Reparation (19 page)

She had already typed his name into the Google search bar before she even realized what she was doing. She figured she was halfway there already, so might as well jump all the way into it. She hit enter, and watched the pages come up.

There was a lot of news about his trip to Los Angeles, him selling his part in a film company. A
big
film company. Tate wondered why he had gotten out of it, but then another article talked about him turning around and investing a god-awful amount of money in an oil company, so she figured it was a trade of sorts. She never asked him about his money, or what he did with it. She didn't really care, and it wasn't her business.

She hesitated with the mouse over the tab for a while, but then she clicked it. Images. Pictures immediately filled the screen, and she sighed. He still had the ability to turn her into a giggly, stupid girl, no matter how many times she saw him. No matter how much time they spent together naked. He was just so handsome. She sighed, scrolling through the photos.

Tate was relieved to see none of him and Pet, not since the old ones. There were pictures of him in Marbella, from a Spanish tabloid. One of him and Tate, standing on the bow of his yacht, talking to each other. Or arguing, she couldn't tell. Neither of them looked happy.

She moved on, found more pictures of them. One of them at a cafe in Marbella, another of them leaving a shop. Tate would never get used to seeing pictures of herself online. There was even one of them leaving the restaurant, after her run in with Pet. It was at night, and it was grainy, but it still made her smile. Him mid-stride, walking confidently ahead of her. Her laughing, holding onto the hem of his jacket, bent over a little as she struggled to keep up with him. He almost looked happy as well, a small smile playing at the edges of his lips.

She printed the picture out, and while she looked at it, she realized she had no pictures of them together. She subjected Sanders to selfies all the time, and of course she had tons of pictures with Ang. Even Nick, with the amount of team events she went to with him. But no real pictures of her and Jameson together. At least, none that were taken on purpose with their express permission.

She frowned and moved back to the search bar, typed in their names together. She was astounded at the amount of photos that popped up. Them everywhere together, all over Boston. Pictures of them in the Bentley, in restaurants, coming out of his building, going into his building. In front of his building. Lots and lots around his office building.

Her favorite was an old one, one from before their brief split, where they were caught in the rain. She was soaking wet, because she had been standing outside waiting for him. When he had come out to meet her, he had taken one look at her and gone back inside. He came back with an umbrella and held it over her. She laughed, and he had kissed her. The photographer caught that moment. She was still smiling through the kiss, and Jameson had one hand against the side of her neck. They looked ..., they looked almost
normal
.

She printed that picture out as well.

“What are you doing?”

Tate screamed so loud, she was pretty sure the police would be showing up. Sanders jumped a little, took a step back from her. She bent over the keyboard, trying to catch her breath. He had just shaved about ten years off her life.

“
DON'T EVER FUCKING DO THAT!
” she yelled.

“I'm sorry. I assumed you heard me come in, my apologies. What are you doing?” he asked, glancing between her and the screen.

“Looking up pictures,” she replied, leaning back in the chair, still trying to breathe.

“Last time you did that, things did not end so well. He hasn't seen her, since he's been there,” Sanders assured her. She nodded.

“I believe you. I was looking up pictures of us, together. I don't have any. Look! Here's one of me and you!” she pointed out, making the picture larger. Sanders squinted at it.

Jameson was in the foreground of the photo, talking on his phone. They were in the background, Sanders standing very straight, with Tate leaning on him, her arms around his shoulders, smiling up at him as she held her face close to his own. Probably teasing him about something. Tate looked at the title of the article and burst out laughing.

“What?” Sanders asked. She pulled up the webpage, pointed out the headline.

Trouble In Paradise:
Is Jameson Kane's Current Play-Thing Cheating With His Guy-Friday?

“We're an item, Sandy,” she told him. He snorted.

“This is why I don't look these things up. They are full of lies and a waste of time.”

“At least you got a sorta-title. I'm just a '
play thing
',” she pointed out.

“Please, turn it off,” he asked. She obliged, closing the windows. She held up the two photos she had printed out.

“I just wanted these, I wasn't trying to dig up dirt,” she promised him. Sanders took the photos and examined them under the desk lamp.

“They're nice. May I take them?” he asked. She raised her eyebrows.

“Uh, yeah. I mean, sure, I guess,” she replied, a little caught off guard.

“I will find them frames,” he explained.

“Good. I thought maybe they were for your secret shrine,” she teased.

“No. I only use solo pictures of you for that.”

She laughed until he cleared his throat.

“I'm sorry, yes?” she gasped for air.

“Jameson would like to speak to you, that's why I'm up here,” he told her. She jumped out of the chair.

“God, has he been on hold this whole time?” she asked, hurrying down the hall. Sanders nodded.

“Yes.”

When Tate picked up the phone in the library, she could hear the sound of Jameson drumming his fingers against whatever kind of desk it was he was sitting behind.

“Sorry,” she breathed. “I didn't know you were on the phone.”

“Sanders failed to mention it?” he asked.

“He was ..., distracted,” she explained.

“How are you?” Jameson asked.

“Good. We've been having fun,” she told him.

“Mmm hmmm. And how much do you miss me?” he pressed.

“On a scale of one to ten? Maybe a two,” she mocked him.

“Liar.”

“How is your trip?” she asked.

“Tiring. Frustrating. I could very much use some of your relaxation methods,” he told her. She laughed and glanced at Sanders, who was sitting in Jameson's wing back chair.

“Might be kind of awkward, Sandy is sitting in front of me. Or kinda hot. I think I may be an exhibitionist,” Tate wondered out loud.

