Degradation
Page 52
“Have you spoken to Tate?” Jameson asked, looking over some newspapers.
“What? No. Should I have?” Sanders asked, sounding surprised. Jameson had thought maybe she would have called him – the two had a developed a weird sort of camaraderie, made weirder by the fact that Sanders hardly ever spoke. But it was obvious he liked her, enjoyed her company.
“No. Give me your phone,” Jameson said, holding out his hand. Sanders marched in to the room and handed over his cell phone. It was four o'clock in L.A., which meant evening in Boston.
“Is everything alright?” he asked. Jameson nodded, dialing Tate's phone number. She answered on the fourth ring.
“Guten Abend, haben Sie die voicemail-box erreicht -,” her voice started prattling in German.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he interrupted.
“Jameson?” her voice laughed.
“Yes. I didn't know you spoke German,” he said.
“I don't, I only know that line. Did you get a new phone?”
“No, I'm using Sanders' phone. Why did you answer in German?”
“I always do that, when it's an unknown number,” she told him.
“That's ridiculous,” he snapped.
“Aw, you miss me, don't you? That's why you're whispering sweet-nothings in my ear,” she teased.
I do miss her.
“Don't be stupid. What are you doing?” he asked, getting out of his chair and heading out onto the balcony.
“Watching a movie with Ang,” she replied.
They made up fast.
Jameson wasn't as immune to Ang as he liked to pretend. She was right, he was jealous. When she had kissed Ang, Jameson had nearly lost it. And then when he had gone back in to the apartment, heard the way Ang was talking to her, it had taken everything he had not to destroy the younger man. He had wanted to beat Ang in to the ground. Jameson could talk to Tate that way, but no one else could. Only him.
Scary thought.
“Are you sure you're just watching a movie?” he asked, running his hand along the railing. She laughed.
“I don't know, let me check. Ang, are we watching a movie or having sex?” her voice went away from the phone.
“Definitely fucking,” came a reply from far away. There was some muffled smacking noises and Tate laughed, back to the phone again.
“He's lying. We're watching 'The Emperor's New Groove',” she explained.
“The Disney movie?” Jameson asked, his eyebrows scrunching together
“Mmm hmmm.”
“Why are you watching cartoons?”
“Because I like them. And we're really stoned,” she told him. He groaned.
“Jesus. This is why I can't leave you alone,” he grumbled in to the phone.
“Then maybe you shouldn't,” was her husky reply. Jameson paused for a long time, and could hear her get up. Move around. Go to somewhere quiet.
“I can't take you everywhere with me,” he told her in a low voice.
“No. But you don't have to leave so much, either,” she replied. He smiled.
“I think you miss me, Tate,” he teased back. She snorted.
“I miss parts of your anatomy. When are you coming home?” she demanded.
Liar.
“Two days. Think you can wait that long?” he asked. She laughed.
“Probably not. I'm about to start humping inanimate objects.”
“God, you're crude. Filthy. I'm going to fuck you so hard when I get home,” he laughed.
“Promises, promises,” Tate sang.
“Two days. Be at my place, at one o'clock. Bring a bathing suit,” he instructed.
“Seriously?”
“Why do you make me repeat myself?”
“Two days. One o'clock. Bathing suit. You got it, boss.”
Jameson didn't say goodbye, just hung up the phone. Hearing her voice made him happy. Seven years ago, if anyone had asked him if he thought he'd ever see Tatum again, he would have said no. And now he was sleeping with her on a regular basis, and hanging on her words. Stupid, stupid man.
“Sanders,” he snapped out, heading back in to the room.
“Yes?” the other man responded, taking his phone back when Jameson held it out.
“Call Dunn. Call the other associates. Call my lawyers. We're going to be having a get together when I get home. Food and drinks around the pool, weather permitting,” he said. Sanders looked surprised.
“I'm sorry. We're having ..., what?” he asked. Jameson laughed.
“Ms. O'Shea seems to think she's my dirty little secret. We're going to prove to her that she's not,” Jameson explained. Sanders stared at him for a minute.
“You really like her, don't you?” he asked. Jameson's laugh died away.
“You know I hate those kinds of questions. Now get to work.”
“Alright, I'll call everyone and find a place to take care of the details. What about your arrangement for this evening, the Harmon sisters?” Sanders asked, picking up an appointment book and opening it.
“What about it?” Jameson asked, striding over to his closet and rummaging through his clothing.
“Do you want to cancel?” Sanders continued.
“Why the fuck would I want to do that?” Jameson blurted out, turning around. Sanders shrugged.
