Separation (25 page)

“See? Better, so much better,” Tate groaned, closing her eyes and focusing all of her energy on feeling him.

“
Everything
I give you is better. Is the
best
. When are you going to get that through your fucking head?” Jameson snapped.

“Never,” she breathed.

She wanted to taunt him, to tease him. Wanted to make him mad enough to step outside himself, mad enough to
really
treat her bad. But she couldn't get a word out. He was pounding so hard, she couldn't catch her breath. She wasn't sure what was going to happen first – orgasm, or fainting.

If you're really lucky, both. Because if you needed any further proof that you're never getting away from him, you have it now – slamming into you, over and over again.

Tate screamed when she came, beating her hand on the mattress, begging him to stop. Begging him for more. She was vaguely aware of voices outside the bedroom door, remembered that security was still wandering around the apartment, and she started coming harder. Gasping for air. Sobbing for it.

“Who's the
slut
now?” Jameson growled, pressing flat against her back as his hips picked up speed. She managed a laugh. Choked on a sob.

History just keeps repeating itself, on and on and on and on and on ...

“For you, Jameson. Just for you,” she whispered, stepping back in time, to seven years ago. A lifetime ago. Not long enough ago.

“Only for me,” he whispered back, and then he was coming, too.

Houston, we're so far beyond having a problem that we're just completely fucked.

Tatum had been to Paris before, when she was fifteen, on a school trip. Standard, touristy stuff. She liked the city, thought it was very beautiful. It was hard, though. The most romantic city on earth, and she was there with Jameson. Hmmm.

The morning after her stint as an MMA fighter, she had woken up to him sitting at the foot of the bed, talking softly on his phone. His voice
did not
sound happy.

“
If you ever come to my home again, I will get a restraining order. If you ever touch Sanders again, I will have you arrested. And if you
ever
hit her again,
I
will be the one who hits back. She is here to stay, she is part of my life. You are not.
Get used to it
.
”

Tate was touched, but at the same time, she also felt kind of bad. Jameson had dragged Pet back into the mix. What had he said the other day? He hadn't slept with Pet since last June. Then he had wined and dined her in Germany during his little sabbatical. The woman was a raving lunatic, a complete psychotic bitch, no argument there, but Jameson was the one who had invited her back into his life.

They didn't speak much about the whole situation the next day. The living room was magically clean, though Sanders looked suspiciously tired. He slept on the plane ride to Paris, and Tate leaned against him, hugging his arm to her chest. He also didn't say much of anything about the incident. There was so much silence going on, she felt like it was deafening.

Their hotel room was amazing. Views of the Eiffel Tower, balconies, a sitting room. He hadn't gotten a penthouse suite, at Tate's request. She thought it was just too much, considering that whenever they were together anywhere, they spent most of their time in a bedroom. Plus, that way, Ang's room and Sanders' room could be on either side. Tate had a shoulder to cry on either way she turned, and she had a distinct feeling that a huge crying fit was imminent.

She had spoken to Ang a couple times since New Year's, but only briefly. Short enough conversations that she was able to get away without confessing her sin to him, which she was grateful for. She spoke to her sister a couple times, as well. Her baby was due in a little over two months. It was going to be a boy. Tate wanted to ask her all about it, but her sister was surprisingly short on the phone, as well. They were still working on the whole let's-be-friends-because-we're-sisters thing, but it was obvious that it wasn't working out too well.

Tate had only called Nick twice. In a lot of ways, he was the worst, because he would be the most understanding. They had never dated, but she still kinda felt like she had cheated on him. Why couldn't she have just liked him? Life would be so must easier, if she would just be a nice, normal girl.

“Hi,” Tate said softly into the phone when he answered.

“God, it's good to hear your voice. I feel like I haven't talked to you in forever!” Nick laughed. She smiled, stretched her legs out. She was sitting in the hallway outside of the hotel room.

“I know, I know. It's been ..., crazy. There was a whole supermodel-smack-down episode, it got weird,” she said.

“Oh god. What have you gotten yourself into now?”

