"Stupid girl, reading the tabloids. I knew you were fucking stupid, Tate, I just didn't realize how much," his voice was quiet.
Tate shrieked and launched her coffee mug at him. She played on the bar's softball team, she was an athletic girl and knew how to throw a ball. The mug missed him by an inch, crashing in to the cupboard next to him. He didn't even blink. Didn't even move.
"Don't call me stupid," she hissed.
"Those cups are expensive," he warned her. She turned, picked up a plate from the stack, and threw it to the ground. It exploded.
"How about that? Was that one expensive?" she asked.
"About fifty bucks a plate. More than you can afford," he assured her. She grabbed three more plates, slammed them to the ground, one right after the other.
"Just take it out of my salary," she replied.
"I don't think I'm going to be paying you for tonight," Jameson laughed in a dark manner. She grabbed one of the stacks, flung all the plates across the kitchen in one toss.
"You promised! Remember!? Nothing to do with her! I wouldn't give a shit if you fucked her, if I had known from the get go – but this whole time, you told me there would be nothing! There are pictures of you two together, every time you went to New York!" Tate shouted at him, grabbing plates and flinging them at his feet. He didn't move, not once.
"Careful, jealousy is not an attractive trait," he pointed out.
"Lying isn't an attractive trait," she snapped back.
"Are you done?" he asked, glancing down at the shattered chunks of porcelain covering the kitchen floor. She looked down as well, then glanced at the remaining dishes. Only a dinner plate and two cups remained. Enough for her and Sanders to enjoy a late night meal together. Good enough.
"I think so," she replied.
He slowly started walking towards her. He wasn't wearing any shoes or socks, and she could hear the porcelain scratching and crunching under his feet. She winced. One wrong step, and he would cut himself. But silly, Jameson Kane never made a wrong step. He didn't stop moving till he was right in front of her.
"I am not a liar," he said, his cold, blue eyes staring very hard at her.
"Not according to what I read. Engaged? That would most definitely make me the other woman, liar," she snapped.
His hand was instantly at her neck, squeezing hard. She reached behind her and gripped the counter, squirming under his grasp. He pulled her up a little and she was forced onto her toes. Forced to drag miniscule gasps of air through her nose. She relaxed her throat, let her tongue go flat in her mouth. She knew this game.
"I am not a liar. We were engaged," Jameson hissed through clenched teeth.
"Then why have you been seeing her?" Tate croaked out.
"Because I can see whoever the fuck I want. Because we were involved in a lot of the same businesses and it takes time to dissolve all of that shit," he told her.
"Then why didn't you just tell me?" she asked. His hand squeezed harder and she grabbed onto his wrist.
"Because I don't have to tell you shit, Tate. I told you I wouldn't sleep with her, and I haven't. End of story. You said you trusted me – apparently you don't. Sounds like you're the liar," Jameson growled, dragging her face close to his own.
"You still ..., should've told me," she gasped, her voice a thready whisper.
"You should've just asked, instead of going out and finding the first available person to fuck, just so you could rub it in my face. Did you actually think that would work? Stupid fucking whore," he chuckled in a menacing tone.
Ah, there's my Satan.
"I guess I'll have to try harder," she managed to squeak. "Next time I fuck him, I'll make it really spectacular."
"There won't be a next time with him," Jameson informed her. She brought both hands to his wrist, attempted to laugh. No sound came out.
"You can't tell me what to do, Kane," she replied.
He slammed her down onto the ground, then hovered over her. Shards of porcelain dug in to her back, and she hissed through clenched teeth. His hand was sill tight around her neck, his other hand on the floor by her head. She squirmed and moved underneath him.
"I tell you everything you're allowed to do," he growled.
"And there's that illusion of power," she breathed. She was starting to feel dizzy. How much was too much? When should she stop him? Did she want to?
