Reparation(5)

So feisty.



*



Goddammit.

Tatum sat in the back of the Bentley, chewing on her nail, trying not to show how nervous she was about where they were going. She hadn't been to the Weston house in a month. She hadn't actually been inside it since October, almost three months ago. She willed away the memories. Tried to think of happier times.

She glanced at Jameson out of the corner of her eye. He was leaning back in his seat, staring out the window. As if he knew she was staring, he reached over and rested a hand on her knee. But it wasn't to comfort. His nails bit into her skin and she sighed, resting her head back. His fingers dragged up higher, disappeared under the bottom of his overcoat. She had made it onto the elevator, wearing nothing but her bra and panties, when he'd casually stepped in behind her. By the time they got to the lobby, he had wrestled her into his overcoat. It was a peacoat, but it was large enough on her that it stopped above the knees.

“Scared, baby girl?” he whispered, still not looking at her. Tate concentrated on the roof of the car.

“No,” she replied.

She was fucking terrified. Over the past two weeks, Tate had perfected acting like she didn't care. Didn't care that Jameson was a sociopath who liked to cause her mental anguish, just to get off. Didn't care that Ang had slept with the person responsible for making her feel worthless, responsible for ripping her life in half. Didn't care that Ellie had stolen one of the last pieces of Tate's life that still felt safe, still felt right.

She spent so much time pretending like she didn't care, she'd almost forgotten what it felt like to actually care, about anything. Only Sanders grounded her, and she had to keep him at arms length. He was too clever, too close to her; he would figure out what she was plotting. And she would not be derailed, not this time. The house did scare her – she was worried she would take one look at it, and break down. Go back in time. Be stuck in that room. On that floor, looking up at him, just wanting him to see her. And she would not be that girl again.

For the last seven years, Tate had thought she was a bad girl. Not a bad person, but most definitely very naughty. She liked to have sex, she liked to have fun, she liked to do whatever she wanted. But she'd had an epiphany while she was in France. She was actually a good girl. She liked people, wanted to make people happy. She loved her friends, would do anything for them. She would never have done anything to hurt them, and whenever she accidentally did, she felt bad. She apologized. She did her best to make amends.

Tate felt like a sucker. All those years, running from her good girl image, and here she was, still the best fucking girl on the block. Didn't matter how many dicks a girl sucked, she was still good if she always said please and thank you. No more. She was over it. Over being so goddamn nice all the time. Jameson was the devil. Ang was disrespectful. Ellie was a bitch. When did it get to be Tatum's turn?

Yes, but what are you after you've alienated everyone, hmmm? What kind of creature then?

Tate shook those thoughts away. She was going to do whatever it took to get some fucking closure. What had Jameson said in Paris? What sugary sweet lie had he spun? Seven years? It was time to end it. Then she would just walk away. Start life, for real. Maybe a little later than most people, but hey, better late than never. Maybe she'd go back to school. Maybe she'd become a nice, normal girl, finally. Maybe she'd take Nick up on his offer and move to Arizona. Who knew?

She certainly didn't.

“We are almost there. Are you alright?” Sanders called out. She smiled up at the ceiling.

You know you'll lose him. Is it worth it?

“I'm good,” she whispered.

“Excuse me?”

“Let's get this over with,” Tate growled, leaning her head forward.

They were pulling down the driveway. Jameson's house sat far back on his property – estate would be a more appropriate word – and a pebble filled circular drive led them to the large brick building. The driveway was long, and though there was none right then, she figured that when it did snow, it must have been a bitch getting the driveway plowed.

Well, for anyone else, it would've been a bitch. For Jameson Kane, all he had to do was snap his fingers and people probably cleared the snow away with their tongues.

Not me. Not anymore.

“Patience there, tiger. Wouldn't want you getting sick again,” Jameson teased her. Tate glared at the back of Sanders' head, watched his neck turn pink with a blush.

“You don't have to tell him everything, Sandy,” she grumbled. Sanders had brought her back in December, tried to cook dinner for her while Jameson was out of the country. She had barely made it onto the porch before she lost her cookies over the railing.

“Yes, he does. Unload the bags, will you Sanders?” Jameson asked, opening the door and stepping out before the car had rolled to a complete stop. Tate slid across the seat and got out behind him, refusing to take his hand.