Separation (10 page)

I'm no better than Jameson.

“I don't want to be here, Sanders. But I'll do it. For you,” she whispered into his ear. She felt him nod and she let out a sigh. Kissed him on the cheek. Settled back into his side. He squirmed a bit. Now that he had stopped crying, it was clear that her closeness was making him uncomfortable.

So she held on tighter.

Finally, he gave in and wiggled his arm loose. Wrapped it around her shoulders. Held her even closer. She fell asleep against his chest, listening to his heart beat.

*

Jameson sat on his front deck the next morning, staring out over the ocean. He had a spot on the outside of the marina, so he didn't have to face any other boats. A must, for him. All that was between him and a view of the open ocean was a rock jetty.

He had gone to check on Sanders in the morning, and had been in for a little shock. Tate was in bed with the younger man, and they were spooning like it was something they did everyday, Sanders' arms locked tight around her waist. Even Jameson had never slept with her like that; had never even thought to try.

Now he felt left out.

The pair of them didn't emerge until after ten. By then, Jameson had showered and gotten dressed, even went to get a newspaper for himself. They didn't say anything to him, but it was obvious that whatever had transpired between them the night before, it had made up for the slap. Good. If the two of them didn't get along, then there was no hope for him.

“Hungry?” Jameson asked when Tate wandered up to where he was sitting. She shrugged and sat across from him, picking a piece of toast up off of his plate.

“How long do I have to be here?” she asked, looking out over the water while she nibbled at the bread.

“You're not a prisoner. You're free to go whenever you want. Sanders can drive you to the airport right now. I just thought you were tougher than that,” he told her. She snorted.

“You thought
wrong.
”

“Look,” he sighed, leaning forward and taking off his sunglasses. She kept hers on. “Whether or not you want to admit it, you and I
do
have unfinished business. I made a big mistake, yes. You made a mistake. It doesn't have to break us.”

“There wasn't ever an
us,
” Tate pointed out. Jameson shrugged.

“Whatever we were. Friends,” he suggested. She laughed.

“We were never friends,” she replied.

“We were something.”

“We were
nothing.
”

“Why do you need everything to be so clearly defined? Because society says
A
plus
B
equals
C
, then we're nothing? Sometimes
X
divided by
4.3
equals
fuck all
, Tate. Bad things happened, but there were moments of good,” Jameson reminded her. He
needed
her to remember. She snorted again and turned away so she was fully facing the water.

“I seem to have forgotten those moments. Probably when my oxygen supply was cut off, right after my seizures,” she snapped at him.

“That's not funny.”

“No, not even a little bit,” Tate agreed. He took a deep breath. Dug down deep in to his heart to find a shred of kindness. Of honesty.

“I'm very sorry for ever hurting you,” he said in a soft voice. It was obvious she was struggling not to cry.

“Someday,” she started, clearing her throat, “you will find someone who is better at these games. Better than
you
, and you will finally know how it feels.”

“How will I find this someone else if I'm not looking?” Jameson asked.

“Maybe you should start looking. You're not getting any younger,” she pointed out.

“I have the person I want,” he said bluntly. She choked on a gasp of air.

“You don't have shit,” Tate managed to cough out. He laughed.

“You're so easy to rile up now. This should be fun,” he said. She shook her head.

“I don't want to play your games,” she insisted. He leaned against the table, crossed his arms on top of it.

Finally, we can cut to the chase.

“How about just one last game. No-holds-barred, winner takes all,” he offered.

“How about that's a really bad idea,” she replied, but he could tell that she was intrigued.

“Give me a month,” Jameson started. Her eyebrows raised above her glasses and she turned towards him.

“A month to what?” she asked.

“One month to convince you that I'm not the devil,” he stated. Tate burst out laughing.

“A leopard can't change his spots, Jameson. But go head, explain your little game. I could use some cheering up,” she snickered.

“One month to convince you that I'm not the devil, that things can be as good between us as they ever were,” he continued.

“Hmmm. Not very appetizing, I'm not really winning on this deal,” Tate pointed out, still smiling to herself.

Jameson got up from his chair. Slowly walked around the table. She stiffened up when he got next to her, but she didn't move away when he leaned down close to her head. Pressed a hand to the side of her face to bring her in close to his lips.

“
One month to make you forget your ballplayer even exists,
” he whispered against her ear. Oh yes, he knew all about the ballplayer. Jameson had an online subscription to The Boston Globe.

But he could feel something. Her body was connected to his, in some inexplicable way. It always had been, ever since their very first time together. She didn't move at all, but he could feel her skin come to life. Like it was vibrating, humming with energy.

