I don't care, as long as I'm with him ...
“Jameson,” she breathed, and she felt his muscles twitch. “Let's get through this trip, before we plan another one.”
It was evasive, but it was the best answer Tate could give him. Give her heart. She didn't know what she wanted anymore. Things were too blurry. Jameson said he wasn't playing games – maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe it was time for her to start believing him.
He started to lean backwards, forcing her onto her back as he twisted around to face her. He laid on top of her, his head on her breasts while her legs were still wrapped around him. She combed her fingers through his hair while she tried very hard not to cry.
Would it be so bad to just give in? Satan can be a very giving lord and master ...
“Whatever you want, Tatum. I'll do whatever you want.”
One tear escaped. Nice was always so much worse than mean.
Tate woke up some time in the middle of the night. There was shouting. The sound of something breaking. She propped herself up on her elbows, trying to wake all the way up. A light flicked on, and she saw Jameson, leaning up on one arm, his hand against a lamp. He was glaring at his bedroom door.
“What the fuck is that?” he grumbled.
“I don't know,” Tate replied.
There was a loud crash, followed by a shriek, and Jameson was out of the bed in a flash. He yanked on some underwear and a t-shirt before storming out of the room. With the door open, she could hear better, and could tell that one of the voices was Sanders. Was someone attacking Sanders!? Tate leapt out of the bed as well, ready to commit murder.
But she was still struggling to yank on one of Jameson's t-shirts – if she was going to kick ass, she wasn't going to do it naked – when she figured out who the other voice belonged to; realized the language they were speaking wasn't English. Wasn't Spanish. Russian. Jameson's voice came in above the fray, and from then on it was all German.
Tate sat down heavily on the bed, clasping her hands together. Her whole body was shaking with the effort of trying not to blow up. She glanced at the door, then stared at the wall. There was more shrieking. More German. Then finally, English.
“Oh, is it because she is here!?” Petrushka's voice yelled. Sanders answered in Russian. Jameson snapped in German. “No! This was my place, before it was ever hers! You are letting trash into my home, Kane. Garbage. I won't allow it!”
I hear you, bitch, loud and clear.
Tate found herself in the hallway before she even realized she was moving. Broken glass coated the living room floor. Sanders stood with his back to the hall. He was wearing a pajama set, and his normally perfectly styled hair was standing on end. Jameson was attempting to manhandle a very angry, wiry supermodel out the open front door. There was more cursing in German.
“I hear you,” Tate blurted out. Sanders whirled around, but no one else seemed to have heard her.
“Please, go back to bed, we have it under -,” he immediately started. She held up a hand.
“I can hear you,” she repeated herself, louder. Pet stopped thrashing around in Jameson's arms, long enough to find Tate and glare at her.
“Good. I want you to hear. I want this whole building to hear! There is garbage in this apartment! An American whore! An American whore, and a Russian peasant!” Pet was shouting, struggling against Jameson, swinging her arms at Tate like she thought she could hit her from that distance. Tate stepped in front of Sanders as if he had been shot at, wrapped her arm around him from behind her back.
“Talk to him like that again and I will end your career,” Tate threatened. As always, she was fair game. Jameson was fair. Sanders was on a different plane from mere mortals, and if that bitch-snake so much as looked at him again, Tate would rearrange her features.
“Everyone stop talking! Sanders! Call the goddamn front desk!” Jameson roared, and then he practically threw Pet into the hallway. She lurched forward, screaming in German, but he slammed the door in her face. Slid the bolt lock into place. Sanders scurried off to find a phone.
“What. THE FUCK. Was that?” Tate asked. Pet continued to beat on the door, screaming things in different languages. Jameson had his hands in his hair.
“That was fucking crazy. She does not like you,” Jameson replied.
“Whose fault is that? She doesn't even know me,” Tate snapped. He stared at her like she was crazy.
“You're mad at me?” he asked. She folded her arms.
“How did she know we were here, Jameson?” she asked back. He actually laughed.
“You're shitting me.”
“We've been at the boat, this whole time. She would've known that, after you weren't here last time. Why wouldn't she go to the boat? How the fuck did she know we were here?” Tate demanded.
“Oh, clever, clever girl, Tatum. You've figured out my master plan. I called Pet, asked her to break in to my home, attack Sanders, and destroy half my shit, all just to piss you off,” he replied, his voice soft. Easy. Scary.
“You are Satan,” she reminded him.
“Watch it, Tatum. I am not in the fucking mood,” Jameson warned her. The banging hadn't stopped and Tate groaned.
“Can you please shut your girlfriend up?” she snapped.
“I don't have a girlfriend.”
“I called security,” Sanders said, breathing hard as he hurried into the living room. Tate turned towards him, then gasped.
