He pushed back in to the bar and it was another hour before they said goodbye for real.
*
She could have gone to her apartment, but she took a cab to Jameson's. She wanted to get it over with, end her suspense. Confess to her sins. Find out if they even really were sins. It was after four-thirty in the morning, and she didn't expect anyone to be awake, but as the taxi rolled up to the porch, Sanders came outside.
“I can get it, Sandy,” Tate assured him, hurrying to dig money out of her bag. But he already had bills in his hand and she hadn't even fished out one twenty dollar bill before the cab was rolling away. Sanders turned towards her.
“I was worried,” he said very simply. She blinked in surprise.
“Really? I'm sorry. I should have called,” she replied quickly. She never wanted to hurt Sanders. Jameson was fair game, but Sanders was special.
“May I ask where you were?” he questioned. She turned and started making her way in to the house.
“At the bar, I got stuck behind,” she gave an evasive answer.
“A call would have been appreciated, ma'am,” he said in a terse voice, holding open the door for her.
“I'm really sorry. I will call you next time, I promise,” she assured him, leaning against him as she pulled off her boots.
“He's in the kitchen,” Sanders informed her. She stood upright.
“Really? You've both just been awake?” she asked.
“I waited up for you,” Sanders replied. She smiled.
“Ah, and he didn't,” she finished his statement.
“He has been ..., concerned,” was all Sanders would say.
Oooohhh, translation: pissed off.
As Sanders headed upstairs, Tate made her way in to the kitchen. Jameson was sitting at the island, a coffee mug in front of him. He glanced up at her entrance but didn't say anything, just went back to looking at his phone. She looked around the kitchen. A bunch of dishes and cups and bowls were stacked up next to the sink, sparkling clean. She frowned.
“Have you been cleaning!?” she exclaimed. There was a dishwasher that she and Sanders usually took turns working. Jameson never touched anything.
“Yes,” he replied.
“You cleaned them all, by hand!? I've never seen you wash anything,” she laughed, heading over to look at them. All white, porcelain dishes, so clean, they looked polished.
“It calms me down. Where have you been?” Jameson asked, and she turned around to see him setting his phone down.
“At the bar,” she replied, grabbing a mug and filling it with water.
“A call would have been nice.”
Tate was surprised.
“Aw, Kane, I didn't know you cared,” she teased.
“Fuck you, O'Shea,” he said back. “Now. The truth, please. Why are you late?”
“I was fucking the first baseman for the Boston Red Sox,” she told him bluntly. His eyebrows shot up.
“Really. Wasn't expecting that,” his voice was soft.
“Does that bother you?” she asked. He shrugged.
“Hmmm, not sure. Have you ever slept with him before?” Jameson questioned, standing up and leaning against the fridge behind him.
“Never met him before tonight,” she answered, sipping at her water.
“I see. Must have left quite a mark on him – that's his jersey, I presume?” Jameson asked, his eyes wandering over her clothing. She nodded.
“Yes. He gave me his phone number, too,” she told him.
“Are you going to call him?” Jameson continued. Tate smiled. He was cool, calm, and collected – but she could tell, he was actually a little nervous. Deep down.
Good.
“I told him I probably wouldn't. I don't plan on it,” she replied. Jameson nodded.
“Good.”
Tate laughed.
“You fuck other girls all the time. You came home the other day from Miami, with that crazy story about that ribbon dancer,” she pointed out.
“You love hearing those stories,” he reminded her. She nodded.
“Yeah, but I was under the impression I was allowed to do the same,” she said. He nodded as well.
“And so you are. So how was he? I want to hear all the details. Better than me?” Jameson asked, folding his arms across his chest. She shook her head.
“I don't want to talk about it right now.”
“Well, I want to know about it right now, so -,”
“I want to know about Petrushka Ivanovic,” Tate stated. Blunt was apparently the soup du jour that night.
There was a violent kind of silence. The rage that washed over his face; she was almost a little scared. Definitely a little turned on. Nick had been a lovely appetizer, but she wanted dinner now. She wondered if Jameson could get mad enough to actually be turned off.
“How the fuck do you know about her?” he demanded.
“Google is an amazing tool.”
“You Googled me!?”
“Ang did.”
“Fucker.”
“I would have found out sooner or later, Jameson,” she pointed out. “You were with her yesterday. People take your picture. Did you know there's even a picture of us online?”
He looked surprised.
“No. Where, when?” he asked.
“Don't worry, no one can tell you're with a whore,” she assured him. He frowned.
“I wouldn't care if they did. So that's why you slept with the baseball player? Because you saw pictures of me with Pet?” Jameson asked. She glared at him.
Pet. Of course that's her nickname. Goddammit.
“No, I fucked him because he was hot and he was there, same reason I fuck anybody,” she snapped. Jameson laughed.
“Liar. You're very angry, baby girl. Tonight should be extra fun,” he chuckled. Her anger went through the roof.
“Tonight should be extra boring. I'm all full up on good times,” she told him. He laughed.
“A baseball player couldn't possibly satisfy you,” he said.
“Funny, cause I feel that same way about 'financiers',” she snapped back.
“Watch your mouth, baby girl,” Jameson's voice was like ice.
“It said you were engaged,” she blurted out. More silence.
“Stupid girl, reading the tabloids. I knew you were fucking stupid, Tate, I just didn't realize how much,” his voice was quiet.
Tate shrieked and launched her coffee mug at him. She played on the bar's softball team, she was an athletic girl and knew how to throw a ball. The mug missed him by an inch, crashing in to the cupboard next to him. He didn't even blink. Didn't even move.
“Don't call me stupid,” she hissed.
“Those cups are expensive,” he warned her. She turned, picked up a plate from the stack, and threw it to the ground. It exploded.
“How about that? Was that one expensive?” she asked.
“About fifty bucks a plate. More than you can afford,” he assured her. She grabbed three more plates, slammed them to the ground, one right after the other.
“Just take it out of my salary,” she replied.
“I don't think I'm going to be paying you for tonight,” Jameson laughed in a dark manner. She grabbed one of the stacks, flung all the plates across the kitchen in one toss.