Degradation
Page 76

She skimmed through the years, catching up on his past. Wondered if she'd ever been secretly photographed with him – and then she found one. She and Ang giggled over it, a grainy photo of her, Sanders, and Jameson, standing outside of some restaurant that they had gone to on its opening day. A pretty swanky place, with some local celebrities making appearances. She hadn't thought much of that night, but there she was, on Google. It was from a local newspaper, and they didn't list her or Sanders' names, didn't even mention them at all, just that Jameson Kane had been in attendance, but still. She felt giddy.
But then she began to notice a cluster of other pictures, all of Jameson with the same girl. Them walking down a street together in Paris. Them entering a tube station in London. Lots of them eating in restaurants. Posing, with their arms around each other, at fashion events and movie premieres and award shows. Leaving nightclubs together, Jameson pulling her by the hand. Holding her hand. It made Tate feel a little nauseous.
“Who is she?” Ang finally asked. Tate sighed.
“I think she's his ex.”
“What ex?”
“The ex.”
She was absolutely. Drop. Dead. Gorgeous. Some super-dooper-model, half Ukranian, half Danish. Danish. Tate's heart stopped a little. That must be why he owned a home in Copenhagen – he had bought it to be close to her. Shocking. The model was internationally famous and retardly beautiful. Jameson was so rich, it was obscene. A match made in heaven. There were pictures of them all over the globe together.
He barely leaves the house with me.
“She hasn't got anything on you. Look at those skinny hips, I would rip her in half,” Ang said quickly. Tate chuckled.
“She's gorgeous, Ang. I can admit when someone is better looking than me,” she replied. Tate wasn't shy about her looks, she knew she was hot, knew she was downright sexy. But this woman, she was beautiful. Stunning.
“No, you're just as pretty as she is,” Ang assured her. Tate snorted.
“No, I'm not. But I would put money on the fact that I'm better in bed,” she said back, and Ang laughed.
“That's my girl. How long did they go out for?”
They did some digging. The earliest mention of them together was two years before – it had been on and off, apparently pretty rocky. Rumors of crazy fights and wild sex. The model's name was Petrushka Ivanovic. They went to her website, but it wasn't very helpful. Just depressing. Then they went to her Wikipedia page, and the words on the screen slapped Tate across the face. And not in the good way.
Partner(s): Jameson Kane, American financier. Status: Engaged.
“No, no, no, no, no,” Tate whispered, and went back to Google.
She typed in their names together. A lot of the same pictures came up, but also ones she hadn't seen. A couple were pretty recent. She pulled the websites they were from – they were very recent. Like three weeks ago. Three weeks ago, he had gone to New York for the weekend – she remembered him mentioning it to her. They looked like they were arguing in the photographs, standing on a sidewalk. Another set of photographs were from two weeks ago, them walking down a street. One was from yesterday. He had just gotten back from New York, last night. They were sitting down across from each other in some sort of lobby, the picture taken through the windows.
Tate turned away from Ang, back towards the foot of the bed, and put her head in her hands. She wasn't going to cry, but she kind of wanted to hyperventilate. She kept reminding herself, over and over, that Jameson wasn't her boyfriend. Technically, he could do whatever he wanted. She could do whatever she wanted.
But we had a deal. He couldn't be with her. We had a deal.
She felt Ang move, slide down the bed behind her. His long legs went around either side of her and then his arms were around her, hugging her from behind, pulling her in to his chest. She took deep breaths and leaned against him, let him rock her back and forth. She felt horrible. She felt angry.
“It's okay, Tate. It's just pictures, we don't know what they mean,” Ang said softly.
“I know. I know that. It's just ..., hard,” she replied, dropping her hands in to her lap.
“You really like him, don't you?” Ang asked. She sighed.
“Yeah, I think I kinda do,” she told him. He chuckled.
“Good girl Tate falls for Satan, who would've thought,” he teased. She rolled her eyes.
“I'm not a good girl,” she pointed out.
“Yes, you are. You've just gotten very good at hiding it,” he replied.
“I don't want to see him tonight,” she whispered. Ang's laugh was dark.
“Stay with me,” he whispered back, his lips against her ear. She shivered.
“No. He may be an asshole, but I'm not. When I confront him about this, it will be with a clear conscience. If it turns out he's a massive, lying, dickhole, with some secret supermodel wife, then I'll come fuck your brains out to get back at him,” Tate explained. Ang laughed.
“Cheers, thanks for that. Glad I have a say in this, that I'm good for something to you,” he snickered. She laughed as well.
“Shut up, you love it,” she told him.
“More than you know. I will happily be your revenge fuck, darling,” he assured her. She took a deep breath.
“You're too good to me. I have to go, thanks for letting me come over, and for horrifically depressing me,” she laughed, untangling herself from him and climbing off the bed.