“Stop,” he murmured, grabbing her by the shoulders and turning her around. He zipped up the dress and then turned her back around, smoothing his hands over the material.
“Do I pass code?” she joked. He rested his hands on her hips and stared down the length of his nose at her.
“More than I ever could have thought.”
The sentiment made her feel ill and she pushed past him, heading down the stairs. When she reached the bottom, her father was just walking out of the kitchen. They both stopped. Stared at each other. He was older, heavier. More grey in his hair. Tate knew she was different, had grown in to herself over the years. She wondered what he thought when he looked at her. What he had ever thought.
“Tatum. I didn't believe Kane, when he said he would bring you,” her father stated. Tate let out a breath.
“Here I am,” she said softly.
“You look well,” was all he said before brushing past her and going in to the study. Jameson came to stand next to her and she looked up at him.
“Is your game still funny?” she whispered. He shook his head.
“Not even a little,” he replied, lifting his hands and rubbing her shoulders. Ellie shuffled around the corner and Tate automatically backed away from him.
Because he's not mine.
Dinner was awkward, to say the least. Her father asked where Robert was, and everyone looked at Ellie, who just laughed nervously. He asked Jameson how business was, asked his wife how her day had gone. Didn't say one word to Tatum. She drank. Heavily. Jameson took her glass away at one point, but she just started filling her water glass with wine.
Why can't rich people just be normal and drink whiskey!?
They “retired” to the drawing room. Jameson lit up a cigar, which she had never seen him do before; it got her hot. She'd had a lot of wine, and she imagined the different things he could do with a large Macanudo.
She wondered what was wrong with her.
Tate finally escaped to bed around nine o'clock. She hadn't said a word in over an hour, no one had spoken to her, so she figured no one would miss her. She went in to her room and peeled off all her clothing before climbing under the covers. Trying to hide her sniffles, she texted Ang.
What are you doing?
It took him a while to reply.
Three guesses.
She almost laughed.
Sex. Hang gliding. Battlestar Galactica marathon.
Got two of them right. What's up, chickadee?
I'm at home.
Thought you were locked away in the country! I'll kick this bitch to the curb and bring Battlestar to your house.
No. I'm at home. HOME home. Like where I was born. Pennsylvania.
Holy fuckballs.
She really did laugh at that one. He captured her feelings so well.
Still in shock myself.
Did Satan make you do it?
Who else? To say it hasn't gone well would be an understatement.
Bad?
Worse.
Details.
Mom is a pill popping alcoholic. Daddy still refuses to admit I exist. Ellie still thinks I'm the biggest slut in the world. Her husband is an abusive pervert. Got hit in the face. Got drunk.
There was another long pause.
If Satan hit you, I'm going to fucking kill him.
No. Ellie's husband.
Was Satan upset, or turned on?
He broke the dude's jaw.
Okay, even I'm a little turned on by that.
Tate burst out laughing and just then, her door started to creak open.
“You sound like a crazy person,” Jameson's voice was soft. He was outlined in a burst of light and then the door closed, leaving them in darkness.
“Probably because I am one,” she replied. She felt him sit on the edge of the bed and then his hand rested on her stomach.
“What were you laughing at?” he asked.
“Ang. We were texting each other,” she explained.
“Ah, of course. Angier. Are you okay?”
“Do you really care?”
“Feisty.”
“No. Tired,” she ended in a sigh. His fingertips brushed across her forehead, brushing her hair out of the way.
“I'll leave you alone. One more day, baby girl, and then you win the whole thing,” Jameson whispered, and then got up. He walked out the door, closing it behind him without another word. Not even a backwards glance.
She stared after him. Her phone was clenched in her hand, resting against her chest. She could feel it vibrating with more incoming text messages from Ang. But she didn't read them. She stared at the door, willing Satan to come back.
I hate to be alone.
*
Another day, another dress. Jameson had only packed her one pair of pants, and she had worn them to the hospital – they were a wrinkled up mess in the corner of her room. So she slipped on a tweed dress. Possibly Chanel. She felt horrible. She wanted her own clothing, a pair of cut-offs and a loose t-shirt. Her knee socks. Anything else. She was careful with her hair and makeup, and then walked downstairs.
Jameson was already in the living room, talking to Sanders. They both turned at her entrance, but she only managed a smile for Sanders. She felt drained. Hollow. Her family sucked the life out of her. She hadn't realized it, but maybe that was why she had been such a robot in her past life. They had sucked her will to live. She had to get away. If Jameson didn't take them home that evening, she was going to hitchhike. Kidnap Sanders. Steal the car. Something.
“Alright?” Jameson asked with a curt nod of his head. She shrugged.
“As I'll ever be. Is it too early to start drinking?” she asked. He nodded.