Degradation
Page 56
“Jameson Kane doesn't care about anyone but himself,” she snorted. She had to say things like that; she had to remind herself.
“I have seen a lot of women come through his life,” Sanders' voice was quiet, almost soft. She stared at him. “But he has never treated anyone the way he treats you. He used to talk about you, you know. A long time ago, when he would drink. He would mention your name, mention that he wondered what you were doing, where you were. He cares.”
He stressed the last words, and Tate almost felt like tearing up. Who knew Sanders could be so passionate? And about her, of all people. For him to tell her these things, these obvious secrets, it meant a lot, on so many different levels. He really wanted her to know, Jameson cared about her.
She had told herself so many times that it wasn't a possibility, Jameson Kane would never truly care about her. Would never feel anything for her beyond desire. Maybe there was hope ..., no. She didn't want to believe it. Satan didn't have feelings, and if she began to think he did, he would eat her soul – what little she had left to give.
“You're very sweet, Sandy,” she chuckled in a low voice, “but I think we both know that's not true.”
“What's not true?”
Jameson's voice boomed in the doorway. He strode in to the room, not looking very happy. He glared at both of them, crossing his arms over his chest as he came to a stop at the front of the island. Tate toasted him with her bottle before taking another drink. Sanders stood up straighter.
“Did you need something?” he asked.
“No. You can leave,” Jameson told him. Sanders nodded.
“I'll be in the guest house. Ms. O'Shea,” he said, and both Jameson and Tate looked at Sanders. “Please think about what I said, very seriously.”
“What the fuck is he going on about?” Jameson demanded while Sanders walked out of the room. Tate shrugged.
“Sandy is an old soul in a young body, his riddles are too deep for us to understand,” she joked. Jameson glared at her.
“I've been looking everywhere for you. What were you two talking about in here?” he asked. She laughed.
“Your friend, Dunn,” she replied.
“Dunn? What about Dunn?”
“He seems to have gotten the impression that I'm a prostitute,” Tate said. Jameson got very still, his eyes turning to ice.
Sanders must have learned that trick from him.
“What are you talking about?” Jameson asked in a low voice.
“He cornered me in the library, was being a super creep, hitting on me, telling me he could afford whatever you were paying, blah blah blah. Sandy came in and saved me,” Tate explained.
“Are you serious right now?”
“Yup. Great friends, Jameson. Maybe keep our little game more on the down low, though. Unless you want me to sleep with your friends, which in that case, we could set up -,”
Jameson slammed his hand down on the island, causing her to jump.
“Fuck no, I don't want you sleeping with my friends. I can't fucking believe he did that, in my own house. I'm going to go in there and rip his fucking head off,” Jameson swore. She laid her hand on his arm, before he could move.
“It's over, it's done with, not a big deal. Sandy gave him some of that magical freezer burn treatment, and the guy nearly pissed himself when we told him we were gonna tell on him, so it's cool. We're good,” she assured him.
“It is not cool, and we are not good,” Jameson growled.
“If you don't want your friends treating me like a whore, maybe don't mention that you offered to pay me,” she suggested.
“I didn't, I made a joke,” he said. She rolled her eyes.
“Yes, and men are retarded assholes. You make a joke like that and he looks at my tits, and it's one-plus-one equals whore,” she explained, and Jameson finally laughed.
“I wish I had gone to that school,” he chuckled, running his hand through his hair.
“It's really not a big deal, Jameson. Don't go freaking out. He's business. I'm pleasure. We'll keep it separate from now on,” Tate suggested. He nodded.
“Looks like neither of our little games worked out. Our worlds don't seem to mesh so well,” he pointed out. She nodded.
“We seem to have assholes for friends.”
“God, what does that say about us?”
“We're asshole royalty.”
“King and Queen of the Assholes?”
“Totally.”
They both cracked up after that – it was too far in to the realm of ridiculous for Jameson, and the fact that he had kept it going made her laugh, as well. He pulled the Jack Daniel's bottle close and took a drink as well. He made a face as he passed it back to her.
“How you drink that shit, I'll never know,” he grumbled.
“When you're just poor, white, trash, you don't exactly go straight for the Johnny Walker Blue Label,” Tate laughed.
“I have some, we could be drinking that instead,” he offered.
“Nah, I like to stay true to my roots,” she joked, taking a healthy swig of the whiskey. He was silent for a moment, staring across the room. Sounds from the party drifted in to the kitchen. Jameson scowled.
“I can't fucking believe Dunn did that,” he grumbled, staring out the kitchen door.
