God, I'm like an eight year old. So pathetic.
She slid to the floor, squeezing herself in between the toilet and the bath tub. The umbrella clattered to the floor. She felt crazy. Ang and Ellie. Sure, her feud with her sister was over and they had made sort-of-peace – but it didn't change the fact that for a large chunk of her life, Ellie had been a raging bitch. She had made Tate's life a living hell while growing up, and then just one night. One horrible, young, thoughtless mistake, and Ellie ran Tate out of her home. Away from her family. Sure, Tate liked the way her life had turned out, but it still hurt. It never stopped hurting. Her father still wouldn't talk to her. And Ang knew all of this, knew what Tate had been through because of her sister, knew how much it still upset her – and he'd still had sex with Ellie. Then lied about it, for two months.
Not. Okay. It was like a best girl friend sleeping with an evil ex. Horrible.
And Jameson. Jameson. He had to have known Ang was bringing Ellie. He had to – he had chartered the private plane. He had done this on purpose. To make Tate crazy. To drive a wedge between her and Ang. To rip her apart a little. He would do anything, to be in charge. All his sweet words. Lies. He had brought them there, he had to have known. Well, not him entirely. Sanders had made all the reservations. God, did Sanders know!? Tate started crying harder.
She felt betrayed, by everyone. How could Ang go two and a half months, and not say anything!? All those phones calls, all those times he had bailed on her; he had been sneaking off to see Ellie – ditching Tate for Ellie. So many opportunities to say something.
That's what hurt the most. More than him picking Ellie of all people to date, was him keeping it a secret for so long. Despite everything that had happened, Tate had thought they were closer than that; she still told him everything about Satan. She thought he would have returned the favor. Apparently, she had thought wrong.
Just like always, stupid girl.
“Tatum, open the door,” Jameson's voice was loud. She shook her head.
“Just go away,” she sighed, pressing her face into her knees. He banged against the door.
“Open the door,” he demanded.
“I want to go home,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around her legs.
“I am going to count to three, and then I am coming in there, whether you like it or not,” he warned her.
“Please. Just let me go,” she was barely breathing, her lips hardly moving.
There was silence for a second, then a loud crack. The door flung wide open, bounced off the wall. Tate could hear him striding into the room, but she didn't look up. He grabbed her wrists, pulled her up so she was standing. She was waiting for him to tell her to shut up, to calm the fuck down. But he didn't. He pulled her into him, wrapped his arms around her.
“Baby girl, the things you get yourself into,” he sighed.
“Why did he have to sleep with her?” Tate whispered, sliding her arms around his waist, curling her fists tightly into his t-shirt.
“Life takes some interesting turns – especially when it comes to the people we wind up sleeping with,” Jameson pointed out.
“You're not allowed to make me feel better. You're an asshole.”
“True. But I'm an asshole who used to be very good at making you feel better,” he reminded her. She sighed, pressing her face into his chest.
“And making me feel like shit.”
“You like that almost as much.”
Not when it's for real.
“Why didn't you tell me?” Tate whispered.
“Because I didn't know.”
“Liar.”
“He asked if he could bring his girlfriend. I said I didn't care. I didn't ask who the girlfriend was, why would I ever care who Angier is fucking?” Jameson asked her.
Liar.
“Sanders knew,” Tate breathed. She felt his fingers dig into her hips.
“He didn't. Stop trying to find someone to blame. Shit happens. Get over it,” he instructed her.
Shit doesn't happen. Jameson fucking Kane happens.
“Why did you do this? To rip me and Ang apart? To make me hate him, so I would like you more? Or to teach me a lesson? That I shouldn't forget my past? Shouldn't forget what a horrible person I am? Trust me, I'll never forget that. You made sure of that last time,” she told him, visions of water dancing through her head. So much water. So cold. All around her. Only this time, there was no Ang to save her.
“You're not a horrible person, baby girl,” Jameson whispered. “I'm not playing with you. No more games.”
Liar.
It was always games between her and Jameson. She had lost sight of that for a little while. It was easy to do, when a person was surrounded by sweet words and sweeter lies. She felt like being with Jameson was like living from one panic attack to the next. She didn't know how much more her pysche could take, if she let it go on. It wasn't fair. His ego wasn't even bruised. Wasn't even scratched. Wasn't even touched.
Of course it isn't. He's Jameson Kane, the goddamn devil. What did you expect?
~14~
Tate sat at a bar just off the lobby of the hotel. It was a little after midnight. Sneaking out of the room had been difficult – Jameson was suspicious by nature, and had watched her carefully after her little break down in the bathroom. But after she had calmed down, she had found a way to distract him.
Sex always was my favorite weapon. Time to wield it with a vengeance.
She sipped at her drink, then went back to the what she had been doing – she had a cocktail napkin in front of her, and she was writing tiny notes on it. She chewed on the end of her pen, trying to figure out what else she wanted to add, when someone next to her cleared their throat.
“Excuse me,” a voice with a heavy French accent asked, and Tate turned on her stool to see a handsome, older gentleman standing beside her. “Is this seat taken?”
“No, go ahead,” she offered, gesturing to the empty seat next to her. The man smiled and sat down.
“It is very late to be having a drink. Are you here alone?” he asked, and she laughed. An evil sound. Almost as evil sounding as Jameson's.
“Alone enough,” she replied, letting her eyes slowly trail over his body. She hadn't exercised her slutty-flirting muscles in a while, but they seemed to be working just fine – the man sat up straighter, adjusted the tie he was wearing.
“Interesting answer. May I ask what you are working on?” he questioned, leaning towards her napkin. Tate laughed again.
“I am working on a revenge plan,” she answered coyly. He raised his eyebrows.
“Revenge?”
“Yes.”
“And why are you seeking revenge?” he asked. She sighed.
“Because, people I trusted did something bad to me. Continually. I think it's time for payback,” she replied. It was almost surreal, the conversation she was having. Of course, her life was surreal. Tate was pretty sure her brain had gone on vacation, possibly permanently.
“Ah, oui, of course,” the man chuckled, and it was clear he thought she was joking. “So what is your plan, ma chère?”
“Well, to give them a taste of their own medicine, of course! I'm going to do to them what they did to me,” she told him, laughing again.