Separation (The Kane Trilogy Book 2) Page 3

  All those nights she and Sanders had spent together, all those afternoons, Jameson had always assumed it was just Tate babbling on about anything that popped into her head. She was a smart girl and had a lot to talk about, maybe Sanders had been her sounding board. Jameson didn't know, and at the time, he hadn't cared.

  It turned out they had been sharing their souls. Sanders knew every single one of Tate's dirty secrets, knew every vile thought she had about herself, or anyone else. Knew just about every single moment she and Jameson had ever shared. And Sanders was nothing if not fair, so he claimed he had told Tate everything. All about how he and Jameson had met, his life in England before Jameson, and even his time in Belarus.

  Jameson didn't know what to think. Tate hadn't shared all her secrets with him, and he'd never pried in to Sanders' past. Two of the most important people in his life, and Jameson was suddenly painfully aware of the fact that he didn't know much about either of them. It had never bothered him before; or at least, that's what he had told himself.

  Now it bothered him a lot.

  So, of course, Sanders knew everything that had happened. Tate had told him. About how she and Nick really were just friends. She hadn't so much as kissed him. How she had waited all month for Jameson, had looked forward to him coming home. How betrayed she had felt by Sanders, when she found out Jameson had brought his ex girlfriend home. How hurt she was by Jameson. It hadn't been a game to her anymore. She had genuinely cared about him. Had been perilously close to falling in love with him.

  Well, I certainly solved that little problem.

  She had gotten drunk to deal with the party. She had taken the Xanax to numb the hurt. She had been completely wasted when Dunn offered to sleep with her. She admitted to saying yes, but he had knocked her into the mirror and then held her down. She had regretted it before it had even started. Of all the things that happened that night, Tate said it was the thing she wished she could take back the most. Jameson paying her off and kicking her out; drunk driving twenty miles in to town; floating in a pool high on Xanax; well, that had all just been icing on the cake.

  I should have killed him. Killed him, kicked everyone out, and just gone to bed with her.

  Sanders had reported the Bentley stolen in hopes of finding her, maybe stopping her, before she could crash or something. He had a police scanner in his room, and it wasn't long before he heard a response to a 9-1-1 call where the cop mentioned a Bentley. Then Ang's name was put through for a background check. Bingo.

  Tate couldn't say why she went to the pool, because she couldn't remember. Almost everything after she'd gotten in the car was a blank. She hadn't tried to drown herself. When Ang had found her, she'd been floating, holding onto her bottle of Jack Daniel's, barely clinging to consciousness. But not suicidal, she insisted. She had never once said anything about wanting to die, to anyone. She swore up and down that she hadn't tried to kill herself.

  Jameson didn't need convincing. Tatum O'Shea, the woman he knew, would never give up so easily. That would be the worst kind of cheating, and she wasn't a cheater. Besides, their game wasn't over yet, he had more hands to play. She wouldn't ever check out like that. She was too strong. And she certainly couldn't leave him alone in the world.

  Not until he said so.

  *

  “So when are you coming home?” Jameson asked as he strode down a hospital hallway, almost a week later.

  “I am not going to work for you,” Sanders replied, walking next to him. Jameson snorted.

  “I didn't ask when you were coming back to work. I asked when you were coming home,” he stressed as they got on an elevator. Sanders looked uncomfortable.

  “I didn't have any plans to come home,” he replied.

  “You're going to live at that hotel forever?” Jameson asked. Sanders glanced at him. “Oh, yes. I've known every move you've made since you left. Who do you think pays those credit card bills, hmmm?”

  “I could get another job after -,”

  “Don't be fucking stupid. Stay in the hotel, come home, I don't care. I just need to know one thing,” Jameson started as the elevator doors slid open, revealing their floor.

  “And what is that, sir?” Sanders asked. Jameson got out onto the floor, then turned back to stare at Sanders. It was strange, to have been in someone's life for so long, but to not know them as well as someone who had only been there for a couple months. Jameson didn't like the feeling.

