Degradation
Page 92

“What the fuck are you talking about!?” she shrieked.
“You're upset about pictures of me and Pet online? In the tabloids? How about pictures of you and a certain baseball player, in the fucking social pages of the goddamn Boston Globe!? How about seeing those on the fucking internet? You and him together, everywhere. Pictures of you and me are already out there, and suddenly I'm hearing from people I hardly know that a girlfriend I don't technically have is fucking a goddamn Red Sox!” Jameson yelled at her. Tate started laughing.
“Are you fucking shitting me!? Fuck this, I'm getting the fuck out of here. Fuck your party, fuck your supermodel, and fuck you,” she swore, stomping past him. He grabbed her arm, his grip like a vice.
“Oh, you're not going anywhere, baby girl. Because it's all a game, and if you walk away now, you lose,” he warned her.
“Fuck your games. I don't want to play games. You're really upset about that? I can't believe it. The Great Jameson Kane, jealous. I can't fucking believe it,” Tate snarled at him.
“Watch how you talk to me,” he warned her.
“Fuck you. He and I were just friends, you asshole. We're friends. You go off to fuck the entire country of Germany, and I can't make a new fucking friend? You wanna know the truth? He asked me out. He didn't try to sleep with me. He wanted to see me. Date me. And I'm a stupid bitch, because I turned him down! I was stupid enough to think I had something better coming home!” Tate yelled.
“I certainly won't argue with the stupid bitch part,” Jameson told her.
“Go fuck yourself, Kane.”
“I think that's your job.”
“You're jealous! All this elaborate planning, hiding from me, bringing her back here, making a scene. You're like a girl, Kane. A goddamn pussy,” she snapped at him, disdain dripping from her words.
He roughly dragged her across the room, backed her up and slammed her against the wall by the door. She struggled to free her arm, shoving and pushing at him. He moved his hand to her throat and pinned her in place.
“I told you to watch how you fucking speak to me,” Jameson growled, his face near hers.
“Like I give two shits. Was it worth it? Is she still a good fuck? I hope so. I hope she's so good that she finally does trick you in to marrying her. I hope she fucks you all the way in to a horrible fucking marriage, and then takes all your goddamn money. I hope she's that good of a fuck!” Tate yelled, pulling at his wrist. His fingers squeezed harder on her neck, but she didn't show any reaction.
“She was never even half as good as you. But maybe we should have Ang fuck her, really do a cross-comparison, get more feedback,” Jameson suggested.
“Why stop there? How about we broaden the circle. There's an awful lot of men down there, and I haven't been fucked in a really long time. I'm sure I'll get rave reviews, much better than a psychotic supermodel,” Tate said in a quiet voice. He narrowed his eyes.
“If you're fucking anyone at this party, it will be me,” Jameson informed her. She laughed.
“That's not going to happen, but maybe we can do the next closest thing. How about I fuck Sanders. I'm sure I could turn his world inside out. Hell, maybe even steal him away from you. Who knows, maybe he'll be a better fuck than you,” she said.
The words had barely left her mouth when Jameson put his fist through the wall, right next to her head. Clean through the sheet rock. She was glad he hadn't hit a stud – that would put a damper on the party, real quick. He stared at her, his eyes blazing, a muscle ticking in his jaw, his fingers continuing to squeeze her neck. She glared right back, not moving a muscle.
“Don't ever fucking talk about him like that again,” he whispered.
“You don't get to tell me what to do. Not anymore. Not ever again,” she whispered back. Jameson squeezed her neck tight one last time, and then let go, backing away from her.
“We can talk about this later. Go downstairs. People are expecting you to be here. Be cordial. Be fucking polite. And don't say one goddamn word to Sanders,” he told her, and then yanked open his bedroom door, striding in to the hall.
Tate gasped in air and choked on a sob. She brought the back of her wrist to her mouth, trying to hold it all in; it didn't work too well. She wasn't sure what to do. She couldn't go home, not without Sanders to drive her, and she didn't think he'd leave the party. Didn't trust him, anyway. A taxi would take forever to get there, and she didn't have any money. She sucked in another breath of air, held it in, then let it out slowly. She straightened out her dress, wiped underneath her eyes.
You can do this. You're Tatum O'Shea. He didn't break you last time. He won't break you this time.
She went downstairs. She was cordial. She was polite. She got a lot of sympathetic looks from women. A lot of lascivious glances from men. She caught a glimpse of the Danish Beauty at one point, but the house was big and Tate knew it well. She fled to another room.
She drank, a lot. She flirted with anyone who looked remotely male. Sanders tried to talk to her at one point, but she looked right through him and walked away. She chugged whiskey neat. Snuck the Johnny Walker Blue out of Jameson's personal liquor cabinet and finished it off. She laughed at everything everyone said. Kissed people on the cheek, toasted to good health, gave hugs that were way too intimate to people she didn't really know, though none of the men were complaining.