Reparation
Page 59
“Look. It's over. I'm going. This, whatever it is, is over. Deal with it,” she told him, then turned around and strode towards the Bentley.
“Does he know!?” Jameson called out, following her. “Did your boyfriend help you plan this? Or are you surprising him, too?” She managed a laugh, wiping at her eyes.
“Always about you, isn't it.”
“You fucking make it that way, not me. Does he know you like I do? Does he know that at the first hint of trouble, you're going to flip the fuck out? Does he know that you'll use him, lie to him, then leave him?” he demanded, hurrying around and getting in front of her, stopping her mid-stride. She took a shuddering breath.
“He knows me better than you,” she told him. Rage washed over his face.
“Not possible. So what kind of lie did you tell him? You said you loved me; what kind of lies does he get to hear?” Jameson said in a deadly soft voice.
“They're not lies when I say them to him,” Tate whispered back.
Both Jameson's hands were around her neck, shoving her back into the side of the Bentley. She grunted, his thumbs digging into the sensitive skin under her chin. She glared at him and he leaned in close, forcing her back over the hood, his forearms pressed against her chest.
“Don't fucking say that to me,” he hissed. She lifted her hands, slowly gripped onto his wrists.
“But you hate it when I lie,” she pointed out. His fingers tightened on her neck.
“You weren't lying when you said those things to me,” he said. She raised an eyebrow.
“You're so sure?” Tate whispered.
Jameson stared at her for a long time. His eyes seemed to wander over every inch of her skin. She didn't care. This would be the last time she saw him, the last time she got to touch him. Now that it was upon her, she didn't want it to end. A tear finally slipped out, sliding over her temple, into her hair.
“Sure enough,” he whispered back. She took a shaky breath.
“Liar.”
He let her go then, and she stumbled forward. He backed away and stared down at her, shoving his hands into his front pockets. When she stood upright, he continued staring at her. His eyes were hard, and cold. They threw her back in time, back to that first night. Back to him forcing her out of his apartment, looking at her like she was insignificant. Like she was nothing. She gasped, choked on a sob. Her eyes filled up with tears at the same time Sanders hurried up to them.
“Is everything alright?” he breathed, standing next to Jameson. Tate couldn't answer. Just kept staring into her past.
“Perfectly fine, Sanders,” Jameson's clipped voice rang out. “Tatum would like to leave. By all means, take her wherever she'd like to go.”
“Sir, I think you should -,”
“Goodbye, Tatum. And good luck. Though somehow, I don't think you'll need it,” Jameson finished, and then strode off back into the house.
“Are you hurt?” Sanders asked. She shook her head.
“Just my heart,” she whispered. He frowned down at her.
“Would you like me to -,”
“No. I just want to leave. Let's go,” Tate replied, then turned and opened the car door.
As she slid into her seat, she couldn't help but remember the last time she had run away from him, from that house. She stared out the window. It was nighttime, again, and she was in the Bentley, again. But this time it was her choice, not his; and not a bottle of whiskey and xanax.
Sure it is, baby girl. But if it's your choice, how come you're leaving one very important piece of property in that house?
“What?” she breathed out loud, just before Sanders got into the car as well.
Your soul.
~12~
Of course, she hadn't planned on just immediately flying off. Tate had booked a hotel room for three days. She went and saw her sister, said goodbye to her and the baby. She wouldn't be gone forever, just for a while. Long enough to get over him a little. She had never let herself do that before, it would be a hard road.
Ang thought she was being abso-fuckin-lutely stupid. When he had crossed over to the dark side, she didn't know. Ang hated Jameson – why was he calling her stupid for leaving him? She pointed this out to him.
“Because, you stupid bitch, you're in love with him. And in his own creepy, sadistic, satanic way, he sorta kinda loves you back. Why are you doing this!? Because some slutty model tells a lie about him!?” Ang demanded.
“She's probably not lying, but no, it's not just about that, there's a lot of other stuff I realized. Some things ..., just aren't meant to be,” she told him.
“Tater tot, you two have been dancing around each other for seven years. I'd say it's pretty fuckin' meant to be.”
Tate threatened to refuse to see him before she left, so he calmed down. Ang gave one last loud speech about how stupid she was being, and how it was the worst idea ever, and how Nick Castille was one of the most boring people he had ever met, and then he didn't say another word on the subject. Just held her and cuddled her while she cried.
And cried, and cried, and cried.
Surprisingly, Sanders stayed with her the whole time. Her hotel room had double beds, so he didn't even book another room, just laid down across from her. He never went home, and Jameson never even called. She would wake up at five in the morning to find Sanders ironing his suit. It would have been funny, if the idea of never seeing him do stuff like that again hadn't been so goddamn sad
“Does he know!?” Jameson called out, following her. “Did your boyfriend help you plan this? Or are you surprising him, too?” She managed a laugh, wiping at her eyes.