  “Are we okay?” he asked in a straight forward voice. Sanders blinked a couple times, the question clearly making him even more uncomfortable.

  “I'm not sure. You ..., you disappointed me, sir,” he answered. Jameson nodded.

  “I know. I should have listened to you.”

  “But you didn't. I have only ever tried to steer you right.”

  “I know. And I'm very sorry.”

  Sanders looked completely shocked, and Jameson felt it would be best to catch the man off guard while he had the chance. He grabbed Sanders by the arm and yanked him forward, into a hug. It was awkward for a moment, then Sanders relaxed. Leaned into him. Until Tatum, Jameson had been the only person to ever really hug Sanders. For two very un-affectionate men, sometimes it was very natural between them. Jameson was the closest thing Sanders had to a father.

  Sometimes, Jameson lost sight of that.

  “I appreciate that, sir,” Sanders mumbled against his chest. Jameson laughed.

  “Good. Now. Do you think she'll accept my apology?” he asked. Sanders pulled away, made a production of straightening out his suit.

  “Honestly? No. She doesn't want anything to do with you,” Sanders replied.

  “We'll see about that; she doesn't have much of an option, not while she's stuck in here,” Jameson laughed. Sanders shook his head.

  “She's getting released tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “Tomorrow. She's been declared mentally stable and her throat doesn't hurt anymore. They have no reason to keep her anymore. She wants to go home,” Sanders explained.

  Home? But I haven't cleaned up the library yet ...

  “But I thought I -,”

  “If you are going to apologize, I suggest you do it tonight,” Sanders interrupted, and then he reached out and hit a button, causing the elevator doors to slide shut.

  Jameson was left at a loss. Of course, he'd known this day would come, but he'd thought he would have just a little bit more time.

  Jameson Kane always had more time.

  As he walked to her room, he prepped himself with the realization that she probably knew he was coming, was maybe even waiting. Sanders didn't pull any punches for Jameson, but there was no doubt he would have prepared Tatum. Jameson had thought his little midnight visits were a secret, but now he doubted it. She had probably known the whole time.

  “May I come in?” he asked, once he got to the doorway.

  Tate was laying flat on her bed, but he could tell she was awake. She took a deep breath, let it out as a sigh. He held very still, waiting for her voice. It felt like it had been a lot longer than a week since he had last heard it.

  Probably because I never really listened.

  “You never asked permission any of the other times, so what's stopping you now?”

  Jameson strode in to the room and went to his chair, which was pulled up to the left side of her bed. He took off his jacket and draped it over the back, before sitting down. She still hadn't turned to look at him. He cleared his throat.

  “Do you want to do this now?” Jameson asked. She nodded her head.

  “Like a band aid, just rip it off,” she replied.

  “I'm sorry.”

  Tate looked shocked. She glanced at him, and then her hand fumbled around on the mattress, looking for the bed controller. She found it and pushed a button until she was sitting almost upright. She had some color back in her face, though she was still much paler than she had been a month ago. It made her dark eyes and hair stand out. He couldn't stop staring at he
r.

  Have I ever just looked at her?

  “For what?” she asked. He wasn't quite sure how to answer her, wasn't sure if there were enough words, even. If there would be enough time, enough space, enough air, to express just how sorry he was to her.

  “For ..., everything,” he finally answered. She managed a laugh.

  “Sounds like a cop out. You don't have to apologize just to make me feel better. I'm okay, I don't -,” she started, but his anger at himself boiled over and spilled onto her.

  “I'm sorry I hurt you,” Jameson snapped. “I'm sorry I was too stupid and pigheaded to just call you. I'm sorry I didn't stop you from leaving. I am really sorry I tried to give you that money, and I am very sorry I didn't go after you that night, but most of all, I'm sorry I didn't kill Dunn.”

  “Thank you. That means a lot,” she told him, but her voice was flat. He narrowed his eyes.

