I should really feel like a bad person most of the time.
*
“Do you always keep it this hot?”
Tatum was laying on the floor in Jameson's library, a little ways back from the wingback chairs. The fire was raging again and the room was almost stifling. Sweat was causing her hair to stick to her face, her shirt to stick to her skin. Jameson was in his chair, his feet stretched towards the fire. The heat didn't seem to bother him.
Why would fire affect the devil?
“I like it hot,” was all he said in response. She snorted, almost upsetting the glass she had balanced on her stomach.
“You like it too hot,” she corrected him.
“If it's too hot for you, take off some clothes,” he suggested. She smirked at the ceiling and moved the glass off her stomach before shimmying out of her jeans. She lifted her head enough to be able to see where he was, and then threw the pants at him. They caught him in the side of the face.
“Much better, thank you,” she told him in a happy voice.
Tate hadn't heard from him Sunday, but then Monday afternoon, she got a text message telling her to be ready by six o'clock, and to pack some clothes for an “extended” stay. Ooohhh. She was ready to go hours before she needed to be, and was waiting on the stoop of her building when Sanders pulled up in their sleek Bentley.
Jameson hadn't been too chatty once she got to the house, just content to sit and work. His home was enormous, but as far as she could tell, he spent most of his time in the library. She asked him why he had sent for her, if he was just going to work the whole time, and was told that just because he was working, didn't mean he couldn't appreciate something nice to look at once in a while.
They ate dinner and talked about the benefits of socialized health care versus private industry. Tate was a smart girl, she had gotten in to Harvard, after all – she kept current. She just usually didn't have anyone to talk to about that kind of stuff. Ang was more interested in talking about which porn star made the most money and what angle was best for backside shots. Rus just wanted to talk about boys.
She loved her friends, she really did, but sometimes Tate wanted to shoot herself.
Jameson was like a breath of fresh air. He was smart, he was cultured, and he knew how to have a conversation, when someone was deemed worthy enough for him to talk to them. And he always kept his cool, even when she purposefully tried to get a rise out of him. The Unshakable Jameson Kane.
After dinner, he led them back in to the library. The fire had already been going when she got there, but he kept building it higher, adding more logs. That was why she had opted to lay on the floor. The chairs were too hot.
“Sexy socks, Tate,” Jameson chuckled. She lifted her legs, pointing her feet at the ceiling. She was wearing a pair of purple-striped socks that went all the way to her knees. Her guilty pleasure in life. If she was stranded on a desert island, and could only have one thing, it would probably be a pair of knee length socks.
“Thank you, I think so,” she laughed, kicking her legs up and down before dropping them back to the floor.
“Are you drunk yet?” he asked. She shook her head and reached out a hand, running her fingers up and down the bottle of Jack Daniel's that was sitting near her.
“No. Do you want me to be drunk?”
“Could be interesting.”
“You're in a dark mood tonight. What's wrong?” she asked. Jameson chuckled.
“Am I ever in a light mood?” he responded. She nodded.
“Sure you are. Sometimes you're downright happy. I mean, you're always mean, and kind of a bastard, but at least you're happy about it,” she told him, and he burst out laughing.
“Okay, okay, stop with the flattery,” he joked.
“So what's wrong?”
“Had a run in over the weekend. With an ..., ex, of sorts,” he said. Tate stilled her fingers. He was speaking slowly, choosing his words carefully. Protecting her? Or hiding from her? She couldn't be sure.
“Bad kind of ex?” she asked.
“Is there any other kind?”
“Some people end on good notes, Jameson. It is possible to have an amicable break up,” she pointed out. He snorted.
“Bullshit. Do you have any good exes in your past?” he asked. She laughed.
“I'm not a very normal person. I told you about the one guy, we don't exactly speak anymore. Another guy cried when I ended it – which was weird, considering I hadn't even known we were dating. Funny how some people mistake sex for a relationship,” she replied.
“Now that's the truth.”
“So what happened? Big fight? Stalker? Oh my god, please tell me it wasn't Ellie!” she suddenly gasped, sitting upright. He had turned to face her, and his Satan's smile was in place.
“Wouldn't that have been hilarious. You know, it could be interesting. Maybe we should arrange a family reunion,” Jameson suggested. Tate narrowed her eyes.
“I don't think so. Look, if you don't wanna talk about your ex, fine, not a big deal to me, but you need to get in a better mood, or I'm gonna go find something else to do,” she informed him. His eyebrows raised up.
“Oh really. Ms. O'Shea, talking tough. You really want me to talk about her? Most women don't want to hear men talk about other women. Particularly women those men have slept with,” he pointed out.
“I'm not most women. How many times are we going to have this conversation? Fine, I'll take the lead. Is she hot? Did she dump you, when it ended? Did you guys fight, this weekend? Did you get in one last closure-fuck? Did you fuck her this weekend?” Tate prattled off. He smiled, turning his head back towards the fire.