Separation (11 page)

“No! I'm not some drug dealer, peer pressuring Sandy in to smoking! And he's not that stupid anyway,” Tate snapped.

“At least you recognize what you're doing is stupid. I'm not asking again – give me the cigarettes,” Jameson demanded. She snorted and started to walk away.

“You can fuck right off, that's what you can do.”

She hadn't made it far when she felt his arms wrap around her from behind. It was like a five-alarm fire instantly spread across her skin. She gasped and struggled against his hold. He simply picked her up, holding onto her tightly so her feet were dangling above his own.

“Give up yet?” he asked from behind her. She could feel one of his hands pulling at the bottom of her bag, so she crushed it to her chest.

“
No!
I promise I won't smoke on your stupid boat! Let me go!” Tate yelled.

“Stop yelling.”

“I'll do whatever the fuck I want, you can't -,”

He shook her back and forth, and her fingers opened, letting her purse go. It slipped through her hands and past his, crashing to the deck. Most of the contents spilled everywhere, and when Jameson saw the pack of cigarettes, he kicked them hard enough to send them flying overboard. She gasped, and at the same time, he dropped her. She stumbled forward a little before turning to face him.

“I forgot how difficult you like to make things,” he grumbled, rubbing at his lower back.

“You can't just do that! You can't just grab people, and shake them until they do what you want! You can't just -,” Tate was shouting, when he reached out and clamped a hand over her mouth. She went to move away, but his other hand was at the back of her head, holding her in place. He forced her forward, till their foreheads were almost meeting.

“
Stop. Yelling,
” he growled at her. She tried to tell him off, but it all sounded like
womp wuh womp womp
from behind his hand. “I am going to take my hand away. You are going to be quiet. Yes?” She managed a nod, and he slowly removed his hand from her mouth.

“
DON'T YOU EVER FUCKING -,
” she started to shriek.

The hand on the back of her head bunched in to a fist, and before Tate knew what was happening, Jameson was pulling her hair. Snapping her head back. The sting caused her to gasp and her hands flew to his chest. Not to push him away, but to keep herself from falling into him. She was stunned, and by the look on his face, he seemed more than a little surprised, too.

In their past life, it would have been normal. Even expected. Jameson telling Tate not to do something, or she'd be punished. She does it to get punished. He pulls her hair, she loves it. The way other people kiss cheeks or hug, Jameson and Tate had pain. Pleasure. It was second nature to them, a second language. How easy it was to fall back into old habits.

Being with Jameson is like doing heroin. Highly addictive and highly lethal.

She stared up at him, frozen in place. In all their time together, over the course of those two months, she had never felt out of her depth with him, or out of her league. But in that moment, right then, suddenly Tate was that eighteen-year-old girl again, standing with him in his bedroom. Excited. Nervous.
Scared
. Unsure of herself, of what was going on, of what he was going to do. Back then, there had only been one thing she had been sure of – that she wanted him to do
whatever
he wanted.

It was unsettling to know that deep down, she still felt that way.

“Scared, baby girl?” Jameson asked softly, his eyes roaming over her face. She cleared her throat.

“
Bored
would be a better word to use,” she managed to reply. A smile slowly spread across his face, one she hadn't seen in a
long
time.

Satan, finally.

“It's nice to see there's still some fight left in you,” he told her.

“You have no idea.”

When he lowered his mouth to hers, Tate told herself she could handle it. It was just a kiss. She had kissed dozens of guys. Hundreds. Maybe more, who knew. This was just another man. Another mouth. She held herself still, closed her eyes.

She almost cried. That someone who caused her so much pain, could bring her so much pleasure, just wasn't right. Wasn't fair. His lips were soft, almost gentle, and made to fit her own. The hand he had tangled in her hair let go, his fingers massaging her scalp. She moaned and pressed against him. Tried to melt into him.

Who's winning now?

When he kissed her once more, twice, a third time, she didn't stop it. When his tongue ran along her bottom lip before plunging into her mouth, she didn't stop it. When his hand was back to tugging her hair, she didn't stop it. But when Jameson's free hand slid onto her hip, touched bare skin at her waist, it was like a cattle prod. Tate practically leapt out of her skin. Her eyes flew open and she broke the kiss, gasping in air as she stepped away from him. He chuckled.

“See?
Scared,
” Jameson whispered, running his thumb across her bottom lip.

Pool. You were half naked in a pool. You could have drowned. He may not have put you there, but he didn't help you get out, either. He doesn't care.
He does not care
.

“No,” Tate coughed out, then cleared her throat. “No, not scared. Just not that easy anymore.”

“Oh god, then I might just be wasting my time,” Jameson laughed. She glared at him.

“I already told you that you were.
Now pick up my shit,
” she snarled, pointing at her purse before stomping away.

There. Who's tough shit now!?

*

She certainly felt like shit, when she woke up the next day. Tate felt like she had a hangover. Gross. Headache. Body aches. Self loathing really did a body in; she had tossed and turned for the better part of the night, resisting the urge to find Jameson and finish what they had started.

She had only been there for two mornings, but both times, food had magically been laid out in the galley, buffet style. He probably kept elves chained up in the bilge. She bypassed the eggs and settled on an ungodly amount of bacon and coffee, before heading out onto the bow to join him. He was looking fresh as a daisy, showered and clean shaven. She missed the stubble.

Fucker
.

“Morning. You're looking particularly lovely,” Jameson commented, not even bothering to look up from his newspaper. She grunted.

