She had jumped out of her seat. Practically out of her skin. This was the moment Tate had been waiting for, for him to ask her to move in with him. But now that it was there, she couldn't handle it. She laughed and asked where the bathroom was, and one of the players' wives pointed her in the right direction. She then spent ten minutes on a toilet seat, her head between her knees. When she felt like she wasn't going to pass out, she finally made her way to the sinks. Patted her cheeks with cold water.
What the fuck is wrong with you? You leave a path of destruction. Not Jameson. You. You are the devil.
She took a deep breath. If she could just get through dinner. Get through the next couple hours. Jameson would fade away, when he saw that she was serious about her wants and demands. He would never give them to her, she just had to be strong.
Even if that meant doing something she really didn't want to do.
She took another deep breath, then squared her shoulders. Looked herself over, and didn't find herself wanting for anything. She walked out of the bathroom. She was holding herself so stiffly, she had a very distinct impression of how Sanders probably felt when he walked around. Roughly like she had a stick shoved up her ass. She tried to ignore everyone, the hum of the people in the hall, the din in the lobby, the sound of someone calling her name.
Huh?
Tate turned around and was shocked to see Jameson practically barreling through people. He was hurrying away from the bank of elevators, shouting her name. She was stunned into a standstill. He finally caught up to her, grabbed her by the shoulders.
“What are you doing? Are you drunk!?” she exclaimed, her eyes sweeping over him.
Her mind was blown. He was wearing a baseball hat. A hat. Crazier than him wearing sandals in Marbella. Was he trying to be incognito? She almost hadn't recognized him. He was wearing a plain grey t-shirt and jeans, and no shoes. A plastic grocery bag swung from his wrist.
He's gone crazy.
“No. What the fuck do you think you're doing!?” he demanded. It was weird, instead of hiding his eyes, the bill of the hat almost amplified them. Like a telescope, focusing all of her vision onto his blue, blue eyes.
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“You can't be with him, Tate. You're a part of me, you belong with me,” Jameson all but shouted. She was stunned.
“What has gotten into you?” she hissed, shrugging out of his hold. She grabbed his bicep and yanked him out of the flow of people, to the inside of a hall.
“You. Don't do this. Don't go be with somebody, some guy, just to not be with me,” he growled. She rolled her eyes.
“He's not some guy, and he likes me, Jameson! Really likes me!” she snapped at him.
“I really like you! Why aren't I good enough?” he asked. She groaned.
“You don't like me, Jameson. You like having someone around that you can feel superior to,” she told him.
“No. Since Spain, I have never made you feel that way – if that's how you felt, then it's something you did. Stop blaming all your shit on other people!” he yelled.
“I don't have to listen to -,”
“Yes, you do. I want to be with you. I want you to be with me. What else do you want!? Do you want me to beg? Is that the fucking problem?” he pressed.
“Oh, yes, I would love that. Jameson Kane, begging -,”
“Please. Please, don't do this,” he whispered, grabbing her arms and yanking her close. “Please. I'm begging you. Don't do this.”
The shocking just did not stop.
“Jameson, stop, you're making a scene,” she hissed at him. He shook his head.
“Do you think I give a fuck? Goddammit, Tatum, just listen to me, for once. You're willing to try out all this happy-home bullshit with him? Well, let me try it out with you,” he urged.
“You don't mean these things,” she breathed, shaking her head.
“Please. You haven't given me my chance, and I was here first. You want all these things, let me try to give them to you. You said you wanted a prince – I'm as close as you can get,” he told her.
“I said I wanted Prince Charming; you're the Prince of Darkness.”
“Still a prince, baby girl.”
Too much. This man is so much.
“Jameson ...,” she breathed, closing her eyes.
“Here. I bought you something. Today,” he was suddenly saying, letting her go. She opened her eyes to see him digging something out of the plastic bag. He pulled out a large, square, velvet box. She glared.
“Is this a joke?” she demanded, yanking it out of his hands as he held it out to her.
“No. Just open it. You'll -,” he started. She smacked him in the arm with the box.
“You just don't fucking get it! For such a smart fucking person, you don't fucking get anything! You can't buy me!” she shrieked the last part, hitting him over and over with the box. He grabbed her wrist and the box fell out of her grasp, clattering to the ground at her feet.