"Let's get something straight about this power situation, Tate. I fuck you when I want, where I want, how I want. You come when I call. If I want to see my ex girlfriend, or any ex girlfriend, I will. I'm with you right now, this moment. That's all you get from me," he told her. Her eyes rolled back, her lids fluttering shut.
What if I want more?
"I can't ..., I can't ...," she gasped for air, digging her nails in to his skin.
His grip loosened considerably, but didn't let go. She gasped in air, her body going limp underneath him. She had been very close to passing out. She heard a clanging noise and opened her eyes. His free hand was rooting around in a drawer above them, searching for something. After a moment, a large pair of solid silver scissors appeared in his hand. Her eyes got wide.
"Stupid bitch. Stupid fucking bitch. Doesn't even know when to say enough. Fuck," Jameson swore, bringing the scissors down to her stomach.
He glanced at her, but she didn't say anything, didn't make a move to stop him, so he continued on with whatever it was he was planning. It was rough going, using only his left hand, but he managed to make a jagged cut up the center of the jersey she was wearing. When he finally sawed through the thick lining at her collar, he rested the point of the scissors under her chin. Dug them in a little.
"Go ahead," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "Just another mark, right? Not like I'll even notice."
"I will say this only once, Tatum. I am not engaged. I wll continue to fuck other women. But I am with you," he said in a very serious voice.
Since that night, seven years ago, he hadn't ever made her cry again. Not with his harsh tone and degrading words. Not with any of his sadistic games. Not with his punishing hands. He had choked her to the point blood vessels broke in her face, squeezed her to the point there were whole hand prints around her thighs, held her down for so long that she didn't think she'd be able to find her way back up again.
But speaking nice to her, that was too much. Saying sweet things, even in the fucked up way they had, was more than she could handle. Tears filled her eyes, spilled over her temples. Ran in to her hair. She hadn't wanted to care about this man. Not at all. She had wanted to play with him. Turned out, he was much better at the game.
"Liar," she whispered.
He moved off of her then. Pulled her away from the floor enough to yank the remnants of her jersey off, and then let her fall back down, only wearing her bra and shorts. She watched as he shoved the jersey in to the garbage disposal, ran the machine till it clogged and stopped moving, smoke coming out from underneath the sink.
"I never lie, Tatum," was all he said as he strode out of the kitchen.
She started to laugh. Really laugh; a sort of body heaving laughter, lifting her shoulders off the floor and causing her to shake. She could feel the porcelain cutting in to her, but she didn't care. She laughed, and the tears streamed down her face.
"Let me help you, Ms. O'Shea," Sanders' soft voice was above her. She opened her eyes.
"Oh, Sandy. Sandy, why didn't you tell me?" she gasped for air, pressing a hand to her chest.
"Tell you what, ma'am?" he asked, grabbing her arm and pulling her in to a sitting position.
"That none of this is a game," she breathed. He grimaced as he looked over her back.
"Because I knew you'd figure it out sooner or later, ma'am," he replied, and then pulled her to her feet.
"I didn't want to like him, Sandy. I really, really didn't. I thought, if we just played. If we slept with other people, and just played around, I would finally beat him. I would win," Tate babbled while Sanders wrapped an arm around her waist.
"If it's any consolation, ma'am, I think you have won," Sanders told her, helping her walk up the stairs. She shook her head and leaned in to his shoulder.
"It's not fun anymore. It's scary. I don't know this game," she whispered. He nodded.
"I know, ma'am. I know."
*
Jameson was woken up a couple hours later to the sound of footsteps in his room.
Tate?
He had stayed up for a while, waiting for her to crawl in to bed, or to hear her sneaking out of the house. He had maybe gone a little too far with her, but she had made him so mad. How dare she Google him. How dare she look in to Petrushka. How dare she not trust him. How dare she fuck some guy just to get back at Jameson. Wear that guy's clothing home, to Jameson's home. He wanted to put her in her place. Remind her exactly what she was to him – even if he, himself, wasn't exactly sure.