“I need Jameson Kane's room,” she told her.
“Please hold.”
The phone rang and rang and rang. Tate let out a frustrated yell and kicked a wall, then promptly regretted it, as she was painfully reminded that she wasn't wearing shoes. She hopped around on one foot and the line finally picked up.
“I'm sorry, ma'am, the guest you are trying to reach is not available. Would you like to leave a voicemail?”
“No. No, uh, what is his room number?” Tate asked, pacing up and down the hall.
“I'm sorry, but I am not allowed to give out that information.”
“Uuuggg, c'mon! I already know he's staying here! Just tell me the room!” Tate demanded.
“Mr. Kane is a preferential guest. I cannot give out that information. Thank you for calling, good night.”
And the line was dead.
Tate let out a shriek. What was she supposed to do now!? In a fit of passion, right after she had gotten to Arizona, she had deleted Jameson's cell phone number. She didn't have it memorized – who did that anymore!? And she didn't want to call Sanders to ask for it, in case he was with Jameson. Talk about a mood killer.
She marched to one end of the hall and began knocking on the door. No one answered. She began banging. She realized she was acting crazy, but she was long past the point of caring. She'd moved on into acceptance. Jameson Kane made her crazy. She should probably start getting used it.
When no one answered at the third door, she began yelling. Calling out for both Sanders and Jameson, hoping that they were behind one of the doors, and just not answering because they thought it was housekeeping or something. At the fourth door, she got a disgruntled elderly man. At the fifth door, she got a teenage boy who invited her inside. The eighth had a half dressed baseball player, telling her to shut the fuck up. She told him he could suck her dick. That shut him up.
She was prancing around from foot to foot in front of the elevator, waiting for it to open so it could take her to the top floor. She felt like she had taken speed. And coke. Or crack. Some lethal combination of all three. She couldn't stop moving, she had so much adrenaline pumping. She hopped around, hugging the jewelry box to her chest. Finally, the elevator opened up.
But it wasn't empty.
“What the fuck are you doing!? We can hear you all the way upstairs!” Jameson snapped. She glared at him.
“Then what the fuck took you so long to come down here!?” she snapped back.
“Are you fucking serious right now!?” he exclaimed.
“Are you fucking serious!?”
“You're fucking crazy, you know that, right!? Goddamn psychotic!” he yelled at her. The elevator started to close and he slammed his palm against a door, causing it to open again.
“Oh yeah!?” she yelled back. “Well if I'm fucking psychotic, it's because you made me this way!”
“Tatum!” he snapped her name through clenched teeth.
“What!?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
She fell on him, throwing her arms around his neck. He moved backwards with her weight, and they fell against the back wall of the elevator. The jewelry box fell between them, smacking her on the foot as it hit the floor. The elevator doors slid shut behind them.
“Sorry, sorry,” she breathed, resting against him at an awkward angle. He yanked her upright, standing her on her feet. She pushed away from his chest, straightening out her dress.
“Where the fuck are your shoes?” he asked, staring down at her feet. She stared down, too, taking in both their barefeet. She smiled. Just like that first time, in his house.
“In the hall,” she replied. “Where's your hat?”
“In my hotel room. Tatum. What the fuck are you doing?” he asked.
“I opened your present,” she told him. He raised his eyebrows.
“Oh really. How – what did you say? - magnanimous of you,” he said snidely. She snorted.
“I know, right? What a fuckin' ugly necklace, Kane. I came up here to give it back. Can you hit the floor for the lobby? I'm in the middle of a party,” she told him.
“Noooo, I think you're done with your party,” he replied.
“Oh really? What makes you think that?” she asked.
“That look in your eye.”
“What look?”
“That look that says you really want to be fucked,” he told her. She laughed.
“And you think you can do something about that?” she asked. He nodded and leaned around her, but he didn't hit the lobby button. He hit the button for his floor.
“I think I'm the only one who can do someting about it,” he replied.
“I don't know how my date would feel about that,” she wondered out loud.
“I don't give a fuck.”
She grabbed him by his shirt and yanked him forward. They stumbled backwards, her back ramming into the elevator doors. She moaned against his lips, their tongues swirling around each other. His fingers dug into her hips, holding her against him, and then he wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her so tightly she could barely breathe.
“Don't leave me again,” he whispered, tracing his tongue along her bottom lip. She shook her head.
“I won't. I promise,” she whispered back, combing her fingers through his thick hair.
“Your promises haven't worked out so well for me,” he growled, his mouth against her neck.
