Reparation (2 page)

“
Fucker
. I was already kinda freaky before he came along,” she said.

“'
Kinda freaky
'?” Jameson laughed.

“What did
you
say?” she pressed.

“I told him that there wouldn't have even been a you without me, so he could shut the fuck up,” he replied, really digging his nails in as he worked them back down her calf. She sucked air through her teeth.

“Bold statement, Mr. Kane. Doesn't sound like a very fun lunch,” she told him. He shrugged.

“Something good came out of it. I made a decision,” he started. He stopped touching her and took a step back. Out of kicking range.

“About what?” Tate asked, putting her hands on her hips.

He let his eyes wander over her body for a moment, committed it to memory. She was probably going to get angry. In the old days, when Tate got angry, it meant kinky sex. In Europe, it meant he wasn't allowed to touch her with a ten-foot-pole. Nowadays ..., he was prepared to be sleeping in a dog house for a very long time.

For someone who didn't want a relationship, this is all very relationship-like ...

“We're moving,” he informed her. Her eyebrows shot up.

“Moving? Jameson, we've only been here two weeks. Half my shit is still in suitcases,” she pointed out.

“Good, then it shouldn't take you long to pack. Which you should be doing. Right now,” he instructed.

“Huh?”

“We're moving
tonight
,” he explained.

“
Tonight?
Jesus, what, was there a fire sale on mansions somewhere around here?” she joked.

“I already own a mansion somewhere around here,” Jameson said softly. She stopped moving. Stopped blinking. It almost looked like she stopped breathing.

Ah, not a robot after all.

“You're going back to Weston?” Tate asked, her voice soft and low. He shook his head.

“
We're
going back to Weston,” he corrected her. She shook her head.

“No. I'm not going back there,” she said.

“Oh, yes, you are.”

“No, I'm not.”

“I'm sorry, did you think this was a debate? I didn't
ask
you
if you were going, I
told you
that you were going,” he said calmly. She glared down at him.

“I'm not going into that fucking house, and that is fucking final,” she snapped.

“You
are
going into that house, and
that
is final. I don't care if I have to fucking carry you,” he replied.

“Why? What's wrong with this place? I like this place. You must like it,
you
bought it,” she pointed out. He shrugged.

“I like the Weston house better. Sanders misses it, he's already started opening it up,” Jameson explained.

“No. No, I'm not going there. You can't make me,” her voice was getting louder.

“Oh, yes I can.”

“Why can't I just stay here?” she asked.

“Because I want you there.”

“You don't get to tell me what to do, Kane.”

“Oh, yes I do.”

“
Stop it!
Why? Why do I have to be there, in that house?” she demanded. He decided to risk it, and he stepped closer to her.

“Because,” he started, his voice soft. Gentling the blow. “
It's our home,
baby girl. And it's time to go.”

Houston, we have ignition. Prepare for blast off.

“That is
not
our home!” Tate yelled, a blush creeping across her chest. “That is
your
torture chamber! So fuck off, and go back to your fucking mansion in the country!”

“It's not much of a torture chamber without someone to torture,” Jameson pointed out. She looked shocked.

“
Fuck you
, then you shouldn't have let Pet get away from it,” she hissed.

Always about Petrushka. This is why I hate having girlfriends – it's the “ex” part that's a bitch
.

“She didn't '
get away
', I kicked her out.”

“That's your version of what happened.”

“It's the
only
version of what happened.”

“I am not about to go and sleep in the same bed you fucked her in, I am not some -,”

Play time is over.

Jameson grabbed her ankles and yanked her legs out from underneath her. Tate shrieked as she went down flat on her back. She had barely made contact with the mattress before he was jerking her forward, still holding her ankles, dragging her to him. He leaned over her, forcing her legs to part around him.

“We have been over this, so I am
never
going to say this again,
understand?
I did not fuck her,
” he growled. Tate glared up at him.

“I'm still not going into that house,” she growled right back.

“Oh, you'll go. You'll go if I have to drag you there by your fucking hair,” he warned her.

“You'd probably love that,” she snapped.

“So would you.”

She sighed and some of the tension went out of her body. She rolled her head to the side and looked out the open doors. The moving men were visible at the end of the hall, boxing up odds and ends. Jameson stared down at her.
Detachment
. That's what was wrong with her. Tate had a way of detaching herself. Like she was present, could say all the right things, but she wasn't really there – she was somewhere he couldn't reach.

He
hated
that.

“I don't want to go there,” she whispered.

“Why?” he demanded.

“I don't like it there,” she answered.

“You used to love it there,” he reminded her.

“'
Used to
' being the operative term,” she pointed out.

“So what's changed? You keep claiming that everything is fine. Apparently, it's not fine at all. Apparently it's all completely fucked,” he called her out. She turned back towards him.

“That was a
really
interesting lunch you had, wasn't it,” she breathed.

Busted
.

“They're concerned about you,” Jameson said softly.

“But you're not,” Tate finished his statement. He shooks his head.

“Don't be fucking stupid. I'm here. I'm doing this,
for you
. Stop asking questions you know the answers to. Now get the fuck up, and get dressed,” he ordered.