She gave him an abridged version of the fight. Nick laughed as Tate got heated up all over again, describing how she had tried to tackle Pet. He agreed that it sounded like the other girl had deserved to get her ass beat, but he didn't condone violence; though he did wish he had been able to see it.

“It was most definitely a show,” Tate laughed.

“Everything you do is a show,” he chuckled.

“Hey!”

“When are you coming home? I miss you,” he said plainly. She chewed on her thumbnail, glancing down the hallway.

Italy, Austria, hell – pick a vacation, any vacation.

“I'm not sure, but you'll be the first to know,” she assured him.

“I hope so. Tate, I've been thinking. A lot,” Nick started. Warning bells went off in her head.

“That's never a good thing,” she joked, trying to lighten the mood. He didn't laugh.

“I know that you and Jameson have a history that goes way back. I know you and I haven't really known each other that long,” he began. She swallowed thickly.

“Nick, don't -,”

“
But,
I really think we'd be good together, and I like you,
a lot
. Enough to wait,” he said.

This all sounded horribly familiar, only in this picture,
Tatum
was Satan, and Nick was the poor fool in love. All they needed was a dark library and a roaring fireplace.

I am going to one of the darkest recesses of hell. Good thing I've already been there once.

“Nick, you don't know what you're saying. I'm not a good person. Just ..., just wait till I come home, and then we'll talk,” she urged in a quiet voice.

“
Get him out of your system,
” Nick continued. “Whatever you need. And I will be here. I understand.”

Tate felt like she was going to be sick, and as if that wasn't bad enough, the elevator doors at the end of the hall opened. A man in a dark suit stepped off. Strode towards her, his steps sure. Confident. She licked her lips, staring up at him.

“I know. I just don't want to hurt you,” she said, watching as Jameson came to a stop next to her.

“You won't. I know what I'm getting into –
do you?
” Nick countered. Jameson squatted down next to her, adjusting his cuff links as he did so. A suit. He was back in a suit.

Ah, there's my Satan.

“I haven't the faintest clue,” Tate whispered.

“Time to go, baby girl,” Jameson said softly, holding his hand out.

“Be smart, Tatum,” Nick warned on the other end of the phone.

“
Never am,
” she replied, then hung up the phone. She put her hand into Jameson's, allowed him to pull her to her feet.

“Important phone call?” he asked. She shrugged, dusting her hands off on her pants.

“Nick. Checking up on me,” was all she said. Jameson snorted and took off back down the hall.

“How is your boyfriend doing?” he asked as she trailed behind him.

“Jealous?” she taunted, wrapping a scarf around her neck. Paris was a lot colder than Marbella. After they had settled in at the hotel, she wound up having to buy even more clothing to match the change in weather. She wasn't sure how she was going to get all her new stuff home.

“Always jealous,” Jameson replied, pushing the down button for the elevator.

“At least
my
boyfriend never broke in to your apartment and attacked Sanders,” Tate countered. He laughed.

“I would like to see him try. Could he even find Spain on a map?” he asked as they stepped onto the elevator.

“You don't even know him, have never met him, and you're insulting his intelligence? My god, Jameson, you
are
jealous,”  Tate gasped. He cleared his throat, his eyes trained on the doors.

“I don't like it when other people touch
my things,
” he explained in a low voice. She laughed.

“That was
almost
sweet.”

“Almost, huh. Close one.”

They went to dinner. Once again, Tate felt a little dressed down. Jameson was wearing a suit that probably cost more than her first car. She was wearing low-rise skinny jeans and a racer-back tank top, paired with a slim leather jacket and scarf. They never quite matched, but Jameson never seemed to care, so she decided she wouldn't care, either. After seeing the name on the reservation, the maître d' didn't even look twice at her, anyway.

Sanders was already at the restaurant, and they all ate together. There was actually a lot of laughter. Jameson had a very dry sense of humor, and half the time she couldn't tell whether Sanders was being deadpan or serious, but she cracked up anyway. They talked, they shared food. It was fun.

After they were done, they headed back towards their hotel, but a different hotel was having some sort of event. Loud music was pouring into the street. Tate grabbed Sanders' arm and dragged him inside. Jameson eventually followed. She was pretty sure they were crashing a wedding reception, but she didn't care. She was two steps away from selling her soul to Satan, what could it hurt to crash someone's party?

