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Page 8
“What the fuck, Jameson!? Would you like it if I called your work and arranged for you to have time off behind your back?” she demanded. He laughed at her.
“That wouldn't work, my secretary would never listen to you.”
“This isn't right, and you know it. You don't get to do something like this,” she snapped.
“Well, your business is half mine. I could just close it down.”
Fucker.
“I knew it,” Tate hissed, pulling herself to her feet. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you threw that in my face.”
“Tate, calm down and just listen to me,” Jameson sighed.
“Why? What's the point? Whether I listen or not, you're just gonna make me do whatever you want, so let's just cut out the bullshit,” she said, wrapping a towel around her body.
“Watch your mouth,” he replied quickly. She glared at him.
“You watch it. So where are you dragging me to now!?” she asked, stomping out of the bathroom.
“It won't be for that long, Tate, so just calm the fuck down,” Jameson called after her. She rolled her eyes and made her way into their closet.
“I don't care. This is shitty. Where are we going?” she repeated the question. He finally followed after her.
“Hong Kong.”
“Hong Kong!?”
“Did I stutter?”
“For how long!?”
“One week, maybe longer,” he answered her. Tate groaned, grabbing one of his old t-shirts out of a drawer.
“Maybe longer? Why not just make it a month, seeing as how I'm not even needed here to help run your business,” she grumbled, letting her towel drop to the ground before yanking the shirt over her head.
“You can shut the fuck up any time now,” he offered.
“You shut up. When are we leaving?” she refused to look at him as she wiggled into a pair of yoga pants.
“In about two hours.”
“Two hours!?”
“Yes. So you better start packing.”
“You fucking pack. I didn't know about this trip, I didn't plan this trip, I don't want go on this trip, so you know what? I'm gonna keep on with the trend and not have anything to do with this trip,” she informed him, then went to stomp out of the room. Jameson grabbed her arm, stopping her in her tracks.
“You better change your fucking attitude. Whether you like it or not, we're getting on a plane soon, and I don't wanna spend the next twenty-four hours dealing with your shit,” he warned her. She smiled sweetly at him.
“Oh, you'll spend a lot longer than twenty-four hours dealing with it.”
Then she yanked away and stormed into the bedroom.
Tate didn't have to pack. She wrapped herself into a blanket burrito and stayed like that, listening while Sanders packed a bag for her. She felt kinda bad, but she also knew that he had to be in on the trip – he was going, after all. And she didn't like surprises. Not like that, not ones that underminded her as a business owner and a boss.
She made one last valiant attempt to refuse to go, but Jameson just picked her up, blanket burrito and all, and carried her out to the car. Before she could work up the energy to seriously be a bitch, they were at the airfield, loading their belongings onto the plane. A private plane; Jameson had finally bought one. Mostly for her – what with Ang's career exploding, he couldn't really visit whenever he wanted, so Tate was flying out to L.A. and Vegas all the time. Eventually, Jameson decided it would be more economical to just buy a plane and give her free use of it.
She decided not to think about that little fact as she made herself comfortable on a couch. He sat down next to her, taking off his jacket while the plane took off.
“You've been suspiciously quiet,” he commented, looking down at her.
“I can get loud if you want,” she offered. He chuckled.
“No, thank you. I'm surprised you're this uppity. I thought you'd be wrecked with a hangover this morning,” he pointed out.
“No such luck,” Tate sighed. She was actually pretty sure she might have still been just a little bit drunk. But she wasn't going to tell him that.
“Good. I hate dealing with you when you're ill.”
“The feeling is entirely mutual. And I'm not hungover, so don't worry about it.”
“I won't.”
*
Two hours later, Tate felt like she was going to die. She panted for air, resting her back against a wall. Jameson chuckled.
“Done?” he asked. She licked her lips, letting her eyes droop shut.
“You make this worse, I hope you know.”
“I could leave,” he offered.
“Could you!?” she snapped back.
Jameson started to stand up, but at the same time Tate felt her stomach dip to the left and she grabbed onto his pant leg. He didn't move, and when she lurched forward to stick her head over the toilet, he sat back down. Gently gathered all her hair and held it at the back of her head.
“The things I do for you, baby girl,” he sighed as she dry heaved and gagged into the toilet.
“God, I have never felt this bad. I just want it to stop,” Tate begged, bracing one hand against the toilet tank. Jameson used his free hand to rub her shoulders.
“Want something to drink?”
“No, I'll just puke it up.”
“Better than stomach acid.”
