It wasn't fair. She should be upset. She was the one people looked at funny, like she was crazy. She was the one who spent a week in a hospital. She was the one who got ripped in half. Jameson was still in one piece. He wasn't allowed to feel upset. It wasn't fair.
So why do I want to make him feel better!?
Those were the thoughts Tate didn't like, the confusing ones. Sure, it was all a game, and she knew she should be rejoicing in the fact that she had gotten to him. If Jameson was actually upset, to the point of showing it, then he cared. That meant when she won his game, he might be ripped in half a little, as well. Finally. Happy days! She hadn't even had to try that hard, and her goal had been achieved.
So how come all of a sudden, none of that seemed so important anymore?
In fact, it all kind of made her feel sick.
“Jameson,” Tate sighed, feeling very tired of their game. “Maybe we should just stop -,”
“Do you remember the maid outfit?” he interrupted. She looked over at him.
“Excuse me?”
“That maid outfit you wore. Remember?” he asked.
Oh, their little games. She had bitched about doing her own laundry. Sanders did Jameson's clothing, but refused to touch hers. Bras and panties gave him the vapors. Tate hated to do laundry. Jameson had made a deal with her. If she could go a whole day without touching him, he would hire someone to dry clean all of her clothing, every day. If she lost, she had to be his personal maid for a whole day, and clean whatever he wanted. Seemed like an easy win.
Wrong. Not only had it been the warmest day in September, the sun blistering hot, but he had just gotten back from a business trip. Tate had wound up watching him sunbathe, nude, while he told her all about a particularly steamy encounter he'd had with a waitress in a bathroom at Tavern on the Green. Tate didn't even make it through ten minutes of him talking before she was on top of him. All over him.
He came home the next day with a slutty maid costume in tow. She hadn't expected it to last long, but Jameson had stronger will power than she did. Tate wound up cleaning the whole bottom half of the house before he ripped the outfit off of her.
Fun times.
“I had forgotten about that,” she laughed softly.
“I could never forget that day.”
“Why are you doing this?” Tate asked, glancing at him. Jameson kept staring ahead, but he reached out and pushed some buttons. Pulled some levers. The boat slowed, came to a stop.
“Because I want you to remember.”
“Remember what?”
“That things used to be good between us. They used to be fun,” he told her. “Remember that sometimes, just maybe sometimes, I wasn't the devil.”
She took a deep breath and stared out over the ocean.
“All I remember is a swimming pool,” she whispered.
“Excuse me?”
“This isn't going to work, Jameson,” she blurted out, suddenly jumping out of her seat. He looked totally caught off guard.
“Huh?”
“This. You can't just ..., bombard me with old, sexy memories, and ..., what? Ooohhh, swoon, I fall all over you? It doesn't work like that!” she snapped at him. He stood up as well.
“Then tell me how it does work, Tate. Because obviously nothing I'm doing is working,” he replied, standing close to her.
“But that's just it! There's nothing you can do. You ruined it, and now it's over. Do you really want to go another three weeks, just to hear that? It's over, Jameson. It's over,” she stressed. He stared down his nose at her.
“See, if I believed you, I would agree. It would be a waste of time. But you're still such a horrible liar, Tate. Things will never be over between us,” his voice was soft.
She let out a frustrated yell and stomped out of the wheelhouse. Stomped downstairs, all the way back into her bedroom. She didn't want to hear anything else he had to say. Fuck him. Fuck Jameson Kane. She hated him.
Hate it when he's right.
Of course, Tate knew that; somewhere, deep in her brain, she had always known that things weren't over between them. Which was why she had been a nervous wreck for the last two months. Her subconscious had known it wasn't over, and had just been waiting for him. Had always known it. Had known it the first time they parted ways. Had known it the second time. When would conscious-Tate clue in to the fact?
Pool. You were in a pool. He brought her into your home. Brought her between you. Didn't care. He does not care.
She grabbed her purse and steamed back out onto the deck. As she was digging something out, she saw Jameson coming down the stairs, so she scooted away, made her way to the bow of the boat. There was only so far she could go to get away from him – they were in the middle of the ocean, and none of the bedroom doors had locks.
No escape. Well played, Mr. Kane. Well played.
“You better leave me the fuck alone,” Tate yelled when she heard him approaching. “I need this right now.”
She lit up the cigarette and took a deep, deep drag. Closed her eyes and slowly exhaled. There. That burning sensation in her lungs, that's what she wanted. Smoking was still new to Tate. She didn't do it because she craved it, or because she liked it. She did it because it hurt a little, every time she inhaled.
Something is so very wrong with me.
“Tatum. Put out the cigarette and come talk to me,” Jameson ordered. She laughed and turned towards him.