“Shut up. Where's Sanders?” Tate asked around a mouthful of bacon.

“He went on an errand, he'll be back later. Anything in particular you'd like to do today?” he asked.

“I don't know, aren't you supposed to be '
wooing
' me, or something? This is all pointless. I mean, so far I've been chastised for shopping, denied lobster, man-handled, and insulted. It's almost embarrassing, how badly you're failing at this,” she taunted him. He folded the paper shut.

“'
Wooing
'
is most definitely not the word I would use, and you used to love being man-handled,” he reminded her as he sipped at his coffee.

“That was before I was man-handled straight into the deep end of a swimming pool.” It was a low-blow, and completely unfair, but she couldn't resist the dig.

“I think we should make up some rules for our little game. No rubbing my past mistakes in my face every five minutes,” Jameson told her. She snorted.

“Fuck that, cause it's not gonna happen. Have you ever had your stomach pumped?
Been committed?
I'll say anything I fucking want to,” Tate snapped. He rolled his eyes.

“I guess we need to work on trust in our relationship.”

“
We
don't have a relationship.”

“Let's go on the boat,” he suddenly said. A piece of bacon fell out of her mouth.

“Huh?”

“You don't have any plans today, neither do I. Let's go on a boat ride,” he suggested.

“You're gonna take this behemoth on the water, by yourself?” she asked. Jameson laughed.

“I have, but no. I was talking about the
other
boat.”

The way she was feeling, Tate didn't think a jaunt on a speed boat sounded like very much fun. But she knew if she protested, he would just get more pleasure out of it. She grumbled and ate more bacon.

“
Fine,
” she finally spit out.

“Wonderful. I'll get it ready,” Jameson started as he stood up. He picked something up off the table and handed it to her. “Don't forget to put this away, you don't want to lose it.”

She looked up to see him holding out her passport. She slowly took it from him, looking it over. She didn't remember ever giving it to him. Or even taking it out in front of him. It had been in her purse since she'd gotten off the airplane.

“Where did you find it?” Tate asked.

“On the deck, last night. Remember? You told me to '
pick up your shit
',” he reminded her, smiling down at her.

Oh god.

“Oh. Yeah. Where's the rest of it?” she asked, glancing around. They were eating at the same table they had been dining at the night before, but she didn't see her bag anywhere.

“Well, since no one has ever said those words to me before, I couldn't quite figure out what they meant. I thought about waking Sanders up so he could explain them to me, but that seemed silly, so I figured I should just sweep it all under a rug,” Jameson replied, strolling across the deck towards the back of the boat. She looked at the floor.

“Jameson. You don't have any rugs,” she called out.

“I know. So I kicked your shit overboard.”

Tate dashed to the railing and looked over the edge. Of course she couldn't see anything. She groaned and let her head fall forward. He had kicked her purse into the ocean. Of course. Stupid woman. She should've known better. She was lucky he had even bothered to save her passport. God, her keys, her money, her wallet,
everything
was now at the bottom of the harbor.

At the thought of her wallet, though, she perked up. Jameson's black American Express card was still in her wallet.
Ha ha ha.
And the day before she had bought three handbags, from three ridiculously expensive designers. The ocean could keep her Kate Spade knock off. Tate started laughing, and didn't stop till she was back in her bedroom.

A shower improved her attitude even more, and by the time she put on some new clothes and went upstairs, she felt human again. Better than human. She felt like
herself
, and she hadn't felt that way in a long time. She tried not to think about the fact that Jameson had something to do with it.

Like always.

He was sitting in the speed boat with the engine idling, leaning over the side to talk to their neighbor. Tate made her way down the plank thingy and then stood at the back of the smaller boat, waiting for Jameson to finish so he could help her on board. The man he was talking to finally noticed her and smiled, giving a tilt of his head before going back to his own boat. Jameson turned towards her, then stood still.

She was wearing a pair of extremely short denim cut-offs, paired with a slouchy, long sleeve, dolman style top. It draped off one shoulder and was cropped in the front, showing a slice of stomach. She had yanked her hair up in to a messy ponytail and then shoved on a pair of aviator sunglasses, but hadn't bothered with shoes.

“Welcome back,” Jameson blurted out. Tate raised her eyebrows.

“Excuse me?”

“You were hiding behind those Stepford-wife clothes. This is the real you.
Welcome back,
” he stressed as he walked towards her. She rolled her eyes.

“Clothes don't make a person, Jameson,” she pointed out. He held a hand out to her and she took it.

“No,” he agreed, and helped her down onto the back of the boat. He wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her steady as the water rocked them. “But sometimes they can improve the scenery.”

Tate snorted and pushed away from him. She couldn't be physically close to him, not after what had happened the night before; two more minutes of kissing, and she would've been on her knees. Bent over a table. Laid out flat.
All his
. She had to stay strong. She would win this game.

“Where are we going?” she asked, plopping into the passenger seat. He cast off from the dock and sat down to her right, behind the wheel.

“Just around. Thought we'd take her out, really open her up,” he replied, easing the boat away from the yacht and slowly pulling away from the marina.

“Sounds oddly familiar,” Tate mumbled, and Jameson laughed.

“Someone decided to be feisty today. I like it.”

They were silent as he made his way around the marina and past the jetty. There were a couple of other boats out and about, some small ones zipping around, and a sailboat in the distance, but that was it. The water was actually pretty calm. It was Marbella's slow season, Jameson explained, that's why the harbor wasn't overflowing with people.