Reparation
Page 3
“Sanders? How is he? I haven't seen him in a couple days,” she asked, but he could see something in her eyes. Maybe wariness? Nervousness. What was she nervous about?
“Lunch with Sanders, and Angier,” his voice got quiet.
Tate laughed and pulled away from him, climbed up onto the bed. When she was standing, she turned towards him and began to lightly bounce on the mattress. He had trouble not staring at her breasts.
“That must have been really interesting. Did anyone get stabbed?” she asked. He shook his head.
“No. It wasn't so bad,” he replied.
“What did you guys talk about?” she questioned, a practiced air of innocence surrounding her voice. Too bad he already knew there wasn't anything innocent about Tatum O'Shea.
“You,” he replied honestly. Her eyes got wide and she stopped bouncing.
“Really? And what did you say about me?” she asked. He smiled and ran a hand up the back of her leg, then dragged his nails back down.
“Well, Angier informed me that I have been benefiting from his sexual teachings,” he told her. She snorted as he moved his hand up her leg again.
“Fucker. I was already kinda freaky before he came along,” she said.
“'Kinda freaky'?” Jameson laughed.
“What did you say?” she pressed.
“I told him that there wouldn't have even been a you without me, so he could shut the fuck up,” he replied, really digging his nails in as he worked them back down her calf. She sucked air through her teeth.
“Bold statement, Mr. Kane. Doesn't sound like a very fun lunch,” she told him. He shrugged.
“Something good came out of it. I made a decision,” he started. He stopped touching her and took a step back. Out of kicking range.
“About what?” Tate asked, putting her hands on her hips.
He let his eyes wander over her body for a moment, committed it to memory. She was probably going to get angry. In the old days, when Tate got angry, it meant kinky sex. In Europe, it meant he wasn't allowed to touch her with a ten-foot-pole. Nowadays ..., he was prepared to be sleeping in a dog house for a very long time.
For someone who didn't want a relationship, this is all very relationship-like ...
“We're moving,” he informed her. Her eyebrows shot up.
“Moving? Jameson, we've only been here two weeks. Half my shit is still in suitcases,” she pointed out.
“Good, then it shouldn't take you long to pack. Which you should be doing. Right now,” he instructed.
“Huh?”
“We're moving tonight,” he explained.
“Tonight? Jesus, what, was there a fire sale on mansions somewhere around here?” she joked.
“I already own a mansion somewhere around here,” Jameson said softly. She stopped moving. Stopped blinking. It almost looked like she stopped breathing.
Ah, not a robot after all.
“You're going back to Weston?” Tate asked, her voice soft and low. He shook his head.
“We're going back to Weston,” he corrected her. She shook her head.
“No. I'm not going back there,” she said.
“Oh, yes, you are.”
“No, I'm not.”
“I'm sorry, did you think this was a debate? I didn't ask you if you were going, I told you that you were going,” he said calmly. She glared down at him.
“I'm not going into that fucking house, and that is fucking final,” she snapped.
“You are going into that house, and that is final. I don't care if I have to fucking carry you,” he replied.
“Why? What's wrong with this place? I like this place. You must like it, you bought it,” she pointed out. He shrugged.
“I like the Weston house better. Sanders misses it, he's already started opening it up,” Jameson explained.
“No. No, I'm not going there. You can't make me,” her voice was getting louder.
“Oh, yes I can.”
“Why can't I just stay here?” she asked.
“Because I want you there.”
“You don't get to tell me what to do, Kane.”
“Oh, yes I do.”
“Stop it! Why? Why do I have to be there, in that house?” she demanded. He decided to risk it, and he stepped closer to her.
“Because,” he started, his voice soft. Gentling the blow. “It's our home, baby girl. And it's time to go.”
Houston, we have ignition. Prepare for blast off.
“That is not our home!” Tate yelled, a blush creeping across her chest. “That is your torture chamber! So fuck off, and go back to your fucking mansion in the country!”
“It's not much of a torture chamber without someone to torture,” Jameson pointed out. She looked shocked.
“Fuck you, then you shouldn't have let Pet get away from it,” she hissed.
Always about Petrushka. This is why I hate having girlfriends – it's the “ex” part that's a bitch.
“She didn't 'get away', I kicked her out.”
“That's your version of what happened.”
“It's the only version of what happened.”
“I am not about to go and sleep in the same bed you fucked her in, I am not some -,”
Play time is over.
Jameson grabbed her ankles and yanked her legs out from underneath her. Tate shrieked as she went down flat on her back. She had barely made contact with the mattress before he was jerking her forward, still holding her ankles, dragging her to him. He leaned over her, forcing her legs to part around him.
