"You're wrong. He cares about you, Ms. O'Shea," Sanders assured her. She almost spit the liquor out.
"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.
"Not like that, not like what we are," he replied, gesturing between himself and Tate.
"Like how, then?"
"Like the same girl from an escort service. I've never let him sleep with a girl I was actively sleeping with on a regular basis. I don't do that. I would never be okay with you sleeping with him, or any of my other colleagues. Not now, or at any point in time in the future," Jameson told her. She nodded.
"I'll keep that in mind."
"You had fucking better."
"Hey, don't get mad at me – I'm the one who was solicited. I deserve like restitution, or something," she joked. Jameson laughed.
"Restitution? Like what?" he asked.
"A $50,000 pearl necklace," Tate replied without hesitation. He snorted.
"Just go ahead and start holding your breath, I'll get right on that," he told her. She made a face at him.
"I missed you, you know," she blurted out. His eyebrows shot up.
"Really? The succubus missed her lord and master, Lucifer?" he joked, and she almost choked. It was basically the same joke she made about them in her head.
He's psychic, I knew it.
"Maybe 'miss' is too strong of a word," she corrected herself. He laughed.
"Shut up, you couldn't have missed me that much. You were too busy getting stoned with Angier," he taunted.
"One night. It was a peace offering, he came over to apologize. I would never turn down good weed," she told him. Jameson laughed again.
"Are you sure that's all that happened? I don't know if I trust you," he said. She rolled her eyes.
"I solemnly swear that I did not sleep with Angier while you were in Los Angeles," Tate held a hand over her heart while she promised. He nodded.
"Good. So, what did you miss about me, baby girl?" he asked, leaning his forearms on the island. She thought for a second.
"Your penis."
He barked out a laugh.
"I already knew that. What else?"
"I don't know. Sometimes you're almost funny. You let me run around in my underwear all the time – Rus hates it when I do that at home. And sometimes you're almost halfway sweet to me," she tried to explain.
"Jesus, I sound like if Stalin owned the Playboy Mansion," he pointed out. She nodded.
"Yes. Exactly like that," Tate agreed.
"Shut up. What else?" Jameson pressed. She was thoughtful again.
"The way you treat me. Sometimes, and don't get me wrong, I love him, but just sometimes ..., Ang kind of babies me. Coddles me. Tries to take care of me too much. Like he's afraid I'm gonna fall on my face if I'm out of his sight. You, on the other hand, practically push me down the stairs and just tell me to move my feet," she laughed.
"You make me sound abusive," he remarked. She shrugged.
"I meant it as a compliment. And you kinda are, in a way. I just happen to like it," she told him. He glared at her playfully.
"I'm not abusive. I'm ..., aggressively sexual," Jameson explained. She rolled her eyes.
"More like a sexual aggressor," she teased.
"You flatter me too much. And I might have missed you, too, just a little bit," he confessed. She pressed a hand to her chest.
"See? There it is – sweetness. Be still, my beating heart."
"Shut the fuck up."
Tate got up and wandered across the kitchen, grabbed some crackers and then leaned back against the cupboards. While she munched away, she watched him. He had turned to watch her, as well.
"On a scale of one to ten," she started, "how much did you miss me?"