Degradation(56)

"Why Sandy, are you inviting me to move in with you?" she teased. He blanched.

"No. But your company would be greatly appreciated, as always," he told her. She laughed and pulled him in for a hug.

"Of course I'll come with you. Help me calm Ellie down, and I'll go anywhere with you," she whispered.

And then shockingly, his arms came around her and Sanders hugged her back.



*



Something wasn't right. Something most definitely, positively, wasn't right.

Tate could feel it in the air. Jameson's house felt like home to her,  and she loved Sanders, but she could just tell; something was not right.  Sanders wouldn't tell her anything, and she'd had no communication from  Jameson. She even figured out the time difference and called him once  –   the first time she had ever called him, in the entire time they'd known  each other.

He didn't answer.

By Saturday afternoon, she was a wreck. The house had been turned upside  down by event planners. Sanders was running around, helping to get  everything ready. Tate hovered in the background. Helped where she was  needed, asked Sanders if there was anything she could do, but he had  practically become a mime. He wouldn't speak, not if he didn't have to.  Finally, she cracked and texted Jameson.         

     



 



Is this a game?



It was hours before he replied. She was laying in his bed, ready to go to sleep, when her phone dinged.



Yes.



She sat up, turned on a light.



What are the rules?



No more rules.



That sounds dangerous.



I thought you liked danger.



She chewed on her bottom lip, glanced around the room.



What is going on?



But he ignored her question and asked one of his own.



Where are you, right now?



Your room.



In my bed?



Yes.



Good.



What is going on?



See you soon, baby girl.



He wouldn't respond to anymore of her texts. She stayed awake for the rest of the night.



*



The next evening, some of Jameson's colleagues showed up early for the  party, made themselves at home in his library. Tate got ready, wandered  around the house. She was coming out of the kitchen, struggling to open a  jar of peanut butter, when laughter burst out of the library. She  stopped by the door.

"Clever man. Keeping girls on two continents," one was guffawing.

Tate's breathing doubled.

"Which one do you think he likes better?" another voice.

"Well, the girl here seems wilder, more his tastes. I bet she's an animal in the sack."

She nodded to herself. Sounded like her.

"But Pet's more polished, more refined. You can take Pet to parties; you take the other girl to bed."

Tate pressed herself against the library door. Fuck being subtle.

"Yes, but what do you do with both of them at once?"

"Sounds like a hell of a party!"

Bawdy laughter.

"I guess we'll find out, they'll be here tonight."

"What's-her-name is already here."

"Jameson and Pet got in on the six o'clock flight. They should be here any time now."

There was a sharp ringing in her ear and Tate stumbled away from the  door. Dropped the peanut butter. When she turned around, Sanders was  standing behind her. They stared at each other. Just stared, for about a  minute solid.

Traitor.

She took off running up the stairs. Sanders thundered after her, calling  out her name. She had never heard him speak in such a loud tone before;  any other time, and she would've been in awe. She ran down the hall,  almost biting it in her heels once. She skated through Jameson's door  just before Sanders and managed to shut it in his face, turning the  lock. She dashed out onto a balcony that had been converted in to a sun  room. Jameson kept his computer out there. She had never bothered with  it before, never had a reason to.

Tate knew Sanders had keys to everything and would be in the room in no  time, so she acted quickly. Typed Jameson's name in to Google. More of  the same info came up, so she just immediately went to the images tab.

She was shocked to see a lot more pictures of herself  –  she had never  noticed any photographers anywhere they went. Her and Jameson walking  out of his office building; her and Jameson eating lunch; her and  Sanders, laughing next to him outside of a movie theatre; her and  Jameson kissing while he held an umbrella over her. She couldn't figure  out why at first. Why were there so many all of the sudden? She clicked  on one so it would take her to the website of origin, and then gasped at  the headline.



Who Will Financial Mogul Jameson Kane Choose? A Sexy American or A Danish Beauty?