“It's cute that you even think that's possible,” Tate whispered back, but he was already grinning. He knew she was bluffing. He let go of her and stood upright.

“One month, Tatum. Here, with me and Sanders.”

“Ooohhh, I get Sanders in the deal, too?”

“Looked to me like you already had him.”

“Jealous?”

“Don't be stupid.”

“But what do I get out of this?” she pressed him. Jameson sighed.

“If after one month, you still don't want anything to do with me, you have my promise that I'll leave you alone. No showing up at your home, or your job, or talking to your friends. Any of that bullshit. I'll even do split custody with Sanders. I'll let you go. Once and for all. We let this go, whatever
this
is,” he told her, gesturing between them.

Tate was silent for a long time. If it hadn't been for the stern set of her mouth, he almost would've thought she'd fallen asleep. But after a long time, she opened her mouth. Closed it. Thought for a second longer. Opened it again.

“You have to know, you won't win,” Tate warned him.

Looks like I already have.

“Won't know for sure until I've tried. But you have to be honest with me, you can't fake anything or lie. You have to let me do whatever I want,” Jameson amended the deal.

“I was always honest with you, and you should never be allowed to do whatever you want,” she replied. He laughed.

“Fair enough. Do we have a deal? One
whole
month, starting today?” he asked.

“You won't win,” she warned him again, but she held out her hand. He took it in his own.

“Baby girl, I never lose.”

*

Inside her brain, Tate was freaking out. She wasn't sure what she'd gotten herself into – an all expenses paid, luxurious vacation in the South of Spain?
Check.
Psychotherapy under the guise of hitting your best friend?
Check
. A deal with the devil that could potentially mean losing her soul?
Double Check
.

The end result was too tantalizing to turn down, though. It would be
over. No
more wondering, or worrying, or what ifs. Just
over
. Dead. No more Jameson and Tate, whatever they even were, anyway.

But she couldn't quite figure out his angle. Jameson didn't care about her, that much was clear. If he did, he wouldn't be offering her some silly game – he'd be offering his heart. Was he really so obsessed with sleeping with her that he needed to drag her all the way to Spain? Play
more
games with her? She would only ever be just a game to him. Maybe that had been fine before, but it wasn't fine now. She wanted more for herself, and she certainly wasn't going to get it from him.

Jameson could play all the stupid games he wanted, Tate wasn't about to fall for them again. She was not going to make the next thirty days easy for him. They would go around in circles for the next month, then it would be goodbye,
forever
. And hey, if he happened to grow a heart in the process and lose it to her, why, that would just be gravy on top. But either way, he
would not
be winning this time around.

Easy as pie.

After making her deal with the devil, Tate went to her room to change. If she was going to be busting balls, she couldn't be doing it wearing Ellie's style of clothing. For god's sake, she was wearing
khaki
. Barf. Tate felt like she was really waking up, for the first time since the hospital.

And the first thing she wanted was a really tight pair of pants.

They hadn't spoken much after they'd woken up, but Sanders hadn't seemed bothered by their little slumber party, so she convinced him to go shopping with her. They were treated exceedingly well in all the stores they went to – Sanders' expensive, tailored-to-fit suit, and Jameson's black American Express card, ensured prompt service.

In the old days, she had spent Jameson's money sparingly. Tate didn't mind being taken care of, but she also wasn't a
complete
whore. She never bought herself clothing or jewelry or gifts, or anything else of that nature. But those days were gone. She felt like Jameson owed her, and until she could take it out of him in skin, she would burn his money.

She bought everything. Anything Tate saw that she even remotely liked, she bought. Every store had a stack of purchases, promising to have them delivered by the end of the business day. She even bought Sanders clothing, though it was very much against his will.

“C'mon, Sandy, admit it, you're having fun,” Tate teased as they were leaving a restaurant. Sanders had begged for lunch after the first four hours of shopping.

“Yes, it is kind of fun. It reminds me of how we used to be,” he replied. She looped her arm through his and leaned against him.

“How do you mean?”

“In Boston. When we would wait for Jameson to get off work,” he reminded her. Tate frowned.

“This isn't like that. You know that, right?” she asked. He shrugged.

“We're all together again. That's all that matters to me,” Sanders replied.

“I wish more people were like you, Sandy.”

“Me, too.”

They went shoe shopping for a while after that – Tate hadn't brought one single pair of heels with her, thinking she would be on vacation with just Sanders. Now that wouldn't do. Jameson was a tall man, around six-foot-two, and broad shouldered. Big. Much bigger than her. She could wear skyscrapers on her feet around him and still feel like a petite pixie. Heels weren't necessary to make an outfit sexy, but she didn't think they hurt, and she knew he loved her in heels. Loved her ass, her legs.

