Reparation (The Kane Trilogy, #3)(81)

“Then why are you chasing him?” the girl asked. Tate looked at her reflection in the shiny walls, straightened out her dress.

“Because I think I want him to be my boyfriend,” she said. The girl scrunched up her nose.

“Oh. I thought boys asked girls out,” she said in a matter-o-fact voice. Tate snorted and lowered herself so she was eye to eye with the girl.

“No way, girls can do anything boys can do, including ask people out. You know what I say? If you really like somebody, just go for it,” Tate explained. The girl smiled.

“I think you'll get him,” she assured her. Tate stood up.

“You think so?” she asked, holding out her arms like she was under inspection.

“Yes. You look really pretty,” she told her. Tate nodded.

“Good. He likes pretty,” Tate said, turning to stare at the floor numbers.

“Is he cute?” the girl asked. Tate glanced down at her.

“The truth? He is the cutest boy I have ever met, in my entire life,” she told the girl.

“Wow. Cuter than Justin Bieber?”

“Yes. Cuter than Justin Bieber.”

“Wow.”

The elevator stopped and the doors dinged open. Tate squealed and kicked her shoes out onto the floor in front of her. She glanced up and down the hall, then turned back to the elevator. The little girl was giving her the thumbs up. Tate gave it back.

“Wish me luck!” she said. The girl laughed.

“Good luck!”

And then the elevator doors slid shut.

Tate realized in her romance-movie-style rush to see Jameson, she had forgotten that she didn't have a fu-cking clue what room he was in, let alone what floor. He was staying in a suite, that was for sure. The suites were on the top floors. She dug her fingers underneath the side of her dress, at the side of her waist. She made contact with something hard and she pinched it between her fingers, yanking her cell phone out. She called the front desk.

“Hi!” she shouted when someone picked up. “Hi, yeah, sorry, I need to speak with a guest.”

“Alright, who are you looking for?” a sweet sounding woman asked.

“I need Jameson Kane's room,” she told her.

“Please hold.”

The phone rang and rang and rang. Tate let out a frustrated yell and kicked a wall, then promptly regretted it, as she was painfully reminded that she wasn't wearing shoes. She hopped around on one foot and the line finally picked up.

“I'm sorry, ma'am, the guest you are trying to reach is not available. Would you like to leave a voicemail?”

“No. No, uh, what is his room number?” Tate asked, pacing up and down the hall.

“I'm sorry, but I am not allowed to give out that information.”

“Uuuggg, c'mon! I already know he's staying here! Just tell me the room!” Tate demanded.

“Mr. Kane is a preferential guest. I cannot give out that information. Thank you for calling, good night.”

And the line was dead.

Tate let out a shriek. What was she supposed to do now!? In a fit of passion, right after she had gotten to Arizona, she had deleted Jameson's cell phone number. She didn't have it memorized – who did that anymore!? And she didn't want to call Sanders to ask for it, in case he was with Jameson. Talk about a mood killer.

She marched to one end of the hall and began knocking on the door. No one answered. She began banging. She realized she was acting crazy, but she was long past the point of caring. She'd moved on into acceptance. Jameson Kane made her crazy. She should probably start getting used it.

When no one answered at the third door, she began yelling. Calling out for both Sanders and Jameson, hoping that they were behind one of the doors, and just not answering because they thought it was housekeeping or something. At the fourth door, she got a disgruntled elderly man. At the fifth door, she got a teenage boy who invited her inside. The eighth had a half dressed baseball player, telling her to shut the fu-ck up. She told him he could suck her dick. That shut him up.

She was prancing around from foot to foot in front of the elevator, waiting for it to open so it could take her to the top floor. She felt like she had taken speed. And coke. Or crack. Some lethal combination of all three. She couldn't stop moving, she had so much adrenaline pumping. She hopped around, hugging the jewelry box to her chest. Finally, the elevator opened up.

But it wasn't empty.

“What the fu-ck are you doing!? We can hear you all the way upstairs!” Jameson snapped. She glared at him.

“Then what the fu-ck took you so long to come down here!?” she snapped back.

“Are you fu-cking serious right now!?” he exclaimed.

“Are you fu-cking serious!?”

“You're fu-cking crazy, you know that, right!? Goddamn psychotic!” he yelled at her. The elevator started to close and he slammed his palm against a door, causing it to open again.

“Oh yeah!?” she yelled back. “Well if I'm fu-cking psychotic, it's because you made me this way!”

“Tatum!” he snapped her name through clenched teeth.

“What!?”

“Shut the fu-ck up.”

She fell on him, throwing her arms around his neck. He moved backwards with her weight, and they fell against the back wall of the elevator. The jewelry box fell between them, smacking her on the foot as it hit the floor. The elevator doors slid shut behind them.