Dead? Never. You can't leave me.
“Not funny,” Jameson growled. “I was so upset with you. I thought you had gone back on your word. I saw those pictures of you, with that guy, and I just got so angry. So stupid. Jesus, what a fucking night. I even impressed myself with how much of a bastard I was.”
He groaned and leaned forward, putting his face in his hands. He wasn't the kind of man who could be easily intimidated, but suddenly the thought of meeting her gaze made him feel nervous. Sick. Made him feel ashamed.
Because I'm not worthy of her.
“Is this a game?” Tate whispered. Jameson shook his head.
“No, baby girl. No games,” he whispered back.
“What are we, if we don't have games?”
“Something else.”
“I hate you,” she sobbed, and Jameson lifted his head. She was back to staring at the ceiling, but now tears were streaming down her face. He frowned.
“I want you to know that I -,”
“I fucking hate you! What about that statement don't you get!?” she was suddenly screaming at him. He sat back, a little stunned.
“I am getting it, loud and clear. I just think -,”
“No! No! You don't get to think! I almost fucking died, Jameson! And I'm not blaming that on you, but you sure didn't fucking help! So I don't give a flying FUCK about what you think! I just want you to get out,” she sobbed, pressing her hands to her eyes. He stood up, but he had no intention of leaving. He moved closer to her bed, leaned over her.
“You and I have unfinished business, baby girl,” he told her softly.
She swung her arm in a wide arc. For someone who had “almost died”, she certainly had a lot of strength. She walloped him right in the ear. She let out a shriek and continued swinging her arms. Jameson didn't move away, just ducked his head and struggled to hold onto her arms. Her whole body thrashed around on the bed, and it took him a few moments to pin her wrists to the mattress.
“You and I are finished business, Kane,” Tate hissed, refusing to meet his eyes.
He remembered the night they had fought in his kitchen. When she had broken all the dishes and he'd held the scissors to her throat. The look in her eye that night was something he had never wanted to see again; had hoped to never see again.
Now, the look was back, only worse. Much, much worse.
I should've been the one in that pool.
“You and I will never be finished, Tate. Haven't you figured that out yet?”
“Get out.”
“No. Not until you tell me what I can do, what you want me to do, to fix this,” he replied, squeezing her wrists. She had to tell him, he had to know. Jameson Kane could fix anything, solve any problem – she just had to tell him how. He had to make this right somehow. She started to laugh and it turned into sobs.
“You wanna know what I want? What I really want? I want you to leave me alone. I want you to go away. I want to have never met you. I wish I had never met you. I wish that I hadn't catered that stupid party, and I wish I had never gone to your apartment that night. I want you to not exist anymore. I want you to just go away,” Tate cried, trying to pull her wrists free.
Not exist? But I made her. She's mine. You can't exist if I don't, stupid girl.
“Alright, alright,” Jameson said in a soft voice, pulling away when she seemed on the verge of hyperventilating. He had never seen her so upset. “If that's what you really want, I'll go.”
She continued sobbing while he grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to stop the flood gates that had opened. It hurt his heart to see her that way. Hurt his pitch black soul. He realized she was saying something, so he walked back up to the bed while he slipped back into his coat.
“Just go, just go, just go, just go,” Tate was whispering, over and over again. Jameson sighed and brushed the hair away from her face, before leaning down and kissing her on the forehead. She didn't move, didn't say anything. Just cried. He turned away and forced himself not to look back. If he looked back, he would be lost forever, and if he was lost, he certainly wouldn't be able to find her again.
And Tatum most definitely needed finding.
“See you around, baby girl,” he called out as he strode towards the door.
“No, you won't,” she said after him.
History really does repeat itself.
He couldn't resist a laugh. He was, after all, Satan.
“I will if I want to.”
~1~
“What are you doing?”
Tate glanced over her shoulder, trying to find who owned the voice that was hissing at her. Her best friend, Angier, stepped out of the shadows, joining her at the edge of the balcony. She sighed and went back to looking out over the city.
“I was trying to escape,” she replied. He glared down at her.
“I meant, what the fuck is this? I thought you said you weren't going to do this anymore.”
“You said I wasn't going to do it anymore. I never said anything.”
Tate took a long drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke up at him. Ang was much taller than her, almost by a foot, and the smoke mostly dissipated before it reached him. He glared some more and waved his hand around.
“Of all the things I've ever seen you do, this is by far the most disgusting,” he told her. Tate laughed.
“Wow. Considering all the things you've seen me do, that's quite a statement,” she snickered. He finally smiled at her.
“Exactly.”
*
Ever since her midnight swim/Xanax-whiskey-cocktail, Tate's relationship with Ang had been strained. She was more grateful than she would ever be able to express, and she was so horrifically embarrassed by the whole episode, she could barely look him in the eye. Ang had seen her at her worst, at her absolute lowest – so low, she hadn't seen a way up again. So bad, she couldn't even remember it.
However, Ang could remember it. In vivid, technicolor, high-definition recall. After Tate had gotten out of the hospital, she had stayed with him for a couple a nights, and it was hard to say who had worse nightmares, her or him. She had scarred him a little, and she would never be able to forgive herself for that.
Even knowing all that, though, knowing everything Ang had done for her, and everything she had done to him, didn't stop her from being annoyed with him. It compounded her guilt, but it was the truth. She couldn't deny it. Tate had never been good at lying to herself.
Ang mothered. He hovered. He watched her with a wariness in his eyes, like he was expecting her to leap off a ledge at any moment. She lived with him for a week, but when she caught him hiding the knives, she moved back out. She wasn't suicidal, and he claimed that he knew she wasn't suicidal – but his actions said otherwise. She moved back in to her old apartment, squeezing in with her sister, Ellie, and her old roommate, Rusty.
The fighting started not long afterwards. They would argue over everything. Over nothing. Ang would show up unannounced, and Tate would walk into her bedroom to find him rifling through her stuff. They'd be out at dinner, and he would try to set her up with random guys. She'd be laying in bed, and he would show up at one in the morning to drag her to a party.