I want him gagging for it.

She only bought designer. Red bottoms, big labels, towering heels, double-platforms. The bills were enormous, more money than she had ever spent in her entire life. She loved it. She found herself regretting not taking advantage of it all when she had been living with him.

They stopped for coffee before heading home, and Tate finally bit the bullet and made some phone calls. Though she still hadn't been able to really pin him down before she left, she and Ang were in a much better position friend-wise. It was the reason why she hadn't called him the day before; she knew Ang was going to be pissed when he found out what had happened.

Turned out, pissed wasn't a strong enough word.
Atomic
was almost better. Ang freaked the fuck out. Was threatening to sell a kidney to fly over there and get her. When people at neighboring tables began to tune in to the screaming coming out of Tate's phone, Sanders took it away and put it to his own ear. She wasn't sure how he did it, but Sanders had the ability to calm just about anyone down. Maybe it was his tranquil nature. She wasn't sure. Ang had been all kinds of mad, but after five minutes of talking, he was calm and willing to let her stay there in peace.
For now
.

Nick wasn't a happy camper, either, but he wasn't like Ang. He never tried to tell her what to do. He just wanted her to be happy, and careful. He told her his home would always be open to her. Tate wouldn't be back in Boston till the end of January, and by then he would be settling in to his house in Arizona, gearing up for spring training.

She didn't tell either of the boys about the little bet she had going with Jameson.

When they headed home, it was a little after six. Jameson had told them dinner would be at seven, but he probably hadn't been expecting them to stay gone all day. She thought it was awesome. One day down, only twenty-nine left to go. Tate would win this game like she had invented it.

“Uh uh. No way.
Nooooo
way,” Jameson was shouting at them as they made their way onto his boat.

“What?” Tate asked innocently, ignoring all the bags and boxes that were strewn across the deck.

“Have you seen these fucking bills? I like expensive shit, Tate, but goddamn, did you buy everything in the entire fucking town?” Jameson snapped. She suppressed the urge to shudder – she hadn't heard that tone of voice in a long time.

“Oh, I'm sorry. Money a little tight lately?” she teased as Sanders disappeared inside the boat. She'd had all day to talk herself up, build up her courage. Talking to Jameson now, she almost felt like her old self again.

“
Fuck you
. I could buy this entire fucking city and dump it in the goddamn ocean, and my bank account wouldn't even notice. And do you know why?
Because I earned that money.
I can spend it any way I fucking want –
you
need to work for it,
” he growled, waving the bills in her face. Tate shrugged.

“Restitution.
You owe me
. You're lucky I didn't buy a fucking $50,000 pearl necklace. You want me to stay? This is part of my new price.
Suck it up,
” she informed him. Jameson's eyebrows went up.

Now I've got his attention.

“New price, hmmm?” he questioned. He looked equal parts intrigued and wary.

“Oh yes. I am most definitely worth a lot more now,” Tate assured him.

“That's a matter of opinion.”

“
And yours doesn't matter,
” she mocked him. He rolled his eyes.

“I think I liked you better when you were all damaged and weepy.”

“God, you're going to burn in a special place in hell.”

“Probably. At least I'll have memories of you to keep me happy.”

“Stop talking. Where are you taking us to dinner?” she demanded, wading into the sea of bags and boxes.

“Nowhere. I had planned on us eating here tonight,” Jameson informed her. Tate turned back towards him.

“Seriously?” she asked, not hiding the disgust in her voice.

“Yes. Is my pathetic excuse for a yacht not good enough for her majesty to dine on?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

“It'll do, but I was hoping for lobster and champagne,” she replied. He snorted.

“Tatum, the only time I buy a woman lobster and champagne is when I'm guaranteed pussy at the end of the night.”

She turned away. This was the part she wasn't prepared for; she didn't know if she would ever be prepared. Snarky banter was one thing – sexy banter was a whole other. It was too close to him. Sex and Jameson were like ..., synonymous. Tate could flirt with him, dangle herself in front of him, but she wanted to avoid sleeping with him. It was too dangerous. During sex, it was like he owned her body, her mind. Like they weren't hers anymore.

Probably because they never were.

“Pity. Guess I'll have to find someone else to buy me lobster,” she managed to sigh. Jameson barked out a laugh.

“Good luck with that. I don't know if you've noticed, but there are a million women here, all throwing themselves at anyone who looks like they've got money. So go ahead, give it your best shot,” he offered.