“Your phone call just now, the party. I thought maybe -,” he started.
“What? No. Should I have?” Sanders asked, sounding surprised. Jameson had thought maybe she would have called him – the two had a developed a weird sort of camaraderie, made weirder by the fact that Sanders hardly ever spoke. But it was obvious he liked her, enjoyed her company.
“No. Give me your phone,” Jameson said, holding out his hand. Sanders marched in to the room and handed over his cell phone. It was four o'clock in L.A., which meant evening in Boston.
“Is everything alright?” he asked. Jameson nodded, dialing Tate's phone number. She answered on the fourth ring.
“Guten Abend, haben Sie die voicemail-box erreicht -,” her voice started prattling in German.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he interrupted.
“Jameson?” her voice laughed.
“Yes. I didn't know you spoke German,” he said.
“I don't, I only know that line. Did you get a new phone?”
“No, I'm using Sanders' phone. Why did you answer in German?”
“I always do that, when it's an unknown number,” she told him.
“That's ridiculous,” he snapped.
“Aw, you miss me, don't you? That's why you're whispering sweet-nothings in my ear,” she teased.
I do miss her.
“Don't be stupid. What are you doing?” he asked, getting out of his chair and heading out onto the balcony.
“Watching a movie with Ang,” she replied.
They made up fast.
Jameson wasn't as immune to Ang as he liked to pretend. She was right, he was jealous. When she had kissed Ang, Jameson had nearly lost it. And then when he had gone back in to the apartment, heard the way Ang was talking to her, it had taken everything he had not to destroy the younger man. He had wanted to beat Ang in to the ground. Jameson could talk to Tate that way, but no one else could. Only him.
Scary thought.
“Are you sure you're just watching a movie?” he asked, running his hand along the railing. She laughed.
“I don't know, let me check. Ang, are we watching a movie or having sex?” her voice went away from the phone.
“Definitely fucking,” came a reply from far away. There was some muffled smacking noises and Tate laughed, back to the phone again.
“He's lying. We're watching 'The Emperor's New Groove',” she explained.
“The Disney movie?” Jameson asked, his eyebrows scrunching together
“Mmm hmmm.”
“Why are you watching cartoons?”
“Because I like them. And we're really stoned,” she told him. He groaned.
“Jesus. This is why I can't leave you alone,” he grumbled in to the phone.
“Then maybe you shouldn't,” was her husky reply. Jameson paused for a long time, and could hear her get up. Move around. Go to somewhere quiet.
“I can't take you everywhere with me,” he told her in a low voice.
“No. But you don't have to leave so much, either,” she replied. He smiled.
“I think you miss me, Tate,” he teased back. She snorted.
“I miss parts of your anatomy. When are you coming home?” she demanded.
Liar.
“Two days. Think you can wait that long?” he asked. She laughed.
“Probably not. I'm about to start humping inanimate objects.”
“God, you're crude. Filthy. I'm going to fuck you so hard when I get home,” he laughed.
“Promises, promises,” Tate sang.
“Two days. Be at my place, at one o'clock. Bring a bathing suit,” he instructed.
“Seriously?”
“Why do you make me repeat myself?”
“Two days. One o'clock. Bathing suit. You got it, boss.”
Jameson didn't say goodbye, just hung up the phone. Hearing her voice made him happy. Seven years ago, if anyone had asked him if he thought he'd ever see Tatum again, he would have said no. And now he was sleeping with her on a regular basis, and hanging on her words. Stupid, stupid man.
“Sanders,” he snapped out, heading back in to the room.
“Yes?” the other man responded, taking his phone back when Jameson held it out.
“Call Dunn. Call the other associates. Call my lawyers. We're going to be having a get together when I get home. Food and drinks around the pool, weather permitting,” he said. Sanders looked surprised.
“I'm sorry. We're having ..., what?” he asked. Jameson laughed.
“Ms. O'Shea seems to think she's my dirty little secret. We're going to prove to her that she's not,” Jameson explained. Sanders stared at him for a minute.
“You really like her, don't you?” he asked. Jameson's laugh died away.
“You know I hate those kinds of questions. Now get to work.”
“Alright, I'll call everyone and find a place to take care of the details. What about your arrangement for this evening, the Harmon sisters?” Sanders asked, picking up an appointment book and opening it.
“What about it?” Jameson asked, striding over to his closet and rummaging through his clothing.
“Do you want to cancel?” Sanders continued.
“Why the fuck would I want to do that?” Jameson blurted out, turning around. Sanders shrugged.
“Your phone call just now, the party. I thought maybe -,” he started.