“I
know
you're one. But no, it's probably not a good idea. I was just checking to make sure you weren't doing anything you shouldn't be doing,” he told her.

“Oh? Like what?” she asked.

“Running away.”

“I'm not going to do that,” she replied in a soft voice.

“
Yet.
”

Ooohhh, he's in a mood.

“Tell you what,” she started, leaning back in his chair and putting her feet on his desk. “I promise not to run away
until
you fuck things up again.”

“
Fucking bitch.
”

“Feel better?” she asked, smiling. He chuckled.

“Yes, yes I do. I'll be home soon.”

“I know.”

“Be ready.”

“I will.”

Then the line went dead.

Falling in love with him had been easy, much easier than she would've thought. That first time, when she had been a silly, stupid, eighteen year old girl, she had fallen a little in love with him. And then last fall, he had walked away with most of her heart.

Jameson Kane wasn't scared of much, but apparently feelings terrified him. Saying she loved him, saying it out loud, had been so much scarier because of that; but knowing that it scared him, and now knowing that he wasn't running away, made it all that much better.

“Sanders,” she said softly, staring off into space.

“Yes?” he asked, turning towards her.

“I need you to get something out of the safe for me.”

*

When Jameson got home Friday night, he felt like shit. A shitty trip, shitty plane ride, and shitty traffic.
Shit
. He was cranky. He wanted to walk in the door, have a drink, and then sleep for the next three days. Possibly four. He walked into his home and dropped his suitcase on the floor, the thud echoing through the dark house. Not a single light was on in any of the rooms.

“Hello?” he barked out. No answer. Sanders had walked back to the guest house, after parking the car. But he had said Tatum was at home.

Jameson went upstairs, but she wasn't in the bedroom. He left his suitcase at the foot of the bed, then went back downstairs. She wasn't in the bathroom, or the kitchen. On his way back through the hall, he finally heard something. A crackling noise. There was a fire going in the library. He pushed open the door, walked into the stifling hot room.

He loved the heat.

“What the fuck are you doing? I've been looking for you,” he snapped, his eyes searching the room for her.

“Yeah, and I've been waiting for you,” she replied. His eyes snapped towards his desk chair. She had her back to him, and he could see her bare feet propped up on a bookshelf.

“I am not in the mood for bullshit, Tate. It was a long flight, and I -,”

“Hey, I finally found them!” she interrupted him.

“Huh?” he asked, too tired to even be annoyed.

“Your glasses! I haven't seen you wear them since that day in Spain. I found them, by the computer,” she said.

“I honestly couldn't give two fucks. I'm going to bed,” Jameson growled, but before he could make a move, Tate swiveled around in his chair.

“I think they look better on me,” she told him, smiling at him, his glasses sitting on the bridge of her nose. His eyes wandered over her form and he groaned.

“Baby girl, why do you do this to me? I'm tired,” he moaned, slipping his tie over his head.

“I'm not doing anything,” she replied, leaning back in his chair and stretching her legs over his desk.

“I'm sore, and I'm mad at the world, and I just want to be pissed off at everything, and you do this,” he grumbled, unbuttoning his shirt as he walked towards her. She smiled up at him.

“Well, you can be pissed off at me. Sometimes, I think it's more fun.”

She was wearing his glasses, the Cartier necklace he had bought her from her ballplayer's auction, and nothing else. Not a stitch of clothing. Her hair was piled up on her head in a messy bun, and she wore heavy eye makeup behind the glasses, but that was it. He grabbed her by the ankles and swung her legs around, spinning her in the chair so she was facing him.

“You're going to have to do most of the work, baby girl. Mr. Kane is very, very tired,” he warned her, pulling her legs apart and walking up between them.

“Don't I always?” she replied as he leaned down close to her.

“Shut the fuck up. I'm too tired for your lip,” he growled, gripping her hips and scooting her forward.

“Maybe you're too tired for
anything
fun,” she said, then squeaked as his fingers dug into her flesh. He yanked her forward, his hands going under her ass as he picked her up.

“Probably. Wake me up if I fall asleep,” he told her, carrying her out of the library. She hooked her ankles together behind his back.

“Never do.”

“I am going to fuck you so hard, just for this attitude.”

“Promises, promises.”

He made good on his word, not stopping till she was panting and listless underneath him. And even then, he dug deep into his reserves, and managed to get another orgasm out of her with his tongue. Then he made her go down on him; made a mess coming all over her and the bed.

While she went to take a shower, he kicked the comforter to the floor and slipped between the sheets. He didn't care about taking a shower. He wanted to slip into a coma for a couple hours. Or days. But just as he was about to, something caught his eye. A light from the closet was glinting off something silver on the nightstand. He rolled closer and turned on a light. A picture frame, one that hadn't been there before he'd left. He picked it up and looked it over.

He didn't know where she had gotten it, but it was a picture of the two of them, kissing in the rain. He couldn't remember the time, but it looked like last fall. He ran his fingers down the glass, across her face.

She's stunning.

She had said she was in love with him. He had said it was okay. He hadn't said it back. She said that was okay. He was still a little blown away by it. By his reaction as much as by hers. From the very beginning, he hadn't wanted a relationship with her. He had told her that, from the very start.

The first time around, when Tate had admitted to having feelings for him, he had freaked the fuck out. Jameson could admit that now. She couldn't just like him – she would want something, in return. Something he might not ever be able to give. Too much. He would give her anything else; sex, money, diamonds, gold, whatever else. But he couldn't make a promise if he didn't know whether or not he could keep it.