Separation (14 page)

Tate thought she was going to faint. Before Jameson, she had never been that kind of girl. Now, he was right. She
was
all damaged and weepy. She hated that feeling, but she couldn't stop it. The edge of her vision started going black as she watched Petrushka slime against his back, her harpy claw gliding over his shoulder.

He did it again. All of this, all a lie, all a game, he did it again, I knew he'd do it -,

Tate was shocked out of her reverie, however, when Jameson turned to look at who was touching him. He snatched Pet's hand off his shoulder, as if her touch burned him. He yanked her around till she was standing in front of him, and he
did not
look happy. In fact, he seemed to be yelling about something, as he held fast to her wrist. She tried to take a step towards him, but he held her at bay.

What the fuck is going on?

There seemed to be a lot of yelling. Pet was yelling at him, Jameson was yelling at her, the man in the suit was yelling at both of them. Tate wasn't near enough to hear anything that was being said, not with the music so loud. Jameson pointed a finger in Pet's face, before letting go of her wrist, forcing her backwards. Then he pointed his finger at the man, who just nodded and pulled out a cell phone. Jameson whirled around and stomped off in the opposite direction. The man was on his phone, glaring at Pet. She melted back in to the crowd, and the guy yelled after her. Pointed in her direction as two large men in suits walked up.

Tate turned around and hurried across the dance floor, elbowing people out of her way. She wasn't sure what had just happened, but she could have sworn that it looked like Jameson had been telling Petrushka to fuck off. But what was Petrushka even doing there, if Jameson hadn't invited her? How could she be at the same restaurant as them? Didn't Pet live in Berlin? Didn't she have the
whole world
as her goddamn playground? Why couldn't Tate get away from this chick!?

Tate broke free of the dance floor and spied some leather couches tucked in a recessed corner, next to a tiny, narrow hall that lead to the bathrooms. She made a beeline for the sofas, just wanting to sit down and breathe. Collect her thoughts, figure out what was going on. But as she stepped down into the sitting area, a large man jumped out of nowhere, holding his arms open in front of her.

“No, go back the way you came,” he grumbled at her with a thick Middle Eastern accent.

“Excuse me?” she bristled, trying to step around him. He matched her move for move.

“This area VIP,” he informed her. Tate snorted.

“No one is even sitting in there,” she pointed out. He shook his head.

“VIP. You go back the way you came,” he repeated. She opened her mouth to tell him where
he
could go, when someone stepped in between them.

“Where the fuck have you been? I've been looking everywhere for you,” Jameson demanded.

“Uh ...,” Tate answered articulately.

“You cannot be here, please leave!” the security man was snapping.

“We're leaving,” Jameson informed her, ignoring the guard and grabbing her by the elbow. She didn't budge.

“Good, yes, you leave now,” the guard agreed, ushering them away.

“
Now,
” Jameson growled.

“
STOP
.”

It came out as a shout, even though she hadn't meant it to. Both men stared at her, the security guard looking shocked. Jameson just looked angry.

“I don't have patience for your bullshit, Tate, not right now. I want -,” he started.

“I want to sit down.
Please,
” she asked. He blinked down at her, his lips pressed into a hard line. She could tell he wasn't happy. Could tell that he
really
wanted to drag her out of there. By her hair, if necessary.

“I don't think -,” Jameson began again.

She brushed past him. He was blocking the security guard, so she made it all the way to one of the couches before all hell broke loose. The security guard started yelling, which set Jameson off. Jameson never yelled, not unless he absolutely had to, but he did stand toe to toe with the larger man, quietly explaining that he and his guest could sit
wherever the fuck
they wanted to sit. A second later, the man in the suit from earlier, the one who had also yelled at Pet, showed up. This seemed to settle everything. The security guard slunk away, followed by the suit-man, and then Jameson came and sat down next to Tate.

“Thank you,” she said. He raked his hand through his hair.

“You're not welcome. What the fuck are you doing?” he asked, stretching an arm out across the seat behind her. She kept her eyes trained on the dance floor.

“I just wanted to sit down. I was dancing, I wanted to cool off,” she replied, trying to sound casual.

“Tatum. You're a horrible fucking liar.”

They were interrupted by a scantily clad waitress. She was carrying a bottle of Louis XIII cognac. A gift for Jameson, compliments of the owner of the club. An apology for any distress caused by the staff or guests. Tate's eyes nearly fell out of her head. At home, a bottle cost anywhere from $2,000 to $3,000. The price in Spain, in Euros, in a nightclub ..., she was impressed.
Beyond
impressed.

The waitress poured out a shot, to taste. Jameson nodded his approval, so the woman filled up two old fashioned glasses, neat, and then left them alone. For the most part, Tate had avoided alcohol ever since her stint in the hospital, but when someone put a drink in front of her worth $166 a pour, she wasn't
ever
going to say no. Jameson sipped at his drink. She downed hers in one shot.

Before he could interrogate her some more, Tate skittered away and hustled into the bathroom. She had to get herself together enough to ask him about Pet. He must have known she was in Marbella. Maybe he was mad because Pet had almost blown his cover, his secret. Maybe the worst was yet to come. Maybe Jameson's sole purpose in life was to slowly drive Tate mad. He had almost succeeded last time.
Maybe he just wanted to finish the job.

Five minutes later, she dragged herself back out of the bathroom, not feeling anymore “
together
” than before she had gone inside it. She dragged her feet as she walked down the hallway, dreading going back to Jameson. But just as she was about to exit the hall, she almost rammed into someone.

“I have been waiting to meet you.”

For someone so pretty, she sounds like she has a dick in her mouth
.

