“No. And I don't have to say anything, I didn't ask to be here. I was brought here, taken here, tricked in to coming here. I don't want to talk to you, I don't want to hear anything you have to say. I don't want to be here,” Tate replied. He narrowed his eyes.
“We had a deal. You agreed to play. You're not allowed to lie, or fake anything,” he reminded her.
“I haven't lied or faked -,”
He slammed his hand down on the railing, hard, making a gong-like sound. He was angry. It had been a long time since she had seen him that mad. She felt her insides turn to mush, her brain turn to putty.
“Don't fucking lie to me. You wanted me in that club, and you wanted that to happen in my bedroom. I have let you pretend like you didn't. You dared me into taking that maid. That was all you, yet I let you blame me. I am tired of taking your shit. My patience is running out,” he growled at her. She guffawed.
“You're tired of taking my shit? My shit!? Mister, you haven't even begun to eat shit for the things you did to me! And you're calling me out on breaking the rules!? You fucked your psychotic supermodel girlfriend and then brought her into our home! How's that for a broken fucking rule!?” Tate screamed at him.
Suddenly Jameson was storming towards her, thunder in his eyes. She pressed herself against the glass door behind her, trapped. He stood in front of her, and she swore she could almost see smoke coming out of his ears. He. Was. Pissed.
“I did not fuck her. I have apologized for bringing her home. Now stop fucking screaming, and put out the goddamn cigarette. I will not tell you again,” he hissed at her. She shivered and raised the cigarette to her lips. Took a deep drag.
“Make me,” she whispered, and then blew a smoke ring in his face.
Jameson grabbed her around the waist, and Tate shrieked as she was hoisted into the air. Thrown over his shoulder. She yelled at him to put her down, pounded on his back with her free hand. She was tempted to grind the cigarette into his shoulder blade, but she didn't think she was ready for that kind of punishment.
“Goddamn Tatum. Always fucking pushing me,” he growled.
“Stupid fucking Jameson, always where he isn't wanted,” she snapped back.
He didn't respond. He reached the edge of the bow, and she thought he was gong to put her down. Or spank her. Or fuck her senseless. Something. What she didn't expect was for him to throw her. Into the air. Over the railing. She screamed and hit the water, ass first.
“When are you going to learn not to push me!?” he called down to her, after she had resurfaced.
Tate hacked and coughed up salt water, bobbing along. It took Jameson a second to open the little compartment that hid the stairs, so it felt like an eternity before she hauled herself out of the water. She slowly made her way up the side of the boat. Her skirt, with all its excess material, weighed a ton. She flopped onto the deck like a fish, shivering and scrambling across the surface.
“There is something ..., so very wrong ..., with you,” Tate gasped for air, pushing herself onto her knees.
“Considering that there isn't very much right about you, either, I'm going to ignore that comment. C'mon, it's freezing, let's get you -,” Jameson started, grabbing her by the arm. She shrieked and slapped his hand away, hurrying to her feet. She skipped out of his reach, circled around till she was safely away from the railing, putting him between her and it.
“Don't fucking touch me! You don't get to touch me! You don't believe that I haven't slept with Nick? Why would I ever believe you didn't fuck her!? That's all you do, fuck people! Fuck you!” she yelled at him.
Tate could feel her sanity unraveling. He'd always had that effect on her. It was like they weren't in Spain anymore. They were in his house. It was that night. She wasn't high in the bathroom with Dunn. Jameson wasn't flirting in the kitchen with Pet. They were back in his bedroom. Only this time, he wasn't walking out on her. This time, he was holding his ground. He was talking to her. Fighting for her.
The way it should have been.
She felt ill.
“Baby girl, are you really worried -,”
“Don't call me that! You make me sick! God, fucking touching her, touching me. I want to be sick,” she hissed at him.
“I touched dozens of women while we were together,” Jameson reminded her. Tate narrowed her eyes and stepped up close to him, tilting her head up so he could see the anger on her face.
“And I only ever asked you not to touch one. Just one. And you couldn't even manage that. You're the stupid whore. You loved calling me that. A slut, a whore; but really, you're a bigger whore than I ever was. Whore,” she swore at him.
He lifted his hand then. Slowly. Traced a finger down her neck, from under her chin to the hollow of her throat. It was a hint, a shadow, of what he really wanted to do. He was holding himself back. The air was vibrating with the tension between them. She could feel it. Someone was going to get hurt that night. Tate just had to make sure it wasn't her.
“You know, you should really watch the way you speak to me,” Jameson said softly, his finger taping against her collar bone.
“I'm not scared of you,” she whispered. He leaned close to her, pressing his hand flat against her chest.
“Liar.”
She shrieked and shoved him. As hard as she possibly fucking could. He lost his footing, stumbled backwards. Right into the gap in the railing Tate had crawled through only a moment ago. Good. She shouldn't be the only one to take a dip. She hoped he hit the water flat on his fucking back. Be bruised for a week.
Something wasn't right, though. Her eyes had recognized it instantly, but her brain took a second to catch up. Jameson wasn't a man that could easily be knocked off balance, especially when he had been ready and waiting for her to push him. He had taken a step back, to brace himself, and his foot had landed on a pile of chains. Slipped inside them, got tangled in them. He couldn't get any purchase, so he went over.
Tate suddenly remembered talking to Sanders that morning, him saying that someone would be working on the boat. Something was wrong with one of the anchors. In the wheelhouse, she hadn't seen Jameson release any. She didn't know much about boating, but she knew that most people dropped anchor when they stopped a boat. Jameson hadn't done it because the chain for one of the smaller, front anchors wasn't attached to the yacht. Now that same chain was wrapped securely around his ankle.
Jameson hit the water hard, on his back, just as she'd cursed him. Tate dropped to her knees, but she wasn't quick enough and the anchor was yanked out of its cubbyhole in the side of boat. It flew after him, falling into the water at the exact same spot he had, disappearing in the splashes.
She shrieked, laying flat. God, had it hit him!? It wasn't a big anchor, but it was big enough. And it was a long way down. Oh god, had she just killed Jameson!? Typical. That would be just like him – he finally talks to her, really talks to her, and then goes and dies.
Stupid dick.
Tate screamed his name, pounding her hand on the deck. He didn't resurface. She pulled herself to her knees, raked her fingers through her hair. He still didn't come back. She thought she was going to throw up. She had killed him. They were alone on a boat in the Mediterranean. Everyone knew they weren't getting along, that Tate was very angry at him. No one would believe it was an accident. She would go to jail for murder. Sanders would be an orphan.