotel.
“I am going to take your blindfold off in a moment,” his voice was soft, after they had been driving for about an hour.
“Thank god,” she laughed.
“I want you to remember something, though,” Jameson said, at the same time the car took a slow, but sharp, right turn. Gravel crunched under the wheels.
“What?” she asked.
“You started these games,” he told her. Her nerves went through the roof at that statement.
This is not a romantic get away. This is something very, very bad.
The blindfold fell away and she blinked, trying to adjust to the light. The car they were in had tinted windows, making it hard to see outside. Jameson was sitting next to her, carefully folding the sash up and putting it in his jacket pocket. She scooted closer to her door, peering out the window. She didn't get it. All she could see were trees. A narrow, gravel road. She pressed her forehead to the glass, tried to see ahead of the car. Glimpsed a house in the distance.
Oh. My. God.
“You didn't,” Tate breathed, her heart stopping in her chest. She turned to look at Jameson, and he smirked at her.
“I told you, I always win,” he said, stretching an arm out along the seat behind her.
I am so. Fucking. Stupid. Goddamn Satan wins again.
She lost her damn mind. Screamed and slapped him across the face. He ducked the next blow and grabbed her wrist, but she was already throwing herself at him, grabbing his hair with her other hand and trying to kick at him. Her dress was too tight, she couldn't really reach, and had to settle for kicking him in the shin.
They wrestled around for about a minute. Jameson could stop her whenever he wanted, she knew he was just letting her work out her frustrations – so she made the most of it, pulling his hair, pounding on his shoulders. When she scratched at his face, though, she apparently went too far. They were driving in an extended-back town car, and he slammed her onto the floor.
“This isn't a fucking game!” she screamed at him. He pinned her wrists by her head.
“Calm the fuck down!” he shouted at her. She used every muscle she had, swung her weight around underneath him. He didn't budge.
“How could you!? How could you!? You must really fucking hate me, Kane!” she shouted at him. His hand came down over her mouth, clamping it shut.
“Calm. Down. Take a deep breath. It's not that bad. This was going to happen some day, I just sped up the process,” he said. She shook her head and cursed at him from behind his hand. He pressed down harder. “Shut the fuck up and calm down. You made me go to that ridiculous dinner. You kissed Sanders in front of me. You kissed Angier in front of me. You owe me.”
She forced herself to go still, and he finally removed his hand. She breathed heavily, staring up at him. He was very close to her, his hair messy and hanging over his forehead. One, long, red, scratch mark went from under his ear to just under his jaw. Not too noticeable. Pity. She took a deep breath.
“This wasn't about you, you had no right to do this. I'm nothing to you, why would you do this?” she whispered. He frowned at her.
“You are not nothing to me,” Jameson replied. She shook her head.
“You're always telling me I'm nothing. Reminding me, over and over again. Nothing, nothing, nothing. You're the devil,” she said, moving her eyes away from his to stare at the roof of the car. She could feel tears at the back of her throat and she didn't want him to have the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
“I will fully admit to being the devil, but I have never said you're nothing. Look, if you can't do this, if you can't handle this, we will go right back to the airport and I will take you home. You never have to talk to me again. Just say the words. Admit you can't handle this,” he told her. She took a deep, shuddering breath.
“Move,” she snapped, and he got off of her. Pulled her onto the seat next to him.
She fixed her hair. Dug out a mirror and fixed her lipstick, which had smeared all over her chin. She straightened out her dress, pulled the stockings back in to place, fidgeted with the jewelry. Jameson reached out and tried to place a hand over her own, but she pulled away from his touch as if he burned her, refusing to even look at him.