Petrushka was much taller than Tate. Both women were wearing heels, which put Pet at around six-foot-three – easily Jameson's height or taller, and well over Tatum. It made Tate feel even more insignificant. Pet was also even prettier up close than she was in all those pictures on the internet. Tate was getting smaller and smaller by the second.

“I didn't know you were here,” Tate blurted out. She knew she had no right to be angry at Pet – Jameson had done everything. Pet had been used just as badly in his little game.

“
I
knew
you
were here. It is why I came here. I had to see you, with my own eyes,” Pet replied. Tate swallowed thickly, glancing around.

“I'm sorry, you know. About ..., how everything happened. I didn't know, just so you know. I didn't know he was bringing you home,” Tate stammered.

“It was all in good fun, I think,” Pet laughed, as if she knew some sinister joke. Tate was confused.

“Well, I didn't really see it that way.”

“That's because you are
garbage
, you couldn't possibly understand the things that people like us do.”

Tate was shocked. Here she was, assuming a kind of kinship with this woman. Sure, Jameson had painted a very psychotic picture of the supermodel – but god knew what he said about Tate when she wasn't around; she didn't trust anything that came out of his mouth. Plus, he had used Pet. Didn't that make them, like, sisters-against-the-cause? Judging by the pissed-mist rolling off of Pet, the answer was
apparently fucking not.

“Excuse me?” Tate squeaked, not sure she'd heard right.

“You, you are ..., are trash. A silly piece of desperate trash. He uses you for his filthy sex, and that is it. He always comes back to me in the end,” Pet talked down at her.

Tate narrowed her eyes. This was a woman scared, not gloating. Pet was
threatened by
Tate, that's why she was angry. She wasn't there to brag about what a cruel and sadistic joke it was, Jameson bringing Tate to Spain. Pet was there trying to scare Tate
away
–
because she hadn't expected to see her
.

“Then why is he here with me?” Tate challenged. Pet flicked her wrist dismissively.

“Because he is perverse. He likes rolling in the mud, he has always been this way,” she replied. Tate stepped up close to the other woman, got right up in her space.

“You know what? I couldn't give two fucks what you think. What
either
of
you think. He chased
me
here –
not you
,
who can't seem to stop chasing after him. So who's really the desperate one?
Now get the fuck out of my way
, before I knock you on your ass,” Tate hissed.

Pet seemed shocked. She probably wasn't used to someone swearing at her and threatening her with physical violence. Tate took the opportunity to brush past her. She wasn't about to fight over Jameson. He wasn't worth it, on any level.

Though the idea of bouncing Pet's head off the ground like a tennis ball did hold a certain appeal.

When Tate got back to the VIP area, Jameson was sitting in the same spot, but leaning backwards over the couch a little, talking to the man in the suit. Tate was pretty sure suit-man was the owner of the club, the gifter of the cognac. She sat down beside Jameson, tucking her feet up under herself. She was feeling hot after her run-in with Pet. Flustered. A little giddy. She had just confronted a nightmare, and instead of melting in to a self-loathing puddle, she had threatened to beat its ass. She felt amazing.

I can do this. I can win this game. I can knock this game out of the park.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement. Pet was sidling up to the edge of the VIP section. A new security guard was in place, and she was getting the same turn down Tate had received. As Pet argued with the guard, her eyes flicked to Tate, then glared. Tate glared right back. Then Pet reached out, running her fingers down the lapel of the guard's suit. The man laughed, obviously not immune to Petrushka's stunning good looks. It wouldn't be long before she weaseled her way into the sitting area. How awkward would that be? Jameson would probably love it. Just sit back, sip his cognac, and watch the two women wrestle around on the floor. Awesome.

Or he could walk away with her, leaving you a broken mess, floating back in that pool
.

No. Tate wouldn't let that happen. Not this time. She was stronger, bolder,
better
; she knew that, now. The only person who would be broken at the end of this would be Jameson fucking Kane.
She would win this game
. Without thinking about what she was doing, Tate reached out and grabbed Jameson's head, roughly pulling him away from his conversation.

“What the fuck do you -,” he started to snap, but he was cut off. Mostly by her tongue in his mouth.

She moaned and raised up onto her knees, yanking him even closer. One of his arms wrapped around her, the only thing keeping them balanced, what with Tate suddenly leaning all of her weight against him. His other hand still held onto his drink, keeping it out away from their bodies, obviously trying not to spill anything.

But none of that seemed to catch Jameson off guard or slow him down. He dove in head first, went right along with her and kissed her back, his fingers digging almost painfully into her waist. She broke away to gasp in air, and he pulled her right back in, kissing her like
she
was priceless cognac, and he wanted every last drop.

Tate squeezed her eyes shut tight and tried not to think. Tried not to notice how all the nerve endings in her lips were coming alive. Tried not to notice how kissing him made every hurt go away, just a little. It wasn't fair, Jameson had caused the hurts. But it was true. She felt like a live wire that needed grounding.

As if he could read her mind – which she was pretty sure he could, he
was
Satan after all – he suddenly gripped her waist even tighter and leaned back into the couch, yanking her around to his front. Tate moved her legs so she was straddling him, and she suddenly,
most definitely,
felt grounded. Right against the massive bulge in his pants. She moaned into his mouth, raking her nails down his chest.

Hope you love a show, Pet. Jameson and I know how to put on a good one.

“A moment, please,” Jameson panted, before pulling far enough away to down the rest of his drink. Then he jumped right back into it, trailing his lips along her neck, down to her cleavage. Tate let her head fall back, her arms wrapped around his neck. She slid her eyes back to Pet and smiled before blowing her a kiss.