Ooohhh, he makes me want to kill
.

Tate turned around and walked towards him. She took a deep breath and reached a hand out, pressed it against his chest. Felt the muscles twitch under her palm. She chewed at her bottom lip and dragged her fingertips across his front. Slowly, she did a full circle around him, letting her nails scratch a path around his body. When she was back in front of him, she leaned in close.

“
Good thing I'm one in a million,
” she whispered.

Jameson turned his head towards her and her breath caught in her throat. They were very close together. She could barely remember the last time they had been so close. She let her eyes wander over his face, his newly sun-kissed skin, his dark lashes, his lips. Lips that she knew could treat her so well. Lips that were so close to her own. He leaned a little closer and she could feel his breath against her mouth. So close ...,

“
When is dinner?
” Sanders' voice boomed across the deck.

Saved by the bell.

Tate smiled and looked up, but only to find Jameson staring very hard at her. She looked in to his eyes,
really looked
, probably for the first time since she had gotten to Spain. He looked angry. Or upset. Or maybe ..., maybe even hurt.

Not possible.

Jameson cooked dinner. Tate thought she was going to have a heart attack. She had never seen him cook before, hadn't ever seen him even operate a microwave. She kept peeking in the kitchen, watching him as he made shrimp scampi. He caught her staring one too many times, though, and stood back from the stove, offering to let her cook. She snorted at him and sat outside.

The food was divine. Was there anything the man didn't do well? It was made even better by the fact that she was eating it on the Mediterranean. Tate was so caught up in all their drama, that sometimes she forgot she was in a whole other country. She toasted Sanders with her water glass, and then Jameson disappeared into the boat.

“I thought this would be more appropriate,” he said when he reappeared, carrying a bottle of champagne.

Her breath got stuck in her chest as she watched him pour a glass for Sanders. She hadn't had any alcohol since her little episode. Tate didn't think she was an alcoholic, but it was also very obvious she couldn't trust herself around the stuff. One brush with death was enough for her to learn her lesson. Jameson poured a glass for himself, then raised his eyebrows at her.

“I don't think I should,” she told him.

“Aright. But what do you
want?
” he asked. She bit her bottom lip. Champagne wasn't exactly something she got treated to very often. Nick was more of a beer kind of guy, and not only was Ang poor, he was more of a double vodka-black out drunk kind of guy. Tate held out her glass.

“Just a little,” she instructed him.

After they had their celebratory glass, cheesecake was produced. They ate in silence, watching boats come and go. When they were finished, Sanders excused himself and went to his room, leaving her all alone with the devil. They sat in silence for a while, then Jameson lit up a cigarillo.

“Bother you?” he asked, glancing at her. Tate was shocked that he was even asking.

“No. In fact, I'm glad you're doing that,” she replied, then scampered away to find her purse. When she had it, she sat back down at the table and dug through the bag till she found what she needed. She pulled it out and Jameson laughed.

“You've got to be shitting me,” he chuckled. She shook her head.

“We all have our coping mechanisms. Got a light?” she asked, holding the Marlboro Light 100 out towards him. He shook his head.

“You are not smoking that
filth
on my boat,” he told her. Now it was Tate's turn to laugh.

“You're smoking right now,” she pointed out.

“
This
was imported from Cuba. It's a work of art. You're smoking something that smells like death. You'll stink, my boat will stink,
no,
” Jameson stated. She glared at him and dug a lighter out of her bag. She put the cigarette between her lips.

“Just because we have a deal, doesn't mean you get to tell me what to do. Those days are long gone, and I am -,” she started, when he got up and stood in front of her, pulling the cigarette out of her mouth. She watched as he broke it in half.

“I don't give a shit about our deal. You could be my Nana, and I wouldn't let you fucking smoke. No cigarettes on my boat,” he stressed.

Did he just say Nana?

“This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. You can smoke something because it was made in Cuba, but I can't smoke a stupid cigarette? Fine.
Fine
. What if I go find some fancy French imports? How about some German roll-your-owns? Fancy enough for Mr. High-and-Mighty?” Tate snapped, standing up and glaring at him.

“I don't care if they're from Middle Earth and rolled in gold.
No cigarettes,
” Jameson wouldn't budge.

“I'm sorry. Did you just make a Hobbit reference?” she asked, stunned.

“Yes. Don't change the subject. Give me your cigarettes,” he asked again, holding out his hand.

“Are you joking?” she laughed, clutching her purse to her chest.

“No. I don't want to find out you've been sneaking them in your room, or in the bathroom. Jesus, you haven't gotten Sanders started, have you?” he groaned.