“He said you've shared girls before,” she told him. He glanced at her.
“I have seen a lot of women come through his life,” Sanders' voice was quiet, almost soft. She stared at him. “But he has never treated anyone the way he treats you. He used to talk about you, you know. A long time ago, when he would drink. He would mention your name, mention that he wondered what you were doing, where you were. He cares.”
He stressed the last words, and Tate almost felt like tearing up. Who knew Sanders could be so passionate? And about her, of all people. For him to tell her these things, these obvious secrets, it meant a lot, on so many different levels. He really wanted her to know, Jameson cared about her.
She had told herself so many times that it wasn't a possibility, Jameson Kane would never truly care about her. Would never feel anything for her beyond desire. Maybe there was hope ..., no. She didn't want to believe it. Satan didn't have feelings, and if she began to think he did, he would eat her soul – what little she had left to give.
“You're very sweet, Sandy,” she chuckled in a low voice, “but I think we both know that's not true.”
“What's not true?”
Jameson's voice boomed in the doorway. He strode in to the room, not looking very happy. He glared at both of them, crossing his arms over his chest as he came to a stop at the front of the island. Tate toasted him with her bottle before taking another drink. Sanders stood up straighter.
“Did you need something?” he asked.
“No. You can leave,” Jameson told him. Sanders nodded.
“I'll be in the guest house. Ms. O'Shea,” he said, and both Jameson and Tate looked at Sanders. “Please think about what I said, very seriously.”
“What the fuck is he going on about?” Jameson demanded while Sanders walked out of the room. Tate shrugged.
“Sandy is an old soul in a young body, his riddles are too deep for us to understand,” she joked. Jameson glared at her.
“I've been looking everywhere for you. What were you two talking about in here?” he asked. She laughed.
“Your friend, Dunn,” she replied.
“Dunn? What about Dunn?”
“He seems to have gotten the impression that I'm a prostitute,” Tate said. Jameson got very still, his eyes turning to ice.
Sanders must have learned that trick from him.
“What are you talking about?” Jameson asked in a low voice.
“He cornered me in the library, was being a super creep, hitting on me, telling me he could afford whatever you were paying, blah blah blah. Sandy came in and saved me,” Tate explained.
“Are you serious right now?”
“Yup. Great friends, Jameson. Maybe keep our little game more on the down low, though. Unless you want me to sleep with your friends, which in that case, we could set up -,”
Jameson slammed his hand down on the island, causing her to jump.
“Fuck no, I don't want you sleeping with my friends. I can't fucking believe he did that, in my own house. I'm going to go in there and rip his fucking head off,” Jameson swore. She laid her hand on his arm, before he could move.
“It's over, it's done with, not a big deal. Sandy gave him some of that magical freezer burn treatment, and the guy nearly pissed himself when we told him we were gonna tell on him, so it's cool. We're good,” she assured him.
“It is not cool, and we are not good,” Jameson growled.
“If you don't want your friends treating me like a whore, maybe don't mention that you offered to pay me,” she suggested.
“I didn't, I made a joke,” he said. She rolled her eyes.
“Yes, and men are retarded assholes. You make a joke like that and he looks at my tits, and it's one-plus-one equals whore,” she explained, and Jameson finally laughed.
“I wish I had gone to that school,” he chuckled, running his hand through his hair.
“It's really not a big deal, Jameson. Don't go freaking out. He's business. I'm pleasure. We'll keep it separate from now on,” Tate suggested. He nodded.
“Looks like neither of our little games worked out. Our worlds don't seem to mesh so well,” he pointed out. She nodded.
“We seem to have assholes for friends.”
“God, what does that say about us?”
“We're asshole royalty.”
“King and Queen of the Assholes?”
“Totally.”
They both cracked up after that – it was too far in to the realm of ridiculous for Jameson, and the fact that he had kept it going made her laugh, as well. He pulled the Jack Daniel's bottle close and took a drink as well. He made a face as he passed it back to her.
“How you drink that shit, I'll never know,” he grumbled.
“When you're just poor, white, trash, you don't exactly go straight for the Johnny Walker Blue Label,” Tate laughed.
“I have some, we could be drinking that instead,” he offered.
“Nah, I like to stay true to my roots,” she joked, taking a healthy swig of the whiskey. He was silent for a moment, staring across the room. Sounds from the party drifted in to the kitchen. Jameson scowled.
“I can't fucking believe Dunn did that,” he grumbled, staring out the kitchen door.
“He said you've shared girls before,” she told him. He glanced at her.