  “You don't believe me.”

  He said it as a statement, not a question. Tate shrugged.

  “I don't know. I'm trying not to think about it,” she replied.

  “I never stop thinking about it. Thinking that maybe I -,”

  “Why are you here, Jameson? You kicked me out. You brought her home to embarrass me – mission accomplished, by the way. I quite literally almost died from embarrassment,” she chuckled. His heart skipped a beat.

  Dead? Never. You can't leave me.

  “Not funny,” Jameson growled. “I was so upset with you. I thought you had gone back on your word. I saw those pictures of you, with that guy, and I just got so angry. So stupid. Jesus, what a fucking night. I even impressed myself with how much of a bastard I was.”

  He groaned and leaned forward, putting his face in his hands. He wasn't the kind of man who could be easily intimidated, but suddenly the thought of meeting her gaze made him feel nervous. Sick. Made him feel ashamed.

  Because I'm not worthy of her.

  “Is this a game?” Tate whispered. Jameson shook his head.

  “No, baby girl. No games,” he whispered back.

  “What are we, if we don't have games?”

  “Something else.”

  “I hate you,” she sobbed, and Jameson lifted his head. She was back to staring at the ceiling, but now tears were streaming down her face. He frowned.

  “I want you to know that I -,”

  “I fucking hate you! What about that statement don't you get!?” she was suddenly screaming at him. He sat back, a little stunned.

  “I am getting it, loud and clear. I just think -,”

  “No! No! You don't get to think! I almost fucking died, Jameson! And I'm not blaming that on you, but you sure didn't fucking help! So I don't give a flying FUCK about what you think! I just want you to get out,” she sobbed, pressing her hands to her eyes. He stood up, but he had no intention of leaving. He moved closer to her bed, leaned over her.

  “You and I have unfinished business, baby girl,” he told her softly.

  She swung her arm in a wide arc. For someone who had “almost died”, she certainly had a lot of strength. She walloped him right in the ear. She let out a shriek and continued swinging her arms. Jameson didn't move away, just ducked his head and struggled to hold onto her arms. Her whole body thrashed around on the bed, and it took him a few moments to pin her wrists to the mattress.

  “You and I are finished business, Kane,” Tate hissed, refusing to meet his eyes.

  He remembered the night they had fought in his kitchen. When she had broken all the dishes and he'd held the scissors to her throat. The look in her eye that night was something he had never wanted to see again; had hoped to never see again.

  Now, the look was back, only worse. Much, much worse.

  I should've been the one in that pool.

  “You and I will never be finished, Tate. Haven't you figured that out yet?”

  “Get out.”

  “No. Not until you tell me what I can do, what you want me to do, to fix this,” he replied, squeezing her wrists. She had to tell him, he had to know. Jameson Kane could fix anything, solve any problem – she just had to tell him how. He had to make this right somehow. She started to laugh and it turned into sobs.

  “You wanna know what I want? What I really want? I want you to leave me alone. I want you to go away. I want to have never met you. I wish I had never met you. I wish that I hadn't catered that stupid party, and I wish I had never gone to your apartment that night. I want you to not exist anymore. I want you to just go away,” Tate cried, trying to pull her wrists free.

  Not exist? But I made her. She's mine. You can't exist if I don't, stupid girl.

  “Alright, alright,” Jameson said in a soft voice, pulling away when she seemed on the verge of hyperventilating. He had never seen her so upset. “If that's what you really want, I'll go.”

  She continued sobbing while he grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to stop the flood gates that had opened. It hurt his heart to see her that way. Hurt his pitch black soul. He realized she was saying something, so he walked back up to the bed while he slipped back into his coat.

  “Just go, just go, just go, just go,” Tate was whispering, over and over again. Jameson sighed and brushed the hair away from her face, before leaning down and kissing her on the forehead. She didn't move, didn't say anything. Just cried. He turned away and forced himself not to look back. If he looked back, he would be lost forever, and if he was lost, he certainly wouldn't be able to find her again.

