Reparation (The Kane Trilogy, #3)(18)

“Shut up.”

“Of course.”

They stood in silence for a minute. One of the things Jameson loved about Sanders, they could be in complete silence. For long periods of time, sometimes for a whole day. And Sanders never minded Jameson's blunt, crass nature. It was heaven. If only he could train Tatum to be the same way.

“Where is she?” Jameson asked, lifting his head. She had left that morning, but he hadn't bothered to ask her what she was doing; she had left him half dead in the shower, completely weak in the knees. The woman could probably suck a golf ball through fifty feet of garden hose. It was outstanding.

“I believe she went to see Mr. Hollingsworth,” Sanders answered.

“Fuuuuuuuck.”

“I advised her not to do anything rash,” Sanders offered. Jameson snorted.

“And how did she respond?” he asked. Sanders was quiet for a while, and Jameson looked at him pointedly.

“She ..., she blew a raspberry. All over my face,” he replied. Jameson laughed.

“Poor Sanders. Still in love with her?” he chuckled. The other man turned slightly pink.

“I have lots of purell,” was all he said before walking out of the kitchen.



*



Tate was very nervous. She fiddled with the silverware at her table as she looked around the restaurant. It was evening, lots of couples were sitting around her, having romantic dinners. Perfect. She glanced at the front door and went back to fiddling.

She felt like her brain was cracking apart. Jameson's words, Sanders' words, all ricocheting off her neurons and brain waves. Driving her crazy. Or making her sane. She couldn't tell which anymore. She wanted to make everyone pay. But she wanted to be normal. But she wanted to hate everyone. But she didn't want to hate herself.

It was all too much.

“Tater tot! Sorry I'm late,” Ang called out, hurrying between the tables. Tate managed a smile, sitting up straighter. Tried to put on her best adoring look.

Sex hadn't worked, and now she knew for a fact that it would never work – Jameson had basically said that he wouldn't care. But love. Love was a different ball game. Jameson had told her that, a long time ago.



“... I don't really care about being the other man, as long as I'm the man. Can't be that, if you go off and fall in love with your best friend. ...”



Tate would convince Ang that she was in love with him. They had danced in and out of the friend zone for years – she was very confident that the temptation to call her his own, to win her from Jameson, would be enough to make Ang leave Ellie. Dump her, for Tatum. History, repeating itself. And Jameson hated sharing his toys, hated Ang, hated love. He had fought to win back his fu-ck-toy, but he wouldn't fight for her affections.

She had to believe that.

“No big deal. How are you? Haven't seen you in forever,” she laughed, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek.

“Yeah, well, ever since you pulled your weird, satanic, seduction act on me, I've been afraid for my soul,” Ang explained.

You don't know how close you are to the truth, Ang. Run far, far away from me.

“Oh shut up, you loved it,” she teased before they were interrupted by a waiter.

They chatted. They flirted. She made a lot of very direct eye contact. Felt a lot like throwing up. Really wanted to drink. But she kept on smiling. Kept laying it on thick. Ang would have no clue what hit him.

“So I gotta ask,” he started, after their plates had been taken away. Tate leaned across the table, smiling big. “What the hell is going on?”

Apparently he has a big fu-cking clue. You're as subtle as a baseball bat to the head, you dumb bitch.

“What do you mean?” Tate asked, trying to feign innocence.

“You're wearing your titty-mcgee shirt, flirting like it's an Olympic sport, and smiling like some creepy doll. What the fu-ck is going on?” Ang demanded. She swallowed thickly, shaking her head.

“Nothing, I don't know what -,”

“We have met, you know. Sometimes I think you don't realize that. I know you, bitch. I know what's normal, and what's not normal. And the way you've been acting lately, I'm pretty sure you couldn't even spell 'normal' if I asked you to,” he stated.

Something snapped. She almost thought she could hear it, her sanity breaking. Echoing between her ears.

“You obviously don't know me that well,” she said in a loud voice. Ang's eyebrows shot up.

“Excuse me? Tate, I've known you for almost six years. We practically see each other every day. I'd say I know you pretty well,” he countered.

“But not well enough to know when I'm pissed the fu-ck off.”

“You're pissed off?” he clarified.

“Yes.”

“About what?”

“I'm pissed that you're a complete ass-hole,” she blurted out.

See. There's that filter problem again. Maybe you should see a doctor about it.

“Me!?” he exclaimed, pointing at himself. She nodded.

“Yes. A huge ass-hole. And that makes me mad. Like, so mad ... I can't ... I want ... you ...,” she began breathing hard, waving her hand as she searched for words.

“What did I do!? Is this cause I wouldn't fu-ck you!?” he demanded. Several tables turned to look at them.