Tate scrolled down. Several of the photos of them together were in the  article. But the other pictures interested her more. There were a couple  old ones of him and Pet together, but a couple of very new ones, too.  Them entering a hotel together, exiting the same hotel together. Him  holding a car door open for her. His arm around her waist as they  entered a clothing boutique.

It was a German tabloid. Tate learned that Pet lived part of the time in  Berlin, that's why there was a lot of interest. Some small time  rag-reporter had noticed that Jameson was tooling around Berlin with  Pet, and then discovered the photos of Tate and Jameson online. Boom.  Story. Sex. Scandal. Intrigue. Hell, even Tate would want to read  something like that.

If it wasn't actually about me. At least they called me sexy.

She was scrolling through another article when Sanders finally opened  the door and strode in to the room. He reached for the computer mouse  and she batted his hand away. A minor slapping war ensued for a couple  moments before she leapt out of the chair. He reached for her arm, but  she pushed him away.

"How could you not tell me!?" Tate demanded, circling him. He looked upset.

"I couldn't. I'm very sorry, Ms. O'Shea," Sanders replied.

"Fuck you! We're supposed to be friends! How long have you known about them!?" she shouted.

"For about two weeks. I advised him that it was a poor choice," he told her.

"Oh, you advised him, how kind of you. Did you know he was bringing her  here tonight?" she asked. His look went from upset to pained.         

     



 

"Yes," Sanders said softly. She gasped.

"How could you let me come here? I thought we were friends. How could you do this to me?" Tate whispered.

"Because I told him to."

They both turned to see Jameson standing in the middle of his bedroom.  He took off his suit jacket and then rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.  Took off his watch and threw it onto the side table. Sanders cleared  his throat.

"Sir, I think you owe it to Ms. -,"

"Leave."

Glancing at Tate once, Sanders walked out of the room. Tate struggled to  even out her breathing and entered the bedroom proper. Jameson was  carrying his suitcase in to his closet. There was a clattering of  hangers and he walked back out with a new shirt in his hands.

"Why?" Tate whispered. He lifted his eyes to hers. A pair of blue ice  cycles. It felt like it had been longer than a month since she had last  seen him. She felt like she was looking at a stranger.

Did I ever know him?

"What's that, baby girl?" Jameson asked, changing in to the fresh shirt.

"Don't call me that!" she snapped. He chuckled.

"I call you anything I want," he replied.

"Not anymore. Why are you doing this? What did I do to you?" she asked.

"It's all a game, isn't it? I thought you liked games," Jameson said, throwing the worn shirt onto his bed.

"Fuck your games," Tate hissed.

"See, now that sounds more like you. It was a very long flight, baby  girl, and I could really use something to relax me. Feel like getting on  your knees?" he asked. She guffawed.

"Not fucking likely. Ask your girlfriend to do that for you," she told him.

"But I don't have a girlfriend."

"Really? Seems to me there is a five-foot-ten 'Danish beauty' who would argue that point," Tate pointed out. He sighed.

"There you go again, making assumptions. Would you like to meet her? You'd probably get along," he said.

"Why are you doing this!? What happened that made you so mad!? I waited  for you! Just like you said! Why did you ask me to wait if you were just  going to bring her home!?" Tate yelled at him.

"You don't like seeing my picture in the tabloids, right? Well, I like it even less," he suddenly said. She was lost.

"What?" she asked.

"I don't like being made a fool of, Tate. And that's what I feel like you did," he informed her.

"What the fuck are you talking about!?" she shrieked.

"You're upset about pictures of me and Pet online? In the tabloids? How  about pictures of you and a certain baseball player, in the fucking  social pages of the goddamn Boston Globe!? How about seeing those on the  fucking internet? You and him together, everywhere. Pictures of you and  me are already out there, and suddenly I'm hearing from people I hardly  know that a girlfriend I don't technically have is fucking a goddamn  Red Sox!" Jameson yelled at her. Tate started laughing.