“Lunch with Sanders, and Angier,” his voice got quiet.
Tate laughed and pulled away from him, climbed up onto the bed. When she was standing, she turned towards him and began to lightly bounce on the mattress. He had trouble not staring at her breasts.
“That must have been really interesting. Did anyone get stabbed?” she asked. He shook his head.
“No. It wasn't so bad,” he replied.
“What did you guys talk about?” she questioned, a practiced air of innocence surrounding her voice. Too bad he already knew there wasn't anything innocent about Tatum O'Shea.
“You,” he replied honestly. Her eyes got wide and she stopped bouncing.
“Really? And what did you say about me?” she asked. He smiled and ran a hand up the back of her leg, then dragged his nails back down.
“Well, Angier informed me that I have been benefiting from his sexual teachings,” he told her. She snorted as he moved his hand up her leg again.
“Fucker. I was already kinda freaky before he came along,” she said.
“'Kinda freaky'?” Jameson laughed.
“What did you say?” she pressed.
“I told him that there wouldn't have even been a you without me, so he could shut the fuck up,” he replied, really digging his nails in as he worked them back down her calf. She sucked air through her teeth.
“Bold statement, Mr. Kane. Doesn't sound like a very fun lunch,” she told him. He shrugged.
“Something good came out of it. I made a decision,” he started. He stopped touching her and took a step back. Out of kicking range.
“About what?” Tate asked, putting her hands on her hips.
He let his eyes wander over her body for a moment, committed it to memory. She was probably going to get angry. In the old days, when Tate got angry, it meant kinky sex. In Europe, it meant he wasn't allowed to touch her with a ten-foot-pole. Nowadays ..., he was prepared to be sleeping in a dog house for a very long time.
For someone who didn't want a relationship, this is all very relationship-like ...
“We're moving,” he informed her. Her eyebrows shot up.
“Moving? Jameson, we've only been here two weeks. Half my shit is still in suitcases,” she pointed out.
“Good, then it shouldn't take you long to pack. Which you should be doing. Right now,” he instructed.
“Huh?”
“We're moving tonight,” he explained.
“Tonight? Jesus, what, was there a fire sale on mansions somewhere around here?” she joked.
“I already own a mansion somewhere around here,” Jameson said softly. She stopped moving. Stopped blinking. It almost looked like she stopped breathing.
Ah, not a robot after all.
“You're going back to Weston?” Tate asked, her voice soft and low. He shook his head.
“We're going back to Weston,” he corrected her. She shook her head.
“No. I'm not going back there,” she said.
“Oh, yes, you are.”
“No, I'm not.”
“I'm sorry, did you think this was a debate? I didn't ask you if you were going, I told you that you were going,” he said calmly. She glared down at him.
“I'm not going into that fucking house, and that is fucking final,” she snapped.
“You are going into that house, and that is final. I don't care if I have to fucking carry you,” he replied.
“Why? What's wrong with this place? I like this place. You must like it, you bought it,” she pointed out. He shrugged.
“I like the Weston house better. Sanders misses it, he's already started opening it up,” Jameson explained.
“No. No, I'm not going there. You can't make me,” her voice was getting louder.
“Oh, yes I can.”
“Why can't I just stay here?” she asked.
“Because I want you there.”
“You don't get to tell me what to do, Kane.”
“Oh, yes I do.”
“Stop it! Why? Why do I have to be there, in that house?” she demanded. He decided to risk it, and he stepped closer to her.
“Because,” he started, his voice soft. Gentling the blow. “It's our home, baby girl. And it's time to go.”
Houston, we have ignition. Prepare for blast off.
“That is not our home!” Tate yelled, a blush creeping across her chest. “That is your torture chamber! So fuck off, and go back to your fucking mansion in the country!”
“It's not much of a torture chamber without someone to torture,” Jameson pointed out. She looked shocked.
“Fuck you, then you shouldn't have let Pet get away from it,” she hissed.
Always about Petrushka. This is why I hate having girlfriends – it's the “ex” part that's a bitch.
“She didn't 'get away', I kicked her out.”
“That's your version of what happened.”
“It's the only version of what happened.”
“I am not about to go and sleep in the same bed you fucked her in, I am not some -,”
Play time is over.
Jameson grabbed her ankles and yanked her legs out from underneath her. Tate shrieked as she went down flat on her back. She had barely made contact with the mattress before he was jerking her forward, still holding her ankles, dragging her to him. He leaned over her, forcing her legs to part around him.
