Reparation(82)

“Tatum. Please. Remember who you're talking to,” he laughed.

“Get the fuck out! Just get out of my life!” she shouted, shoving at his chest. He let her push him into the hallway.

“We're not done,” he warned her.

“We're done, Kane. You don't want a girlfriend. I don't want to be a fuck toy. It's over,” she informed him.

“Why do you think that's all you're good for?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.

“Because somebody told me that,” she snapped.

“You really shouldn't listen to everything you hear, baby girl.”

She slammed the door in his face.





~15~


It hadn't exactly gone as well as Jameson had hoped. He hadn't gotten to say anything he wanted to say. She hadn't fallen into his arms and begged him to take her home. She hadn't cried as much as he would've liked. But she had said a lot of things that had really messed with his mind.

Marriage!? Kids!? Was she fucking with him? When he had met Tatum, she had been sex on legs, screwing just about anything with a dick. She had turned him inside out – still had the ability to; was the only woman he had ever slept with that was truly okay with him sleeping with other women. The only woman who always kept him wanting more. The only woman who let him put his hands on her any goddamn way he pleased.

Hmmm, if that's not marriage material, I don't know what is.

It was ridiculous. They couldn't go two minutes without fighting. They had probably been “together” for a grand total of ... two months? Three months? What was she saying, she wanted him to propose? Jameson fucking hated titles, he refused to even think of her as his girlfriend. She was just Tatum. He was just Jameson. Why couldn't that be enough!?

As it got later, he had to get out of the hotel. Knowing she was downstairs, probably looking sexy as fuck, and hanging on some other guy's arm .., he couldn't handle it. Not even a little bit. He felt like he was going to kill someone. Most likely a baseball player.

Maybe Sanders, as well. Just for dragging him there.

He strolled down the street, walked a couple blocks. There were lots of restaurants and pubs, little shops full of stupid shit that no one ever needs. They were basically in U of A's backyard. He would never have choosen to stay in a hotel like that; he had wanted to stay somewhere else. Sanders insisted it would be easier. Jameson caved.

Only for you, Tatum.

She had acted strange. He was nervous. Scared. She hadn't been as angry as he would've liked. Anger meant she cared. Sure, she'd gotten mad. But in Spain, she had fought against him, almost killed him. That was passion, in his mind. In that hotel room, she had looked ..., detached. That was the worst.

Sanders had said to work out how he felt, and what he was going say. Well, he felt like he wanted to be with Tatum, for as long as possible. For as long as both of them could stand. He wanted to tell her things, things he had never said to anyone ever before, but she wouldn't listen. He had to find another way to talk to her. A way she would hear him.

He didn't see the store on his way up the street, but after he'd wandered for about twenty minutes and then made his way back, he noticed it. Stared in the window. So much silver and gold glittered back at him. Jameson was accustomed to nice things, had been his whole life. He didn't see anything wrong with buying them if he could afford them. Tatum always thought he was trying to buy her – she never realized, it was just his way. He bought nice things for Sanders, because he wanted to do nice things. He bought nice things for her, because that was the way he showed that he cared.

She couldn't just let him be him. She was always trying to twist him into her stupid fairy tale Prince Charming. It seemed to him that his choices were to either walk away, or wear the crown.

He frowned and pushed his way into the little shop. Several young women looked up at his entrance. Perked up. They were all young, maybe early twenties. Or younger. Babies. He ignored their smiles – he could eat them for breakfast, and still be hungry. No, he was on a mission for one last meal.

She broke the last necklace. She will not break this one.



*



Jameson felt better when he got back to his hotel room. He ignored all the rabble downstairs, the crowds of people everywhere. He took a long shower, almost forty-five minutes. Laughed to himself as he stood under the spray. Tatum always made fun of how long he spent in the shower. He had never really thought about it before – he just liked to be warm. That's why he liked his fireplace. That's why he liked her.

He changed into a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. His hair had reached ridiculous lengths, and when it was wet, it curled down his forehead, almost into his eyes. He grabbed a U of A hat that had come with the room, shoved it on his head. Made a drink, stood in front of the windows and looked out over the city. He almost felt at peace. So he was actually waiting for the interruption. It came on cue.