“Always about you, isn't it.”
“You fucking make it that way, not me. Does he know you like I do? Does he know that at the first hint of trouble, you're going to flip the fuck out? Does he know that you'll use him, lie to him, then leave him?” he demanded, hurrying around and getting in front of her, stopping her mid-stride. She took a shuddering breath.
“He knows me better than you,” she told him. Rage washed over his face.
“Not possible. So what kind of lie did you tell him? You said you loved me; what kind of lies does he get to hear?” Jameson said in a deadly soft voice.
“They're not lies when I say them to him,” Tate whispered back.
Both Jameson's hands were around her neck, shoving her back into the side of the Bentley. She grunted, his thumbs digging into the sensitive skin under her chin. She glared at him and he leaned in close, forcing her back over the hood, his forearms pressed against her chest.
“Don't fucking say that to me,” he hissed. She lifted her hands, slowly gripped onto his wrists.
“But you hate it when I lie,” she pointed out. His fingers tightened on her neck.
“You weren't lying when you said those things to me,” he said. She raised an eyebrow.
“You're so sure?” Tate whispered.
Jameson stared at her for a long time. His eyes seemed to wander over every inch of her skin. She didn't care. This would be the last time she saw him, the last time she got to touch him. Now that it was upon her, she didn't want it to end. A tear finally slipped out, sliding over her temple, into her hair.
“Sure enough,” he whispered back. She took a shaky breath.
“Liar.”
He let her go then, and she stumbled forward. He backed away and stared down at her, shoving his hands into his front pockets. When she stood upright, he continued staring at her. His eyes were hard, and cold. They threw her back in time, back to that first night. Back to him forcing her out of his apartment, looking at her like she was insignificant. Like she was nothing. She gasped, choked on a sob. Her eyes filled up with tears at the same time Sanders hurried up to them.
“Is everything alright?” he breathed, standing next to Jameson. Tate couldn't answer. Just kept staring into her past.
“Perfectly fine, Sanders,” Jameson's clipped voice rang out. “Tatum would like to leave. By all means, take her wherever she'd like to go.”
“Sir, I think you should -,”
“Goodbye, Tatum. And good luck. Though somehow, I don't think you'll need it,” Jameson finished, and then strode off back into the house.
“Are you hurt?” Sanders asked. She shook her head.
“Just my heart,” she whispered. He frowned down at her.
“Would you like me to -,”
“No. I just want to leave. Let's go,” Tate replied, then turned and opened the car door.
As she slid into her seat, she couldn't help but remember the last time she had run away from him, from that house. She stared out the window. It was nighttime, again, and she was in the Bentley, again. But this time it was her choice, not his; and not a bottle of whiskey and xanax.
Sure it is, baby girl. But if it's your choice, how come you're leaving one very important piece of property in that house?
“What?” she breathed out loud, just before Sanders got into the car as well.
Your soul.
~12~
Of course, she hadn't planned on just immediately flying off. Tate had booked a hotel room for three days. She went and saw her sister, said goodbye to her and the baby. She wouldn't be gone forever, just for a while. Long enough to get over him a little. She had never let herself do that before, it would be a hard road.
Ang thought she was being abso-fuckin-lutely stupid. When he had crossed over to the dark side, she didn't know. Ang hated Jameson – why was he calling her stupid for leaving him? She pointed this out to him.
“Because, you stupid bitch, you're in love with him. And in his own creepy, sadistic, satanic way, he sorta kinda loves you back. Why are you doing this!? Because some slutty model tells a lie about him!?” Ang demanded.
“She's probably not lying, but no, it's not just about that, there's a lot of other stuff I realized. Some things ..., just aren't meant to be,” she told him.
“Tater tot, you two have been dancing around each other for seven years. I'd say it's pretty fuckin' meant to be.”
Tate threatened to refuse to see him before she left, so he calmed down. Ang gave one last loud speech about how stupid she was being, and how it was the worst idea ever, and how Nick Castille was one of the most boring people he had ever met, and then he didn't say another word on the subject. Just held her and cuddled her while she cried.
And cried, and cried, and cried.
Surprisingly, Sanders stayed with her the whole time. Her hotel room had double beds, so he didn't even book another room, just laid down across from her. He never went home, and Jameson never even called. She would wake up at five in the morning to find Sanders ironing his suit. It would have been funny, if the idea of never seeing him do stuff like that again hadn't been so goddamn sad