“What's the point? You never listen. How about you have a conversation with yourself, then just answer the way you want me to answer, and we'll call it good,” she hissed, moving past him.
So why do I want to make him feel better!?
Those were the thoughts Tate didn't like, the confusing ones. Sure, it was all a game, and she knew she should be rejoicing in the fact that she had gotten to him. If Jameson was actually upset, to the point of showing it, then he cared. That meant when she won his game, he might be ripped in half a little, as well. Finally. Happy days! She hadn't even had to try that hard, and her goal had been achieved.
So how come all of a sudden, none of that seemed so important anymore?
In fact, it all kind of made her feel sick.
“Jameson,” Tate sighed, feeling very tired of their game. “Maybe we should just stop -,”
“Do you remember the maid outfit?” he interrupted. She looked over at him.
“Excuse me?”
“That maid outfit you wore. Remember?” he asked.
Oh, their little games. She had bitched about doing her own laundry. Sanders did Jameson's clothing, but refused to touch hers. Bras and panties gave him the vapors. Tate hated to do laundry. Jameson had made a deal with her. If she could go a whole day without touching him, he would hire someone to dry clean all of her clothing, every day. If she lost, she had to be his personal maid for a whole day, and clean whatever he wanted. Seemed like an easy win.
Wrong. Not only had it been the warmest day in September, the sun blistering hot, but he had just gotten back from a business trip. Tate had wound up watching him sunbathe, nude, while he told her all about a particularly steamy encounter he'd had with a waitress in a bathroom at Tavern on the Green. Tate didn't even make it through ten minutes of him talking before she was on top of him. All over him.
He came home the next day with a slutty maid costume in tow. She hadn't expected it to last long, but Jameson had stronger will power than she did. Tate wound up cleaning the whole bottom half of the house before he ripped the outfit off of her.
Fun times.
“I had forgotten about that,” she laughed softly.
“I could never forget that day.”
“Why are you doing this?” Tate asked, glancing at him. Jameson kept staring ahead, but he reached out and pushed some buttons. Pulled some levers. The boat slowed, came to a stop.
“Because I want you to remember.”
“Remember what?”
“That things used to be good between us. They used to be fun,” he told her. “Remember that sometimes, just maybe sometimes, I wasn't the devil.”
She took a deep breath and stared out over the ocean.
“All I remember is a swimming pool,” she whispered.
“Excuse me?”
“This isn't going to work, Jameson,” she blurted out, suddenly jumping out of her seat. He looked totally caught off guard.
“Huh?”
“This. You can't just ..., bombard me with old, sexy memories, and ..., what? Ooohhh, swoon, I fall all over you? It doesn't work like that!” she snapped at him. He stood up as well.
“Then tell me how it does work, Tate. Because obviously nothing I'm doing is working,” he replied, standing close to her.
“But that's just it! There's nothing you can do. You ruined it, and now it's over. Do you really want to go another three weeks, just to hear that? It's over, Jameson. It's over,” she stressed. He stared down his nose at her.
“See, if I believed you, I would agree. It would be a waste of time. But you're still such a horrible liar, Tate. Things will never be over between us,” his voice was soft.
She let out a frustrated yell and stomped out of the wheelhouse. Stomped downstairs, all the way back into her bedroom. She didn't want to hear anything else he had to say. Fuck him. Fuck Jameson Kane. She hated him.
Hate it when he's right.
Of course, Tate knew that; somewhere, deep in her brain, she had always known that things weren't over between them. Which was why she had been a nervous wreck for the last two months. Her subconscious had known it wasn't over, and had just been waiting for him. Had always known it. Had known it the first time they parted ways. Had known it the second time. When would conscious-Tate clue in to the fact?
Pool. You were in a pool. He brought her into your home. Brought her between you. Didn't care. He does not care.
She grabbed her purse and steamed back out onto the deck. As she was digging something out, she saw Jameson coming down the stairs, so she scooted away, made her way to the bow of the boat. There was only so far she could go to get away from him – they were in the middle of the ocean, and none of the bedroom doors had locks.
No escape. Well played, Mr. Kane. Well played.
“You better leave me the fuck alone,” Tate yelled when she heard him approaching. “I need this right now.”
She lit up the cigarette and took a deep, deep drag. Closed her eyes and slowly exhaled. There. That burning sensation in her lungs, that's what she wanted. Smoking was still new to Tate. She didn't do it because she craved it, or because she liked it. She did it because it hurt a little, every time she inhaled.
Something is so very wrong with me.
“Tatum. Put out the cigarette and come talk to me,” Jameson ordered. She laughed and turned towards him.
“What's the point? You never listen. How about you have a conversation with yourself, then just answer the way you want me to answer, and we'll call it good,” she hissed, moving past him.
