Tatum O'Shea, nice, normal girl. Pshaw, right.
The door creaked and opened, light from the hall spilling inside. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Jameson walk towards her. She didn't say anything, just grabbed a necklace off the dresser and moved back to the mirror. She struggled with the clasp and he walked up behind her, taking the necklace from her fingers.
“Too cheap,” he commented. Tate stared at his reflection while he clasped the necklace.
“You think?” she asked, pressing her hand against the jewelry. It was several strands of pearls, of varying lengths, all connected as one at the ends.
“Yes. They're fake. I remember you wearing another set of fake pearls, once. You need real ones,” he told her. She smiled.
“I'll put that on my to-do list. Rent, utilities, pearls,” she joked, reaching back and unhooking the necklace. As soon as she removed it, his hands took its place, his thumbs hooked around the back of her neck and his fingers splaying down to her collar bone.
“I hurt you,” Jameson repeated his statement from the car. She threw the necklace onto the dresser.
“A little bit. I'm mostly over it,” she replied.
“I don't think you're stupid, Tate,” he started, and she held her breath, her eyes locked on his in the mirror. Jameson, apologizing? No way. “I think the way you live is stupid. Maybe I hide a little, but you're running away, too. You are better than all of this, smarter than all of them, and you know it.”
“Those are my friends,” her voice was soft.
“Can you honestly tell me that sometimes you don't want something different?” he asked.
“Who doesn't?” she responded. “It's knowing the worth of what you have. Fake pearls are just as good as real pearls, if they're given with good intentions and love. If Ang gave me the gaudiest, ugliest, tackiest, strand of fake pearls ever, I would love them more than any set of real pearls my parents ever gave me. Ang loves me. So good or bad, stupid or smart, those people care about me. I care about them. I could go back to Harvard tomorrow, and I would still be friends with these people, Jameson.”
He stared at her for a while, his grip getting harder. Almost like he was pushing down on her shoulders. He looked a little angry, and she wondered if maybe honest candor could get to Jameson more than childish games.
“If Angier gave you pearls, huh. And what if I gave you pearls? What would they mean to you?” he asked. She scrunched up her nose. The metaphor was starting to get awfully convoluted.
“Depends.”
“Oh what?”
“On how much they cost. You don't love me, so to be impressed, that price tag better be huge,” she halfway joked. He smirked at her.
“So, if I got you a $50,000 strand of pearls, and Angier got you some shitty fake ones, his would mean more to you, because he 'loves' you?” Jameson clarified.
“There are pearl necklaces that cost $50,000!?” Tate almost shouted her response.
“There are ones that cost a lot more than that. At least I know I can aim a little lower if I want to impress you,” he smirked. She swatted at his leg.
“Shut up. And don't be jealous of Ang, he just likes to play with me,” she told him.
“I'm not jealous. And it looks more like you like to play with him.”
“It's a mutual kind of thing.”
“So I played your game. I came downtown. I came to your dinner. I watched you kiss two guys. Do I win?” Jameson asked, his fingers massaging her skin. She sighed.
“Do you ever lose?” she replied.
“I keep trying to tell you that, I never lose,” he said.
“We'll see about that, I still have some -,”
“Do you trust me, Tate?” he interrupted.
“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. He looked a little surprised.
“Really?”
“Yes. You've never done something to me I didn't ask for, or didn't want. As far as I can tell, you've never lied to me. You have been upfront about everything and anything. Sometimes I don't like you very much; sometimes, I think you're the biggest dick I've ever met. You're rude, and mean, and spiteful half the time. But you never said you weren't – you've always claimed to be those things. So yes, I trust you,” she explained. He laughed.
“The things you say, Tate. Sometimes it's like talking to a man. I wonder if that's why you're so easy to talk to,” Jameson wondered out loud. She raised her eyebrows.
“I'm easy to talk to because I'm like a man?” she asked. He nodded.
“A little bit,” he told her.
“I have awfully nice tits for a dude,” she laughed, putting her hands over her breasts. He leaned close, his mouth against her ear.
“Stop talking. I came to dinner. I win. I get to extract payment,” he said.
With an abrupt shove, he pushed her to the side. She fell against the dresser, catching herself with her hands before she could face plant on the wood. She went to push herself up, but his hand pressed down on the center of her back, holding her in place.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Whatever I want. You said you trust me,” he pointed out, and she felt his other hand brush against the fabric of her skirt.
“I do, but I don't want to have sex in my friend's bedroom,” Tate told him with a laugh.
“Why not? And what makes you think we're going to fuck?”