Tate gave it to him.
After Ang typed it in to the Google search bar, he handed the computer back to her. She was shocked at how many things came up right away. Jameson was a lot more "famous" than she would have ever guessed. She clicked on the images tab, and there were tons of him, in paparazzi photos. Him two years ago, at an L.A. movie premiere, some actress on his arm. Him at New York Fashion Week, just last February, a famous singer on his arm. Him standing next to a pool in swim shorts, soaking wet, talking on a cell phone while some ridiculously beautiful girl floated in the pool underneath him – some model whose name she didn't recognize. Most of the photos were because he was with famous people. They were getting photographed, and he was just caught in the cross-hairs.
But there were some of just him. He was very wealthy, which made him an attraction in his own right. A lot of the photographs were from European tabloids, talking about his playboy lifestyle over the past couple years. Nothing too bad, nothing she hadn't already known about or assumed. None of it bothered her, and she could look at Jameson all day, so the pictures were fun.
She skimmed through the years, catching up on his past. Wondered if she'd ever been secretly photographed with him – and then she found one. She and Ang giggled over it, a grainy photo of her, Sanders, and Jameson, standing outside of some restaurant that they had gone to on its opening day. A pretty swanky place, with some local celebrities making appearances. She hadn't thought much of that night, but there she was, on Google. It was from a local newspaper, and they didn't list her or Sanders' names, didn't even mention them at all, just that Jameson Kane had been in attendance, but still. She felt giddy.
But then she began to notice a cluster of other pictures, all of Jameson with the same girl. Them walking down a street together in Paris. Them entering a tube station in London. Lots of them eating in restaurants. Posing, with their arms around each other, at fashion events and movie premieres and award shows. Leaving nightclubs together, Jameson pulling her by the hand. Holding her hand. It made Tate feel a little nauseous.
"Who is she?" Ang finally asked. Tate sighed.
"I think she's his ex."
"What ex?"
"The ex."
She was absolutely. Drop. Dead. Gorgeous. Some super-dooper-model, half Ukranian, half Danish. Danish. Tate's heart stopped a little. That must be why he owned a home in Copenhagen – he had bought it to be close to her. Shocking. The model was internationally famous and retardly beautiful. Jameson was so rich, it was obscene. A match made in heaven. There were pictures of them all over the globe together.
He barely leaves the house with me.
"She hasn't got anything on you. Look at those skinny hips, I would rip her in half," Ang said quickly. Tate chuckled.
"She's gorgeous, Ang. I can admit when someone is better looking than me," she replied. Tate wasn't shy about her looks, she knew she was hot, knew she was downright sexy. But this woman, she was beautiful. Stunning.
"No, you're just as pretty as she is," Ang assured her. Tate snorted.
"No, I'm not. But I would put money on the fact that I'm better in bed," she said back, and Ang laughed.
"That's my girl. How long did they go out for?"
They did some digging. The earliest mention of them together was two years before – it had been on and off, apparently pretty rocky. Rumors of crazy fights and wild sex. The model's name was Petrushka Ivanovic. They went to her website, but it wasn't very helpful. Just depressing. Then they went to her Wikipedia page, and the words on the screen slapped Tate across the face. And not in the good way.
Partner(s): Jameson Kane, American financier. Status: Engaged.
"No, no, no, no, no," Tate whispered, and went back to Google.
She typed in their names together. A lot of the same pictures came up, but also ones she hadn't seen. A couple were pretty recent. She pulled the websites they were from – they were very recent. Like three weeks ago. Three weeks ago, he had gone to New York for the weekend – she remembered him mentioning it to her. They looked like they were arguing in the photographs, standing on a sidewalk. Another set of photographs were from two weeks ago, them walking down a street. One was from yesterday. He had just gotten back from New York, last night. They were sitting down across from each other in some sort of lobby, the picture taken through the windows.
Tate turned away from Ang, back towards the foot of the bed, and put her head in her hands. She wasn't going to cry, but she kind of wanted to hyperventilate. She kept reminding herself, over and over, that Jameson wasn't her boyfriend. Technically, he could do whatever he wanted. She could do whatever she wanted.
But we had a deal. He couldn't be with her. We had a deal.
She felt Ang move, slide down the bed behind her. His long legs went around either side of her and then his arms were around her, hugging her from behind, pulling her in to his chest. She took deep breaths and leaned against him, let him rock her back and forth. She felt horrible. She felt angry.
"It's okay, Tate. It's just pictures, we don't know what they mean," Ang said softly.
"I know. I know that. It's just ..., hard," she replied, dropping her hands in to her lap.
"You really like him, don't you?" Ang asked. She sighed.
"Yeah, I think I kinda do," she told him. He chuckled.
"Good girl Tate falls for Satan, who would've thought," he teased. She rolled her eyes.
"I'm not a good girl," she pointed out.
"Yes, you are. You've just gotten very good at hiding it," he replied.
"I don't want to see him tonight," she whispered. Ang's laugh was dark.
"Stay with me," he whispered back, his lips against her ear. She shivered.
"No. He may be an asshole, but I'm not. When I confront him about this, it will be with a clear conscience. If it turns out he's a massive, lying, dickhole, with some secret supermodel wife, then I'll come fuck your brains out to get back at him," Tate explained. Ang laughed.
"Cheers, thanks for that. Glad I have a say in this, that I'm good for something to you," he snickered. She laughed as well.
"Shut up, you love it," she told him.
"More than you know. I will happily be your revenge fuck, darling," he assured her. She took a deep breath.
"You're too good to me. I have to go, thanks for letting me come over, and for horrifically depressing me," she laughed, untangling herself from him and climbing off the bed.
"Where are you going?" he asked, standing up behind her. She bent over, pulling on her shoes.
"Home. Gotta get changed, head to work," she replied. She felt his hands slide over her hips, pulling her back against him, and she glanced over her shoulder.
"Just getting reacquainted," Ang told her. She stared at him for a moment, watched him as he looked down at her back, at her hips, his hands sliding back and forth. His voice was soft, but nothing else about him was.
Uh-oh.
"Save it for your porno, Ang. I'll talk to you later," she said, managing a laugh as she pulled away from him. He gave her a tight lipped smile, but didn't say anything as she walked out of his room.
At home, she put on some tiny black shorts, and a cropped Red Sox jersey. Her knee high black wedge boots. Did her eye makeup extra heavy, pulled her hair up in to a "just fucked" looking ponytail. She wanted to look bad. Slutty. Angry.
The Sox had played the day before, and her jersey got a lot of compliments – as did her stomach and ass. She slung drinks and flirted a lot more than she usually did, all while watching the front door. Sometimes, on a Saturday, Jameson would come to town early, sit at the end of the bar. Watch her in a way that usually had her squirming to get him alone.
He didn't show up, but while she had her eye on the door, another good looking man walked through it. Warm brown eyes. Shaggy hair. Open smile. Broad shoulders, thick arms. She recognized him, and suddenly a thought burst in to her head.
She couldn't sleep with Ang, and since she and Jameson had started sleeping together, she hadn't felt the urge to be with anyone else. Well, right then, the urge was upon her. The man was sexy as sin, and he was a baseball player. The first baseman for the Boston Red Sox, Nick Castille, to be exact. Wealthy. Semi-famous. A challenge.
A threat.
She laid it on thick with him. Leaned over the bar to deliver his drinks, winked at him, touched Rusty inappropriately in front of him. He watched her with hooded eyes, obviously liking what he was seeing. He finally called her over.
"I like your jersey," he commented. She spun around, showing him the back while shaking her hips.
"Good, I'm glad," she laughed.