“You're jealous! All this elaborate planning, hiding from me, bringing her back here, making a scene. You're like a girl, Kane. A goddamn pussy,” she snapped at him, disdain dripping from her words.
He roughly dragged her across the room, backed her up and slammed her against the wall by the door. She struggled to free her arm, shoving and pushing at him. He moved his hand to her throat and pinned her in place.
“I told you to watch how you fucking speak to me,” Jameson growled, his face near hers.
“Like I give two shits. Was it worth it? Is she still a good fuck? I hope so. I hope she's so good that she finally does trick you in to marrying her. I hope she fucks you all the way in to a horrible fucking marriage, and then takes all your goddamn money. I hope she's that good of a fuck!” Tate yelled, pulling at his wrist. His fingers squeezed harder on her neck, but she didn't show any reaction.
“She was never even half as good as you. But maybe we should have Ang fuck her, really do a cross-comparison, get more feedback,” Jameson suggested.
“Why stop there? How about we broaden the circle. There's an awful lot of men down there, and I haven't been fucked in a really long time. I'm sure I'll get rave reviews, much better than a psychotic supermodel,” Tate said in a quiet voice. He narrowed his eyes.
“If you're fucking anyone at this party, it will be me,” Jameson informed her. She laughed.
“That's not going to happen, but maybe we can do the next closest thing. How about I fuck Sanders. I'm sure I could turn his world inside out. Hell, maybe even steal him away from you. Who knows, maybe he'll be a better fuck than you,” she said.
The words had barely left her mouth when Jameson put his fist through the wall, right next to her head. Clean through the sheet rock. She was glad he hadn't hit a stud – that would put a damper on the party, real quick. He stared at her, his eyes blazing, a muscle ticking in his jaw, his fingers continuing to squeeze her neck. She glared right back, not moving a muscle.
“Don't ever fucking talk about him like that again,” he whispered.
“You don't get to tell me what to do. Not anymore. Not ever again,” she whispered back. Jameson squeezed her neck tight one last time, and then let go, backing away from her.
“We can talk about this later. Go downstairs. People are expecting you to be here. Be cordial. Be fucking polite. And don't say one goddamn word to Sanders,” he told her, and then yanked open his bedroom door, striding in to the hall.
Tate gasped in air and choked on a sob. She brought the back of her wrist to her mouth, trying to hold it all in; it didn't work too well. She wasn't sure what to do. She couldn't go home, not without Sanders to drive her, and she didn't think he'd leave the party. Didn't trust him, anyway. A taxi would take forever to get there, and she didn't have any money. She sucked in another breath of air, held it in, then let it out slowly. She straightened out her dress, wiped underneath her eyes.
You can do this. You're Tatum O'Shea. He didn't break you last time. He won't break you this time.
She went downstairs. She was cordial. She was polite. She got a lot of sympathetic looks from women. A lot of lascivious glances from men. She caught a glimpse of the Danish Beauty at one point, but the house was big and Tate knew it well. She fled to another room.
She drank, a lot. She flirted with anyone who looked remotely male. Sanders tried to talk to her at one point, but she looked right through him and walked away. She chugged whiskey neat. Snuck the Johnny Walker Blue out of Jameson's personal liquor cabinet and finished it off. She laughed at everything everyone said. Kissed people on the cheek, toasted to good health, gave hugs that were way too intimate to people she didn't really know, though none of the men were complaining.
She actually drank the bar out of Jack Daniel's, so she made her way towards the kitchen in search of more. Jameson usually kept some stocked for her. She wanted to get comfortably numb so she could pass out in the guest house, then hitchhike home in the morning, where she could cry until she died. Sounded like a great plan.
She turned in to the kitchen, and then backed up so quickly, she rammed in to the door jam, ricocheted off, and nearly fell in to the hall. She scooted behind the frame, and then peeked in to the kitchen. Jameson was standing with his back to her, head down, both hands resting flat on the counter. A tall, exceptionally beautiful brunette stood next to him. She was speaking softly in what sounded like German. He shook his head occasionally, murmuring things back in the same language.
I didn't know he spoke German. That could've been hot – dirty talk in another language.
When Pet leaned in close to him, pressed her front to his back and whispered in his ear, Tate couldn't take it anymore. She had imagined Jameson in all sorts of positions with women, but never simple, affectionate ones. It was too much. She choked on a sob and stumbled away.
There was a half drunken bottle of Jack in the library, from their long ago last night together. Tate grabbed it and dragged herself upstairs. She wasn't entirely sure of what her plan was, till she was standing outside Sanders' door. She just wanted the pain to stop. She wanted to be numb.
Xanax.
She walked in to his room. It was a huge space, almost bigger than Jameson's room. She headed straight for the bathroom, began yanking open drawers and rummaging through them. She found the pills in a bottom drawer, clearly labeled. It took her a while to get the stupid childproof lid off, but she did it. She chugged some whiskey in to her mouth and popped in two pills. She didn't want to overdue it – she didn't have a death wish. She just wanted to feel still. Quiet. She swallowed everything and dropped her head back, sighing. She stood that way for several minutes, letting a calm fall over her.
“I knew you were a good time girl, but I had no idea you were this wild,” someone chuckled from the doorway. She didn't lift her head, just rolled it towards the voice. What's-his-name. Dunn. Jameson's partner. Wensle-waddle-whatever Dunn.
“I'm wilder than you can even imagine,” Tate whispered at him. He scooted closer so they were both crowded in to the bathroom's doorway.
“Sounds like a good time. Would you like to have a good time?” he asked. She laughed.
“Sorry. I think I've had enough good times to last me a lifetime,” she replied, finally turning to face him.
“Pity. I think we could be really good together. Jameson told me about you,” he told her. She lifted an eyebrow.
“Did he now,” she replied softly.
“Yeah. Told me how you like things a little crazy. A lot rough. Now that Pet's back in the picture, I thought you might need someone else to, uh ..., provide those things for you,” Dunn said.
“He told you that,” she whispered.
Tate was offended, but it was slipping away. The xanax was taking control. She didn't really care. Jameson thought she was a whore. Jameson broke his promise. Jameson set up an elaborate plan to cruelly humiliate her. What was one more log on the fire? Jameson told all his friends what a deviant freak she was in bed.
I just don't care.
“So. I think, that, we could have a really fun time together, you and I. I might even be better than Jameson,” Dunn teased.
No one is better than Jameson.