Reparation (The Kane Trilogy, #3)(58)

“Oh god. Well, I guess that's a good thing. I was gonna offer to stay with you, but I probably wouldn't be much help,” Tate put out there. Ellie nodded.

“Thanks.”

They made idle chit chat after that; Ellie shared some of the more disgusting, lesser known facts about childbirth. Tate tried to hold down her lunch. They turned on the TV and watched some crap reality show, made fun of the contestants. But after about an hour, Tate grew restless.

“Ellie, I have a favor to ask,” she started.

“Sure, what is it?” her sister responded.

“I hate asking when you're like this, in the hospital, but I really need your help,” Tate continued.

“You're kind of freaking me out. What's up?” Ellie asked. Tate took a deep breath.

She asked Ellie if she could borrow some money. She hated doing it, especially after the little show she and Ang had put on, but she didn't have anyone else she could ask. She couldn't ask Sanders, he would tell Jameson, and she certainly couldn't ask Jameson. Luckily, Ellie agreed to it with very little questions asked.

“Are you sure you're okay? I feel like I'm doing a drug deal,” Ellie commented, handing Tate a check for $3,000.

“I'm fine,” Tate laughed.

“I saw the baby stuff, online. About Jameson. I'm sorry,” Ellie said softly. Tate shrugged.

“No biggy. I mean, we're not really together, and we certainly weren't together then,” she replied, but when she looked up from putting the check away, Ellie was frowning at her.

“It would be hard for me, if you suddenly said you were pregnant with Angier's baby,” Ellie added. Tate laughed again.

“Who says I'm not?” she teased, winking at her sister. Ellie didn't laugh.

“What are you planning?” she suddenly asked. Tate sighed.

“Nothing you need to worry about. I'll talk to you later,” Tate replied, getting up and kissing Ellie on the forehead. Her sister grabbed her hand.

“Be careful, Tate,” she warned her. Tate chuckled, and it sounded vaguely evil.

“I always am.”

She kissed her fingertip and pressed it to the baby's forehead, then waltzed out the door. She made a brief stop at her bank, cashing the check before she headed back to the house. Back home.

Well, back to his home.

Being sneaky around Jameson was difficult. He was very smart and very intuitive, and on top of all of that, he watched her like a hawk. She had to execute her plan in stages, usually when he was out of the house. Which wasn't often; he'd barely left at all since “The Petrushka Incident”.

“Baby girl,” he whispered one night, sliding into bed beside her. Tate had been trying to act like she was asleep.

“Hmmm?” she mumbled, trying not to slither away when his arm went around her waist.

“I know what you've been thinking. And it's not true. You promised me, remember. You promised you wouldn't freak out,” he reminded her. She sighed.

“I haven't freaked out at all.”

“You're freaking out right now.”

“Well, it's kinda freaky, you have to admit,” she started. Saying something close to the truth had always worked well for her. She was a horrible liar. “And I said I wouldn't freak out every ten seconds. It's been a lot longer than that.”

“Whatever you're thinking of doing, don't,” Jameson urged, scooting her back so she was pressed to his chest. She closed her eyes.

“You said we'll deal with us later. Later, Jameson. Later,” she insisted, scratching her nails down his arm.

“Or we can deal with it now,” he growled back. “I didn't sleep with her. That picture of me and her, in Spain ..., remember the night we went to the club, when you saw her? The next day, when I was coming home, she was in the parking lot. I told her to stay the fu-ck away from you, and then I had the harbor master escort her out of the marina. That was it. I should have told you. I am now very sorry that I didn't.”

Liar. Such a fu-cking liar.

Tate rolled over under his arm. Pressed against his chest, forced him onto his back.

How easy it is, to fall into old tricks. Distraction. Sex. Samesies.

“This is all boring,” she replied, biting into his chest. He hissed and his hands flew into her hair.

“You don't want to do this,” he whispered. She chuckled and reached down between their bodies, rubbing her hand against his growing erection.

“Oh, I really want to do this.”

See? Truth that's close to a lie, or vice versa.

“God, you're so horrible to me,” he groaned, putting his hand over her own. Wrapping his fingers around hers, working her hand faster. She laughed and managed to slide her hand free, leaving him stroking himself.

“I've always been good to you, Jameson,” she whispered, kissing her way down his chest.

“So good,” he whispered in agreement. She pulled the sheet away from him, watched him for a minute, admired his body.

“Say it again,” she urged, tracing her tongue against his hip bone. His hand moved faster.

“You're so good to me, Tatum,” he groaned. She kissed her way to his thigh.

“Mmm, maybe you should say it one more time,” she suggested. Suddenly his free hand was in her hair.