“Sie sind Müll!” Pet yelled. Tate slapped her back, then struggled to hold onto her wrists.
“I DON'T SPEAK GERMAN, YOU DUMB CUNT!”
Before she could land another blow, arms were around Tate's waist, plucking her into the air. With the weight off of her legs, Pet immediately started kicking, so Tate kicked right back, landing a solid blow to the other woman's thigh. She was rewarded with a shriek of pain.
“Stop it,” Jameson's voice was low in her ear. She ignored him.
“Don't you ever fucking come back here!” Tate screamed while Jameson hauled her backwards. “Don't you ever fucking talk to him again! Don't talk to him, don't touch him, don't come near him! Do you understand me!? He didn't come here for you! He came here for me!”
At some point, the fight had stopped being about Sanders, and had become about Jameson.
So when, exactly, did you lose to him? Stupid, stupid, girl.
Luckily, Jameson had the penthouse apartment, so there was no one else to witness Pet's psychotic break. Or Tate's. As security spilled out of an elevator, Jameson pulled her back through the apartment's doorway, all while she and Pet were still screaming at each other. Sanders slipped out into the hallway, explaining the situation to the guards.
“Calm the fuck down, Tatum,” Jameson urged. She yanked at the arms he had around her, tried to get a grip on the floor with her toes. There was so much adrenaline pumping through her body, she felt like she was going to have a heart attack.
“No, no, I'm not done! Let me go! That bitch almost killed me once, I owe her!” Tate shouted, kicking her legs wildly. His arms only got tighter around her, twisting and pulling her t-shirt up so it bunched up beneath her breasts.
“She didn't do that, I did that. Blame me,” he instructed her. Tate swung her whole body from side to side.
“I already do! But you won't let me hit you!” she yelled.
He barked out a laugh, which set her off, and suddenly she was caught in a bout of hysterics. There was a cough from the door, and Jameson turned them towards it. Tate figured she was quite a sight, only in a pair of tiny underpants and her shirt little more than a tube top, Jameson holding onto her like she was possessed by the devil.
That happened a long time ago, baby girl.
Sobering thought.
“Mr. Kane, we're very sorry. The man downstairs, he got confused. She said she was your fiancée, said she lost her key. He gave her one. The owner of the building and the manager have been called, they are headed down here. I'm sure you'll want to speak to them,” a security guard said from the doorway.
“My man out there, Sanders, can deal with it. His name is on the lease,” Jameson explained. Tate squirmed in his arms, but he still held onto her.
“Very good. We are taking her away now. If you need anything, have any questions, don't hesitate to call my office, anytime,” the guard urged.
“Give the number to Sanders,” was all Jameson said, turning away. The guard said goodbye and made his way back into the hall.
“Let me down,” Tate breathed, digging her nails into his wrist.
“No.”
“Put me down,” she hissed again. He walked all the way down the hallway with her, carrying her back into his bedroom.
“No. You need to calm down,” he told her.
“Well, that's not gonna fuckin' happen, so you should just put me down,” she snapped. He let go of her abruptly and she teetered forward, a little shocked.
“Quite a little show you put on, Tate. I particularly liked when you were on top of her, your ass in the air,” Jameson told her, his tone even and calm. She stopped breathing for a second, then shook it off. She grabbed a hair tie from off the nightstand, roughly yanking her hair up in to a ball on top of her head.
“I'm sure you did like it. I should've charged,” she growled at him before stomping over to her luggage. There was clothing strewn around, and Tate began picking stuff up, throwing it all into the suitcase.
“Didn't know you were still into that. What are you doing?” he asked, moving to stand behind her.
“Packing, what the fuck does it look like I'm doing?” she snapped.
“And where, may I ask, are you packing to go?” Jameson continued.
“Anywhere. Anywhere that's not here, anywhere that's not around you,” Tate replied.
“And why are you running away?”
“Because! I don't want to be here when the next surprise visit pops up!” she yelled at him.
“I did not plan this. You heard that guard, she lied to get in here. I can promise you, it will not happen again,” Jameson assured her.
“I couldn't give two shits if it did. I'm gonna take Sanders and we are getting the fuck out of here, and you and Ms. Denmark can have your sick, weird, love-hate relationship on your own fucking time,” Tate swore, bending at the waist and shoving the last bit of clothing into her bag, trying to force the suitcase shut.
“Awfully mean talk for someone who was just fighting over me,” he pointed out, and she felt his hand run over the edge of her hip. She wiggled away from him.
“I wasn't fighting over you!” she yelled, straightening out her t-shirt, trying to regain some dignity.
“Sure looked like it,” he called her out. She felt a blush creep into her cheeks.
“Well, you weren't doing anything about her! One of us had to be a man,” Tate sneered at him. Jameson laughed and stepped up close to her.
“Maybe I should take lessons,” he replied. She nodded.
“Maybe you should.”
“Tatum?”
“What!?”
He pulled her close, and she jumped on him. They fell to the ground, pushing and pulling at each others' clothing. He ripped her shirt, but she figured it didn't really matter, because it was actually his shirt. The panties, though, were slightly disappointing. She had spent a lot of his money on them.
“I thought you were running away,” Jameson taunted while she yanked his boxers down his legs.
“Shut the fuck up,” she snapped, dragging her teeth along his thigh as she crawled back up his body.
“I think that's my line.”
“You know, I can think of better uses for your mouth than being clever.”
“My, my,” Jameson chuckled, laying flat on the floor and putting his hands behind his head. “Someone wants to wear my shoes, apparently. Go ahead, Tate. Be the heavy. Let's see how good you are at it.”
Tate was angry, and she wanted to take it out on somebody. She was angry at Pet, and she was angry at Jameson, but most of all, she was angry at herself. She was still hyped up. It was like Petrushka was there in the room, and Tate suddenly had something to prove. She wasn't in the mood for his attitude or his smart-ass comments.
“Please. You have it so easy,” she sneered at him, hooking her nails into his chest and then slowly dragging them down. He hissed.
“You think so?” he whispered, his eyes falling shut. She scratched her hands back up to his shoulders and repeated the process.
“All you do is say a couple dirty words, get grabby with your hands. Big fucking deal,” she pointed out. He managed a laugh.
“According to your pussy, it's a very big fucking deal,” he teased.