She sat up abruptly and he had to lean away. He had barely stood up when she pushed herself up as well, sliding against almost every inch of him. He stared down at her, waiting for her to argue, to whine, to try to bribe. The last one was fairly effective – he wasn't as immune to her charms as he liked to pretend.

“Fine. Fine, I'll go to that fucking hell house,” she said in a quiet voice.

“Good. We're leaving,
now,
” he snapped. She raised an eyebrow.

“So impatient,” she clucked her tongue at him.

“You should know that by now,” he replied. She sighed and stepped around him, slowly made her way towards the door.

“When they pack my clothes,” she started, “make sure they don't steal any of the expensive underwear.”

Then she disappeared down the hall. From where he was standing, Jameson couldn't see to the end of it, but he heard one moving man wolf-whistle. Another cat-called. Then the front door slowly creaked open, before slamming shut. Jameson chuckled to himself.

So feisty.

*

Goddammit
.

Tatum sat in the back of the Bentley, chewing on her nail, trying not to show how nervous she was about where they were going. She hadn't been to the Weston house in a month. She hadn't actually been inside it since October, almost three months ago. She willed away the memories. Tried to think of happier times.

She glanced at Jameson out of the corner of her eye. He was leaning back in his seat, staring out the window. As if he knew she was staring, he reached over and rested a hand on her knee. But it wasn't to comfort. His nails bit into her skin and she sighed, resting her head back. His fingers dragged up higher, disappeared under the bottom of his overcoat. She had made it onto the elevator, wearing nothing but her bra and panties, when he'd casually stepped in behind her. By the time they got to the lobby, he had wrestled her into his overcoat. It was a peacoat, but it was large enough on her that it stopped above the knees.

“Scared, baby girl?” he whispered, still not looking at her. Tate concentrated on the roof of the car.

“No,” she replied.

She was fucking terrified. Over the past two weeks, Tate had perfected acting like she didn't care. Didn't care that Jameson was a sociopath who liked to cause her mental anguish, just to get off. Didn't care that Ang had slept with the person responsible for making her feel worthless, responsible for ripping her life in half. Didn't care that Ellie had stolen one of the last pieces of Tate's life that still felt safe, still felt right.

She spent so much time pretending like she didn't care, she'd almost forgotten what it felt like to actually care, about anything. Only Sanders grounded her, and she had to keep him at arms length. He was too clever, too close to her; he would figure out what she was plotting. And she would not be derailed, not this time. The house
did
scare her – she was worried she would take one look at it, and break down. Go back in time. Be stuck in that room. On that floor, looking up at him, just wanting him to see her. And she
would not
be that girl again.

For the last seven years, Tate had thought she was a bad girl. Not a bad person, but most definitely very naughty. She liked to have sex, she liked to have fun, she liked to do whatever she wanted. But she'd had an epiphany while she was in France. She was actually a
good
girl. She liked people, wanted to make people happy. She loved her friends, would do anything for them. She would never have done anything to hurt them, and whenever she accidentally did, she felt bad. She apologized. She did her best to make amends.

Tate felt like a sucker. All those years, running from her good girl image, and here she was, still the best fucking girl on the block. Didn't matter how many dicks a girl sucked, she was still good if she always said please and thank you. No more. She was
over it
. Over being so goddamn nice all the time. Jameson was the devil. Ang was disrespectful. Ellie was a bitch. When did it get to be Tatum's turn?

Yes, but what are you after you've alienated everyone, hmmm? What kind of creature then?

Tate shook those thoughts away. She was going to do whatever it took to get some fucking closure. What had Jameson said in Paris? What sugary sweet lie had he spun?
Seven years?
It was time to end it. Then she would just walk away. Start life, for real. Maybe a little later than most people, but hey, better late than never. Maybe she'd go back to school. Maybe she'd become a nice, normal girl, finally. Maybe she'd take Nick up on his offer and move to Arizona. Who knew?

She certainly didn't.

“We are almost there. Are you alright?” Sanders called out. She smiled up at the ceiling.

You know you'll lose him. Is it worth it?

“
I'm good
,” she whispered.

“Excuse me?”

“Let's get this over with,” Tate growled, leaning her head forward.

They were pulling down the driveway. Jameson's house sat far back on his property – estate would be a more appropriate word – and a pebble filled circular drive led them to the large brick building. The driveway was long, and though there was none right then, she figured that when it did snow, it must have been a bitch getting the driveway plowed.

Well, for anyone else, it would've been a bitch. For Jameson Kane, all he had to do was snap his fingers and people probably cleared the snow away with their tongues.

Not me. Not anymore.

“Patience there, tiger. Wouldn't want you getting sick again,” Jameson teased her. Tate glared at the back of Sanders' head, watched his neck turn pink with a blush.

“You don't have to tell him
everything
, Sandy,” she grumbled. Sanders had brought her back in December, tried to cook dinner for her while Jameson was out of the country. She had barely made it onto the porch before she lost her cookies over the railing.

“Yes, he does. Unload the bags, will you Sanders?” Jameson asked, opening the door and stepping out before the car had rolled to a complete stop. Tate slid across the seat and got out behind him, refusing to take his hand.