“Will you make fun of me if I start crying?” she asked, taking deep breaths as she felt another wave of nausea roll through her stomach.
“That wouldn't work, my secretary would never listen to you.”
“This isn't right, and you know it. You don't get to do something like this,” she snapped.
“Well, your business is half mine. I could just close it down.”
Fucker.
“I knew it,” Tate hissed, pulling herself to her feet. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you threw that in my face.”
“Tate, calm down and just listen to me,” Jameson sighed.
“Why? What's the point? Whether I listen or not, you're just gonna make me do whatever you want, so let's just cut out the bullshit,” she said, wrapping a towel around her body.
“Watch your mouth,” he replied quickly. She glared at him.
“You watch it. So where are you dragging me to now!?” she asked, stomping out of the bathroom.
“It won't be for that long, Tate, so just calm the fuck down,” Jameson called after her. She rolled her eyes and made her way into their closet.
“I don't care. This is shitty. Where are we going?” she repeated the question. He finally followed after her.
“Hong Kong.”
“Hong Kong!?”
“Did I stutter?”
“For how long!?”
“One week, maybe longer,” he answered her. Tate groaned, grabbing one of his old t-shirts out of a drawer.
“Maybe longer? Why not just make it a month, seeing as how I'm not even needed here to help run your business,” she grumbled, letting her towel drop to the ground before yanking the shirt over her head.
“You can shut the fuck up any time now,” he offered.
“You shut up. When are we leaving?” she refused to look at him as she wiggled into a pair of yoga pants.
“In about two hours.”
“Two hours!?”
“Yes. So you better start packing.”
“You fucking pack. I didn't know about this trip, I didn't plan this trip, I don't want go on this trip, so you know what? I'm gonna keep on with the trend and not have anything to do with this trip,” she informed him, then went to stomp out of the room. Jameson grabbed her arm, stopping her in her tracks.
“You better change your fucking attitude. Whether you like it or not, we're getting on a plane soon, and I don't wanna spend the next twenty-four hours dealing with your shit,” he warned her. She smiled sweetly at him.
“Oh, you'll spend a lot longer than twenty-four hours dealing with it.”
Then she yanked away and stormed into the bedroom.
Tate didn't have to pack. She wrapped herself into a blanket burrito and stayed like that, listening while Sanders packed a bag for her. She felt kinda bad, but she also knew that he had to be in on the trip – he was going, after all. And she didn't like surprises. Not like that, not ones that underminded her as a business owner and a boss.
She made one last valiant attempt to refuse to go, but Jameson just picked her up, blanket burrito and all, and carried her out to the car. Before she could work up the energy to seriously be a bitch, they were at the airfield, loading their belongings onto the plane. A private plane; Jameson had finally bought one. Mostly for her – what with Ang's career exploding, he couldn't really visit whenever he wanted, so Tate was flying out to L.A. and Vegas all the time. Eventually, Jameson decided it would be more economical to just buy a plane and give her free use of it.
She decided not to think about that little fact as she made herself comfortable on a couch. He sat down next to her, taking off his jacket while the plane took off.
“You've been suspiciously quiet,” he commented, looking down at her.
“I can get loud if you want,” she offered. He chuckled.
“No, thank you. I'm surprised you're this uppity. I thought you'd be wrecked with a hangover this morning,” he pointed out.
“No such luck,” Tate sighed. She was actually pretty sure she might have still been just a little bit drunk. But she wasn't going to tell him that.
“Good. I hate dealing with you when you're ill.”
“The feeling is entirely mutual. And I'm not hungover, so don't worry about it.”
“I won't.”
*
Two hours later, Tate felt like she was going to die. She panted for air, resting her back against a wall. Jameson chuckled.
“Done?” he asked. She licked her lips, letting her eyes droop shut.
“You make this worse, I hope you know.”
“I could leave,” he offered.
“Could you!?” she snapped back.
Jameson started to stand up, but at the same time Tate felt her stomach dip to the left and she grabbed onto his pant leg. He didn't move, and when she lurched forward to stick her head over the toilet, he sat back down. Gently gathered all her hair and held it at the back of her head.
“The things I do for you, baby girl,” he sighed as she dry heaved and gagged into the toilet.
“God, I have never felt this bad. I just want it to stop,” Tate begged, bracing one hand against the toilet tank. Jameson used his free hand to rub her shoulders.
“Want something to drink?”
“No, I'll just puke it up.”
“Better than stomach acid.”
“Will you make fun of me if I start crying?” she asked, taking deep breaths as she felt another wave of nausea roll through her stomach.
