“Hmmm, define sexy,” she told him, her voice low.
“Something other than khaki shorts and ankle-length-skirts,” Nick offered. She laughed.
“I bought lots of shorts and skirts, but nothing khaki or ankle-length. You would love it, I bought this one skirt, it barely covers my -,”
Suddenly, her phone was pulled out of her hand. Tate barely had time to gasp before Jameson simply tossed it over the railing. She shrieked and dove for it, but it was too late. She got to watch her cell phone slowly sink into the inky depths, the screen flickering as it went.
“We'll be late,” was all Jameson said before striding down the gangplank.
She was tempted to throw something at him, like a piece of furniture, but then she remembered – she was trying to be “nice” Tatum. Not vengeful, angry, spiteful Tatum. Not punch-a-mother-fucker-in-the-head Tatum. She took a couple deep breaths through her nose, then followed after him.
Jameson hadn't bothered waiting for her, and was halfway out of the parking area when she got off the boat. She glared at his back and started heading after him, but she refused to run. When he reached the street, he finally waited till she could catch up.
“That wasn't very polite,” was all Tate said as she walked past him.
“Your phone call was annoying me. I wanted it to end,” Jameson explained.
“You could have just asked, you didn't have to throw it in the fucking ocean,” she pointed out.
“Oh, yes, I should have 'just asked', because you've been so compliant up till now,” he snapped back.
She suddenly burst out laughing, coming to a stop. They were in the middle of a crosswalk and Jameson had to grab her arm, yanking her forward. She stumbled on her heels, but managed to stay upright. He pulled her to a stop on a street corner.
“I'm sorry, I just realized something,” Tate snickered.
“What?” he demanded.
“We argue and fight like an old married couple,” she told him.
“Oh, jesus. Have you been drinking?”
“No. It's just, we never used to snap over stupid shit. It's kind of funny. When we were like a couple, we didn't act like it. Now that we're not anything like a couple, we do act like it,” she wiped at her eyes.
“Maybe you should start drinking.”
Jameson led her to an upscale restaurant that was near the marina. At first, when she saw the maître d' wearing a tux, she worried that she would be underdressed. But as they were taken to a table that sat on the third level, against a railing overlooking a huge dance floor, she saw that lots of people were dressed like her.
“When I said dancing, I was thinking more like a night club,” Tate told him, sitting down as a waiter pushed in her chair.
“Then you thought wrong. Señor ...,” Jameson started talking to their waiter in Spanish. She hadn't realized he spoke Spanish. She knew he spoke German – she had heard him speaking it to Petrushka. How many other languages did he speak? The waiter nodded and scurried away.
“What was all that?” she asked. He took off his jacket and sat across from her.
“I ordered for us,” he told her.
“How do you know what I want?” she responded. Jameson laughed.
“Tatum, I always know what you want.”
She swallowed thickly and looked away. She felt stupid. Since he had come back into her life, ever since she had catered for his party, she had been able to step up to Jameson. Sexy banter used to flow easily between them. Now she felt like her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth.
Just fake it. Act like you're with someone, anyone, else.
“You know what I think you're problem is?” Tate asked, leaning low over the table. His eyes flicked down to her tits and she smiled.
“Enlighten me,” he responded.
“You think what you want is what everyone wants,” she told him. Jameson shook his head.
“No, my problem is I know what I want, and just don't care what anyone else wants,” he corrected her.
“Sounds like a pretty big problem.”
“Only for other people.”
“Still sounds like I'm talking to the devil,” she teased, and was rewarded with his eyebrows drawing together.
“Sometimes, while talking to you, I get the same feeling,” he replied. Tate frowned and shook off his words. She leaned back in her chair and looked over the railing.
“This wasn't the kind of dancing I had in mind,” she changed the subject. She watched as people moved across the huge ballroom floor, in what she assumed was a salsa dance. A live band played upbeat music, and it was nice, but not something that made her want to shake her ass.
“Once it gets late, it'll change. Stop worrying,” he instructed her, then their waiter arrived. A scotch, neat, for Jameson. Sparkling water for Tate.
They watched people dance and made idle chit chat. It was strained at first, but eventually it flowed. Jameson had always been easy to talk to, in a way. The only problem now was that they would be chatting along, and Tate would be enjoying herself, and then a memory would smack her upside the head, like a bad acid flashback. Pool. Whiskey. Supermodel. All a lie. BAM. Conversation dampener. It would take her a couple seconds to get back into the stride of talking, and he always looked at her like he knew exactly what she was thinking, which in turn made her more uncomfortable. She was grateful when the waiter finally showed up with their dinner, till she saw what was on the plate.
“You said you were craving it,” was all Jameson said as he cut in to the steak he had ordered for himself.
“You ordered me lobster,” Tate said plainly, staring at what was probably the biggest lobster she had ever seen.
“Yes.”
“You have awfully high hopes,” she pointed out.
“Only the highest.”
“This lobster could be plated in platinum, and you still wouldn't get any pussy,” Tate warned him. An older couple at the table next to them turned around, but Jameson ignored them.
“I could make you wear that lobster as a hat and I'd probably still get pussy by the end of the night,” he countered.
Tate decided to ignore him. She wasn't going to give anything up, but she did love lobster. And this one was delicious. She dipped the pieces in a buttery garlic sauce, savored every bite. Moaned out loud a couple times. Was contemplating lifting the shell to lick it clean when she realized Jameson was staring at her.
“What?” she asked, glancing down at herself to see if she'd dribbled butter down her front.
“You are the sexiest woman I know,” he replied.
She coughed and laughed at the same time.
“I think there is a supermodel who would very much argue that point,” she managed to choke out. Jameson sighed and pushed his plate aside so he could rest his forearms against the table.
“You love to bring her up, but then change the subject. Let's just get this over with so we don't have to keep going in circles. I left home. I went to Berlin. I ran into her at a function, she was there with a mutual acquaintance. I didn't see her again for a week. I saw pictures of you with your new boyfriend. Then old pictures of you with me. More with him. It made me angry. Then people, employees, were pointing them out to me. I got angrier. So I called her up, I took her to dinner, I took her shopping. I asked her if she wanted to come back to the states with me, for a vacation. She asked about you, I told her you would be fine with it – that's the only lie I've ever told about us,” his voice got serious during the last part.