Reparation(4)

“You are going into that house, and that is final. I don't care if I have to fucking carry you,” he replied.

“Why? What's wrong with this place? I like this place. You must like it, you bought it,” she pointed out. He shrugged.

“I like the Weston house better. Sanders misses it, he's already started opening it up,” Jameson explained.

“No. No, I'm not going there. You can't make me,” her voice was getting louder.

“Oh, yes I can.”

“Why can't I just stay here?” she asked.

“Because I want you there.”

“You don't get to tell me what to do, Kane.”

“Oh, yes I do.”

“Stop it! Why? Why do I have to be there, in that house?” she demanded. He decided to risk it, and he stepped closer to her.

“Because,” he started, his voice soft. Gentling the blow. “It's our home, baby girl. And it's time to go.”

Houston, we have ignition. Prepare for blast off.

“That is not our home!” Tate yelled, a blush creeping across her chest. “That is your torture chamber! So fuck off, and go back to your fucking mansion in the country!”

“It's not much of a torture chamber without someone to torture,” Jameson pointed out. She looked shocked.

“Fuck you, then you shouldn't have let Pet get away from it,” she hissed.

Always about Petrushka. This is why I hate having girlfriends – it's the “ex” part that's a bitch.

“She didn't 'get away', I kicked her out.”

“That's your version of what happened.”

“It's the only version of what happened.”

“I am not about to go and sleep in the same bed you fucked her in, I am not some -,”

Play time is over.

Jameson grabbed her ankles and yanked her legs out from underneath her. Tate shrieked as she went down flat on her back. She had barely made contact with the mattress before he was jerking her forward, still holding her ankles, dragging her to him. He leaned over her, forcing her legs to part around him.

“We have been over this, so I am never going to say this again, understand? I did not fuck her,” he growled. Tate glared up at him.

“I'm still not going into that house,” she growled right back.

“Oh, you'll go. You'll go if I have to drag you there by your fucking hair,” he warned her.

“You'd probably love that,” she snapped.

“So would you.”

She sighed and some of the tension went out of her body. She rolled her head to the side and looked out the open doors. The moving men were visible at the end of the hall, boxing up odds and ends. Jameson stared down at her. Detachment. That's what was wrong with her. Tate had a way of detaching herself. Like she was present, could say all the right things, but she wasn't really there – she was somewhere he couldn't reach.

He hated that.

“I don't want to go there,” she whispered.

“Why?” he demanded.

“I don't like it there,” she answered.

“You used to love it there,” he reminded her.

“'Used to' being the operative term,” she pointed out.

“So what's changed? You keep claiming that everything is fine. Apparently, it's not fine at all. Apparently it's all completely fucked,” he called her out. She turned back towards him.

“That was a really interesting lunch you had, wasn't it,” she breathed.

Busted.

“They're concerned about you,” Jameson said softly.

“But you're not,” Tate finished his statement. He shooks his head.

“Don't be fucking stupid. I'm here. I'm doing this, for you. Stop asking questions you know the answers to. Now get the fuck up, and get dressed,” he ordered.

She sat up abruptly and he had to lean away. He had barely stood up when she pushed herself up as well, sliding against almost every inch of him. He stared down at her, waiting for her to argue, to whine, to try to bribe. The last one was fairly effective – he wasn't as immune to her charms as he liked to pretend.

“Fine. Fine, I'll go to that fucking hell house,” she said in a quiet voice.

“Good. We're leaving, now,” he snapped. She raised an eyebrow.

“So impatient,” she clucked her tongue at him.

“You should know that by now,” he replied. She sighed and stepped around him, slowly made her way towards the door.

“When they pack my clothes,” she started, “make sure they don't steal any of the expensive underwear.”

Then she disappeared down the hall. From where he was standing, Jameson couldn't see to the end of it, but he heard one moving man wolf-whistle. Another cat-called. Then the front door slowly creaked open, before slamming shut. Jameson chuckled to himself.