Sanders wouldn't hardly move, so Tate was forced to dance by herself for most of the time. She made friends with a bridesmaid, danced around with her for a little while. Jameson finally danced with her, after a slow song came on; she got shivers as he slid her hand into his, wrapped an arm around her waist. She hadn't danced like that since a cousin's wedding, when she was a lot younger. It was almost more intimate than dancing the way she was used to, arms wrapped around her partner's neck. Jameson stared down at the her the whole time, moving her around the floor. She found it hard to breathe.

When they got back to the table they had commandeered, it was to find that Sanders had also made a friend. Unwillingly. He was standing next to the table, very tight lipped, as a very drunk woman leaned near him, murmuring in French. Tate laughed and walked up next to him.

“What is she saying?” she asked. Sanders kept his eyes pointed straight ahead.

“She likes my suit,” he replied through clenched teeth. Tate snickered and ran her finger under his lapel.

“You like?
Très bon, oui?
” she asked the woman.

“
Oui, is est très, très beau – il ne danse pas?
” she replied. Tate didn't speak a word of French, but she was pretty she understood “
dance
”.

“Only with me,” Tate laughed, pulling on his arm.

“No, I don't want to dance, Tatum. I don't ...,” Sanders tried to resist, but she'd already pulled him into the thick of the dance floor.

“It's okay, Sandy. Just act like no one's watching. No one cares if you can't dance,” she assured him, holding his hands as she bopped from foot to foot.

“I know how to dance,” he told her. She stopped moving.

“Really?”

“Just not like that,” he said, glancing around at the younger couples on the floor, who were all bumping and grinding.

“Then like how?” she asked.

Sanders sighed and pulled her close. She found herself in the same position she had been in with Jameson moments before, Sanders' arm around her torso, his hand pressed against the skin on her back, just under her bra. He took a deep breath and glanced around.

“Just do as I do. Follow my movements, my body,” he instructed. She smiled.

“Kinky.”

He snorted, then he was pushing her backwards. If Tate had ever thought about it, ballroom dancing was right up Sanders' alley. Strict rules, stiff frames, precise movements – that pretty much described him. He all but carried her across the dance floor. She was surprised at how strong he was; in his suits, he looked so slender and trim. The arm around her, though, was like steel.

She felt like a little kid. She was completely delighted. After she stepped on his toes a couple times he started counting. Very softly, almost under his breath. It took Tate a second to realize that he was counting the steps for her. After that, it got a little easier. He spun her around, and when the song came to an end, he even took her into a small dip.

“I hope that was enough for you,” Sanders said as they broke apart. Tate clapped her hands together.

“Are you kidding!? I wanna go again! Sandy, I think I just fell in love with you a little!” she laughed.

“That would make things very awkward,” Jameson's voice came from behind her. She turned around and smiled up at him, but he was staring at Sanders.

“It's a lie, anyway. I fell in love with Sanders the first time I ever saw him, when he was looking at me like I was a two-dollar-hooker,” she joked. Sanders nervously adjusted his tie.

“I thought you were worth at least ten dollars,” he replied.

Even Jameson laughed at that one.

*

Back at the hotel, after Tatum had fallen asleep, Jameson climbed out of bed. Put on some clothes. Made his way next door, to Sanders' room. The younger man was awake, sitting on a couch, a laptop open on the coffee table. He glanced up.

“Good evening,” he said simply. Jameson nodded, heading over to some windows.

“What time does
Angier
get here tomorrow?” he asked. Sanders glanced at a paper that sat next to him.

“Noon. I have arranged for a car to pick him up and bring him back here. I assumed he would want to rest after his plane ride, so I booked a late lunch for you and Tatum, then have arranged dinner, downstairs, for all of us,” he ran through the itinerary.

“Sounds good.”

“I must say,” Sanders started, “it was a very nice gesture, inviting Mr. Hollingsworth. I was very impressed.”

“Were you?” Jameson asked, glancing down at him.

“Yes. You did something nice, just for her. You normally don't do things like that; it is a happy improvement,” Sanders explained.