“Jameson,” she breathed, and she felt his muscles twitch. “Let's get through this trip, before we plan another one.”
It was evasive, but it was the best answer Tate could give him. Give her heart. She didn't know what she wanted anymore. Things were too blurry. Jameson said he wasn't playing games – maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe it was time for her to start believing him.
He started to lean backwards, forcing her onto her back as he twisted around to face her. He laid on top of her, his head on her breasts while her legs were still wrapped around him. She combed her fingers through his hair while she tried very hard not to cry.
Would it be so bad to just give in? Satan can be a very giving lord and master ...
“Whatever you want, Tatum. I'll do whatever you want.”
One tear escaped. Nice was always so much worse than mean.
Tate woke up some time in the middle of the night. There was shouting. The sound of something breaking. She propped herself up on her elbows, trying to wake all the way up. A light flicked on, and she saw Jameson, leaning up on one arm, his hand against a lamp. He was glaring at his bedroom door.
“What the fuck is that?” he grumbled.
“I don't know,” Tate replied.
There was a loud crash, followed by a shriek, and Jameson was out of the bed in a flash. He yanked on some underwear and a t-shirt before storming out of the room. With the door open, she could hear better, and could tell that one of the voices was Sanders. Was someone attacking Sanders!? Tate leapt out of the bed as well, ready to commit murder.
But she was still struggling to yank on one of Jameson's t-shirts – if she was going to kick ass, she wasn't going to do it naked – when she figured out who the other voice belonged to; realized the language they were speaking wasn't English. Wasn't Spanish. Russian. Jameson's voice came in above the fray, and from then on it was all German.
Tate sat down heavily on the bed, clasping her hands together. Her whole body was shaking with the effort of trying not to blow up. She glanced at the door, then stared at the wall. There was more shrieking. More German. Then finally, English.
“Oh, is it because she is here!?” Petrushka's voice yelled. Sanders answered in Russian. Jameson snapped in German. “No! This was my place, before it was ever hers! You are letting trash into my home, Kane. Garbage. I won't allow it!”
I hear you, bitch, loud and clear.
Tate found herself in the hallway before she even realized she was moving. Broken glass coated the living room floor. Sanders stood with his back to the hall. He was wearing a pajama set, and his normally perfectly styled hair was standing on end. Jameson was attempting to manhandle a very angry, wiry supermodel out the open front door. There was more cursing in German.
“I hear you,” Tate blurted out. Sanders whirled around, but no one else seemed to have heard her.
“Please, go back to bed, we have it under -,” he immediately started. She held up a hand.
“I can hear you,” she repeated herself, louder. Pet stopped thrashing around in Jameson's arms, long enough to find Tate and glare at her.
“Good. I want you to hear. I want this whole building to hear! There is garbage in this apartment! An American whore! An American whore, and a Russian peasant!” Pet was shouting, struggling against Jameson, swinging her arms at Tate like she thought she could hit her from that distance. Tate stepped in front of Sanders as if he had been shot at, wrapped her arm around him from behind her back.
“Talk to him like that again and I will end your career,” Tate threatened. As always, she was fair game. Jameson was fair. Sanders was on a different plane from mere mortals, and if that bitch-snake so much as looked at him again, Tate would rearrange her features.
“Everyone stop talking! Sanders! Call the goddamn front desk!” Jameson roared, and then he practically threw Pet into the hallway. She lurched forward, screaming in German, but he slammed the door in her face. Slid the bolt lock into place. Sanders scurried off to find a phone.
“What. THE FUCK. Was that?” Tate asked. Pet continued to beat on the door, screaming things in different languages. Jameson had his hands in his hair.
“That was fucking crazy. She does not like you,” Jameson replied.
“Whose fault is that? She doesn't even know me,” Tate snapped. He stared at her like she was crazy.
“You're mad at me?” he asked. She folded her arms.
“How did she know we were here, Jameson?” she asked back. He actually laughed.
“You're shitting me.”
“We've been at the boat, this whole time. She would've known that, after you weren't here last time. Why wouldn't she go to the boat? How the fuck did she know we were here?” Tate demanded.
“Oh, clever, clever girl, Tatum. You've figured out my master plan. I called Pet, asked her to break in to my home, attack Sanders, and destroy half my shit, all just to piss you off,” he replied, his voice soft. Easy. Scary.
“You are Satan,” she reminded him.
“Watch it, Tatum. I am not in the fucking mood,” Jameson warned her. The banging hadn't stopped and Tate groaned.
“Can you please shut your girlfriend up?” she snapped.
“I don't have a girlfriend.”
“I called security,” Sanders said, breathing hard as he hurried into the living room. Tate turned towards him, then gasped.
