I am such a horrible person, and my punishment is life with Jameson.
“I know,” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “But I had no idea what I was dealing with last time. My eyes are wide open now. I know what I'm dealing with, and I have Sanders. I promise, I won't do anything I don't want to do.”
“That leaves a pretty wide scope,” Ang snorted. She laughed.
“Once upon a time. Honestly, Ang, am I boring now? Jameson kept calling me a Stepford-wife,” Tate told him. There was a pause.
“Normally, agreeing with him would make me wanna puke, but he's got a point. You were like a Stepford-wife. All that boring clothing your sister bought you, I almost wondered if she was doing it to be mean,” he laughed. The girlfriend piped up in the background, but Tate couldn't hear what she was saying.
“God. Well, you will be happy to know I have bought an entirely new wardrobe,” she told him, looking down at herself and plucking at the tight tank top she was wearing. “Most of it is see-through, and most of it is ridiculously tight. They probably won't let me through customs.”
“Good. I've missed your tits.”
She burst out laughing, and a shadow fell over her. Tate looked up and realized Jameson had joined her. He smiled down at her and her laughter died in an instant.
“What's so funny?” he asked.
“It's Ang. Talking about my tits,” she replied.
“Don't say 'tits' to him, it'll probably make him all rape-y!” Ang yelled down the line.
“May I?” Jameson asked, holding his hand out for the phone. Tate's jaw dropped open.
“I don't think Ang wants to speak to you,” she said quickly.
“No, Ang most certainly doesn't want to fucking speak to him,” Ang agreed. Jameson rolled his eyes and plucked the phone out of her hand. She groaned and turned away, leaning against the railing and looking out over the dark horizon.
“Angier. How are you?” he asked. He always stretched Ang's name out, like a sneer. Tate couldn't make out the words Ang was saying, but she could tell they weren't nice. “That's lovely language, I'm sure my proctologist would get a kick out of that idea. Anyway, I have a question for you.” Jameson paused, and there was more yelling from the phone. Tate chewed on her nail. “If you're finished ..., if you're finished, I wanted to say – my birthday is in a week. I am taking Tatum and Sanders to Paris. I wondered if you'd want to join us.”
Tate spun towards him so quickly, her foot slipped out from underneath her. She started to fall and he grabbed her by the waist, hoisting her up against him. She righted herself, but Jameson didn't let her go, staring down at her as he listened to whatever Ang was saying. She pushed at his chest, but he didn't move.
“What are you doing?” she hissed. She vaguely remembered before they left Boston, Sanders had said something about them taking a weekend in Paris. But that was before his little Jameson-surprise-party. She figured it had been part of the ruse, to get her to leave.
“Of course I'm serious. Very serious. She misses you. Despite what all of you think, I want to make her happy. So, I am offering you an all expenses paid vacation to Paris,” Jameson barked into the phone.
He wanted to make her happy? Tate almost snorted. He wouldn't even begin to know how.
He used to be very good at making you happy.
“Give me the phone,” Tate demanded, reaching for it. He leaned his head away, but kept a grip on her waist. They stumbled backwards, her pawing at him, him pulling away.
“This is an expiring offer, Angier. Take it or leave it. I know she wants to see you. It's up to you,” Jameson said. She slithered around him, and he was forced to switch hands, trading off the phone. She almost nabbed it, but then he tightened his grip around her waist and picked her up with one arm, clutching her to his side. “Yes. Yes, you can. Of course. What? Don't fucking insult me, Angier. I'm offering you a gift, but I won't fucking ..., okay. Okay. Thank you.” Tate was squirming back and forth, making it hard for him to keep his footing, when he abruptly ended the call. He pressed a button on the phone and dropped it into a chair.
“What the fuck was that all about!? I didn't even get to say goodbye!” she shouted at him.
“I just agreed to pay for your best friend, a man you fuck on a regular basis, to come to Paris for my birthday. I think a little gratitude is in order,” Jameson informed her. She shoved at his chest, trying to pull away.
“Fuck off. I haven't fucked Ang since you asked me not to,” she snapped, and they both paused. Tate hadn't meant it like that; she had made it sound like she still wasn't sleeping with Ang because of Jameson. But that wasn't true.
Was it?
“Very considerate, baby girl,” Jameson murmured, smoothing her hair away from her face.
“Oh, get over yourself. I haven't slept with anyone since that night. The idea of sex kind of makes me want to puke,” she told him.
“You didn't seem so adverse to it last night.”
He let her go, and she stumbled backwards. She straightened out the bright maxi skirt she was wearing, adjusted her tank top. Glared at him. It wasn't fair. He was the reason she hadn't had sex in so long. He shouldn't get to have first go. Ang was right, she should go find someone else. Anyone else.
“Yet it still didn't happen,” Tate pointed out. He quirked up an eyebrow.
“You know, I find it hard to believe that you haven't slept with anyone. I know your baseball player is somewhat of a saint, but he's still a man. Is it still boring with him? Are you still holding his hand?” Jameson asked, disdain dripping from his words. Tate laughed.
“Jealous. And nothing with Nick is ever boring,” she taunted. It dawned on her that he honestly thought she and Nick had some sort of actual relationship going on; Jameson was actually jealous. She wanted to laugh.
Stupid Satan, don't you know you've ruined me for other men?
“Somehow,” Jameson whispered, leaning close to her, “I highly doubt that.”
And then he left her, making his way downstairs.
Tate grabbed the phone and followed after him. She gave Sanders his cell phone back, then he said goodbye. She hung onto his sleeve, all the way down the plank. Pleaded with him. Begged him to stay. He refused. He was working for the devil, after all. She glared at him as he walked back to the car.
She milled around below deck for a while, tried reading in her bedroom. She felt the boat move, knew when they had left the dock. She wondered if there was a whole crew of people wandering around, or if Jameson could really operate the whole thing on his own.
After about an hour, her curiosity got the better of her. She wandered upstairs. Out the back of the boat, she could see Marbella, getting smaller and smaller. Just twinkling lights on a coast. In the distance, a couple other lights bobbed around. Other boats, barely pin pricks against the dark sky.
She didn't see or hear any other people, so she made her way to the upper deck. It was barren – Jameson hadn't replaced the furniture that the scorned maid had thrown away. Tate thought about continuing on up to the very top deck, but instead she made her way into the wheelhouse. Jameson was leaned back in a large chair, one foot propped on the edge of it, the other leg stretched out so his foot was against the dash. Very relaxed. The lights were off in the room, and he was staring out over the sea.