  And Tatum most definitely needed finding.

  “See you around, baby girl,” he called out as he strode towards the door.

  “No, you won't,” she said after him.

  History really does repeat itself.

  He couldn't resist a laugh. He was, after all, Satan.

  “I will if I want to.”

  ~1~

  “What are you doing?”

  Tate glanced over her shoulder, trying to find who owned the voice that was hissing at her. Her best friend, Angier, stepped out of the shadows, joining her at the edge of the balcony. She sighed and went back to looking out over the city.

  “I was trying to escape,” she replied. He glared down at her.

  “I meant, what the fuck is this? I thought you said you weren't going to do this anymore.”

  “You said I wasn't going to do it anymore. I never said anything.”

  Tate took a long drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke up at him. Ang was much taller than her, almost by a foot, and the smoke mostly dissipated before it reached him. He glared some more and waved his hand around.

  “Of all the things I've ever seen you do, this is by far the most disgusting,” he told her. Tate laughed.

  “Wow. Considering all the things you've seen me do, that's quite a statement,” she snickered. He finally smiled at her.

  “Exactly.”

  *

  Ever since her midnight swim/Xanax-whiskey-cocktail, Tate's relationship with Ang had been strained. She was more grateful than she would ever be able to express, and she was so horrifically embarrassed by the whole episode, she could barely look him in the eye. Ang had seen her at her worst, at her absolute lowest – so low, she hadn't seen a way up again. So bad, she couldn't even remember it.

  However, Ang could remember it. In vivid, technicolor, high-definition recall. After Tate had gotten out of the hospital, she had stayed with him for a couple a nights, and it was hard to say who had worse nightmares, her or him. She had scarred him a little, and she would never be able to forgive herself for that.

  Even knowing all that, though, knowing everything Ang had done for her, and everything she had done to him, didn't stop her from being annoyed with him. It compounded her guilt, but it was the truth. She couldn't deny it. Tate had never been good at lying to herself.

  Ang mothered. He hovered. He watched her with a wariness in his eyes, like he was expecting her to leap off a ledge at any moment. She lived with
him for a week, but when she caught him hiding the knives, she moved back out. She wasn't suicidal, and he claimed that he knew she wasn't suicidal – but his actions said otherwise. She moved back in to her old apartment, squeezing in with her sister, Ellie, and her old roommate, Rusty.

  The fighting started not long afterwards. They would argue over everything. Over nothing. Ang would show up unannounced, and Tate would walk into her bedroom to find him rifling through her stuff. They'd be out at dinner, and he would try to set her up with random guys. She'd be laying in bed, and he would show up at one in the morning to drag her to a party.

  Not cool.

  Ang just couldn't understand that she wasn't the same old Tatum. Part of that girl had stayed in that pool. Stayed in that house in Weston. She didn't want to go to parties, and she didn't want to hook up with random guys, but most of all, she didn't want her best friend staring at her like she was a nut job.

  She moved out of her apartment, stopped answering her phone for a while. Then Ang seemed to return the favor – Tate was hardly ever able to get a hold of him, and even when she could, he was rushing her off the phone, or giving her all sorts of reasons for why he couldn't hang out with her. The stress would have been enough to drive her to drink, but she hadn't touched alcohol since that night in October.

  So she took up smoking.

  Jameson would kill me for doing something like this.

  Her hospital stay hadn't been very enjoyable, either. Ang had been two steps away from having a nervous breakdown. Her sister wasn't any better – a pregnant woman in the process of leaving her abusive soon-to-be-ex-husband; Ellie had enough problems without having to deal with her estranged-sister's alleged suicide attempt.

  Sanders had visited every single day, but he was always quiet and taciturn. Tate's little episode had really upset him. And then the day when she had found out that he had been visiting her. A night nurse, going off duty in the wee hours of the morning, had let it slip.