“We'll have to work on that,” she replied.
“Please hold.”
The phone rang and rang and rang. Tate let out a frustrated yell and kicked a wall, then promptly regretted it, as she was painfully reminded that she wasn't wearing shoes. She hopped around on one foot and the line finally picked up.
“I'm sorry, ma'am, the guest you are trying to reach is not available. Would you like to leave a voicemail?”
“No. No, uh, what is his room number?” Tate asked, pacing up and down the hall.
“I'm sorry, but I am not allowed to give out that information.”
“Uuuggg, c'mon! I already know he's staying here! Just tell me the room!” Tate demanded.
“Mr. Kane is a preferential guest. I cannot give out that information. Thank you for calling, good night.”
And the line was dead.
Tate let out a shriek. What was she supposed to do now!? In a fit of passion, right after she had gotten to Arizona, she had deleted Jameson's cell phone number. She didn't have it memorized – who did that anymore!? And she didn't want to call Sanders to ask for it, in case he was with Jameson. Talk about a mood killer.
She marched to one end of the hall and began knocking on the door. No one answered. She began banging. She realized she was acting crazy, but she was long past the point of caring. She'd moved on into acceptance. Jameson Kane made her crazy. She should probably start getting used it.
When no one answered at the third door, she began yelling. Calling out for both Sanders and Jameson, hoping that they were behind one of the doors, and just not answering because they thought it was housekeeping or something. At the fourth door, she got a disgruntled elderly man. At the fifth door, she got a teenage boy who invited her inside. The eighth had a half dressed baseball player, telling her to shut the fuck up. She told him he could suck her dick. That shut him up.
She was prancing around from foot to foot in front of the elevator, waiting for it to open so it could take her to the top floor. She felt like she had taken speed. And coke. Or crack. Some lethal combination of all three. She couldn't stop moving, she had so much adrenaline pumping. She hopped around, hugging the jewelry box to her chest. Finally, the elevator opened up.
But it wasn't empty.
“What the fuck are you doing!? We can hear you all the way upstairs!” Jameson snapped. She glared at him.
“Then what the fuck took you so long to come down here!?” she snapped back.
“Are you fucking serious right now!?” he exclaimed.
“Are you fucking serious!?”
“You're fucking crazy, you know that, right!? Goddamn psychotic!” he yelled at her. The elevator started to close and he slammed his palm against a door, causing it to open again.
“Oh yeah!?” she yelled back. “Well if I'm fucking psychotic, it's because you made me this way!”
“Tatum!” he snapped her name through clenched teeth.
“What!?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
She fell on him, throwing her arms around his neck. He moved backwards with her weight, and they fell against the back wall of the elevator. The jewelry box fell between them, smacking her on the foot as it hit the floor. The elevator doors slid shut behind them.
“Sorry, sorry,” she breathed, resting against him at an awkward angle. He yanked her upright, standing her on her feet. She pushed away from his chest, straightening out her dress.
“Where the fuck are your shoes?” he asked, staring down at her feet. She stared down, too, taking in both their barefeet. She smiled. Just like that first time, in his house.
“In the hall,” she replied. “Where's your hat?”
“In my hotel room. Tatum. What the fuck are you doing?” he asked.
“I opened your present,” she told him. He raised his eyebrows.
“Oh really. How – what did you say? - magnanimous of you,” he said snidely. She snorted.
“I know, right? What a fuckin' ugly necklace, Kane. I came up here to give it back. Can you hit the floor for the lobby? I'm in the middle of a party,” she told him.
“Noooo, I think you're done with your party,” he replied.
“Oh really? What makes you think that?” she asked.
“That look in your eye.”
“What look?”
“That look that says you really want to be fucked,” he told her. She laughed.
“And you think you can do something about that?” she asked. He nodded and leaned around her, but he didn't hit the lobby button. He hit the button for his floor.
“I think I'm the only one who can do someting about it,” he replied.
“I don't know how my date would feel about that,” she wondered out loud.
“I don't give a fuck.”
She grabbed him by his shirt and yanked him forward. They stumbled backwards, her back ramming into the elevator doors. She moaned against his lips, their tongues swirling around each other. His fingers dug into her hips, holding her against him, and then he wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her so tightly she could barely breathe.
“Don't leave me again,” he whispered, tracing his tongue along her bottom lip. She shook her head.
“I won't. I promise,” she whispered back, combing her fingers through his thick hair.
“Your promises haven't worked out so well for me,” he growled, his mouth against her neck.
“We'll have to work on that,” she replied.
