"Too cheap," he commented. Tate stared at his reflection while he clasped the necklace.
"You think?" she asked, pressing her hand against the jewelry. It was several strands of pearls, of varying lengths, all connected as one at the ends.
"Yes. They're fake. I remember you wearing another set of fake pearls, once. You need real ones," he told her. She smiled.
"I'll put that on my to-do list. Rent, utilities, pearls," she joked, reaching back and unhooking the necklace. As soon as she removed it, his hands took its place, his thumbs hooked around the back of her neck and his fingers splaying down to her collar bone.
"I hurt you," Jameson repeated his statement from the car. She threw the necklace onto the dresser.
"A little bit. I'm mostly over it," she replied.
"I don't think you're stupid, Tate," he started, and she held her breath, her eyes locked on his in the mirror. Jameson, apologizing? No way. "I think the way you live is stupid. Maybe I hide a little, but you're running away, too. You are better than all of this, smarter than all of them, and you know it."
"Those are my friends," her voice was soft.
"Can you honestly tell me that sometimes you don't want something different?" he asked.
"Who doesn't?" she responded. "It's knowing the worth of what you have. Fake pearls are just as good as real pearls, if they're given with good intentions and love. If Ang gave me the gaudiest, ugliest, tackiest, strand of fake pearls ever, I would love them more than any set of real pearls my parents ever gave me. Ang loves me. So good or bad, stupid or smart, those people care about me. I care about them. I could go back to Harvard tomorrow, and I would still be friends with these people, Jameson."
He stared at her for a while, his grip getting harder. Almost like he was pushing down on her shoulders. He looked a little angry, and she wondered if maybe honest candor could get to Jameson more than childish games.
"If Angier gave you pearls, huh. And what if I gave you pearls? What would they mean to you?" he asked. She scrunched up her nose. The metaphor was starting to get awfully convoluted.
"Depends."
"Oh what?"
"On how much they cost. You don't love me, so to be impressed, that price tag better be huge," she halfway joked. He smirked at her.
"So, if I got you a $50,000 strand of pearls, and Angier got you some shitty fake ones, his would mean more to you, because he 'loves' you?" Jameson clarified.
"There are pearl necklaces that cost $50,000!?" Tate almost shouted her response.
"There are ones that cost a lot more than that. At least I know I can aim a little lower if I want to impress you," he smirked. She swatted at his leg.
"Shut up. And don't be jealous of Ang, he just likes to play with me," she told him.
"I'm not jealous. And it looks more like you like to play with him."
"It's a mutual kind of thing."
"So I played your game. I came downtown. I came to your dinner. I watched you kiss two guys. Do I win?" Jameson asked, his fingers massaging her skin. She sighed.
"Do you ever lose?" she replied.
"I keep trying to tell you that, I never lose," he said.
"We'll see about that, I still have some -,"
"Do you trust me, Tate?" he interrupted.
"Yes," she answered without hesitation. He looked a little surprised.
"Really?"
"Yes. You've never done something to me I didn't ask for, or didn't want. As far as I can tell, you've never lied to me. You have been upfront about everything and anything. Sometimes I don't like you very much; sometimes, I think you're the biggest dick I've ever met. You're rude, and mean, and spiteful half the time. But you never said you weren't – you've always claimed to be those things. So yes, I trust you," she explained. He laughed.
"The things you say, Tate. Sometimes it's like talking to a man. I wonder if that's why you're so easy to talk to," Jameson wondered out loud. She raised her eyebrows.
"I'm easy to talk to because I'm like a man?" she asked. He nodded.
"A little bit," he told her.
"I have awfully nice tits for a dude," she laughed, putting her hands over her breasts. He leaned close, his mouth against her ear.
"Stop talking. I came to dinner. I win. I get to extract payment," he said.
With an abrupt shove, he pushed her to the side. She fell against the dresser, catching herself with her hands before she could face plant on the wood. She went to push herself up, but his hand pressed down on the center of her back, holding her in place.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Whatever I want. You said you trust me," he pointed out, and she felt his other hand brush against the fabric of her skirt.
"I do, but I don't want to have sex in my friend's bedroom," Tate told him with a laugh.
"Why not? And what makes you think we're going to fuck?"
"Um, I was in a similar position last week, and you fucked the hell out of me, that makes me think we're going to fuck. And I don't want to be disrespectful. This is her house, her party; she thinks I'm laying down with a migraine. The door is open, anyone can see us," she told him.
"You're shy, Tate?" Jameson laughed. She snorted.
"No, but as I've been saying, these are my friends. I don't want to -," she stopped talking as he lifted her skirt up. It was long and flowy, went to just past her knees. He draped the material over her back.
"I'm not going to fuck you. That would be giving you a treat. You've been very bad. I'm going to do whatever I want," he informed her, and she could feel her underwear sliding off of her butt.
Her argument caught in her throat. Lifting her head up off the dresser, she was facing the door – she could see down the hall. The living room was just to the right, and she could see the edges of a couple peoples backs. It was dark in the bedroom, and she and Jameson were towards the back of it. If anyone turned around, they probably wouldn't be able to see anything. But if anyone came down the hallway ..., not good. She took a deep breath.
"Jameson, I don't think we should do this," she started, but then ended in a gasp as two of his fingers slid inside of her.
She wasn't sure how this wasn't giving her a treat. He wasn't getting anything out of it, he was standing just enough back from her that she couldn't even reach him. She swallowed a groan and bit in to a table runner that covered the length of the dresser. He hooked his fingers a little, almost massaging her insides.
"Don't hear any arguing now," Jameson's voice was dark behind her. Tate shook her head.
"We shouldn't ..., do this," she whispered, though her words had no conviction.
"You want this. Say stop, and I'll stop."
She pressed her lips together and hummed softly. Bit her tongue. Anything to keep from crying out. His other hand grabbed onto her hip and pulled her back a couple inches, enough so he could work his arm between her and the dresser. She made a high pitched squeaking noise when that hand reached her front. Dipped in to wetness. Spun her in to outer space.
"Jameson," she whispered his name, almost a moan.
"You're awfully ready to play for someone who says she doesn't want to do this," he pointed out, and she laughed.
"You started it, in the car. Mean man," she joked, and then really did moan. She flicked her eyes to the door. No one seemed to have heard her.
"Always mean. Remember that. Jesus, Tate, how are you still so tight? All these years, and you're still the tightest pussy I've ever had," he groaned, working his fingers faster.
"Kegels. Every day," she replied, and then had to bite down on the runner again. She clawed her nails down Rachel's dresser.
"God, talk about being disrespectul. What about you is respectful, Tate? Your slutty mouth? Or your wide open legs? I'd only been back in your life for two days, and you fucked me. Easy fucking girl. Did Angier get it that easy?" Jameson asked. She knew he wasn't, but he sounded like a jealous lover. It drove her wild.
"Easier," she lied. His fingers were working on her so fast, she felt like she was being cut in half. Two Tatums. Which one would he want? She was pushing back against him, pushing for the edge, for the orgasm. It was very close.
"Fucking bitch," he swore.
"You shouldn't be surprised."
"What am I going to do with you? Fucking slut. Fucked him while I was gone. Couldn't last three days. How much does it take to satisfy you?" Jameson demanded.
Maybe he is jealous ...
"Maybe more than you've got," she taunted in a breathy voice, gasping for air.
He pulled away and yanked her back from the dresser. She waited for the swearing, the crushing fingers, the angry mouth. But none of that happened. He backed her up, pressed her butt against the dresser and her front to his chest. She looked up at him, breathing heavy, rubbing her thighs together.