“Sorry. You're addicting. I have high hopes that I can change your mind.”
“I have rational realizations that you most likely won't.”
“When you talk like that, I think it's really him talking.”
“I think so, too.”
Conversations like that were what made Tate decide she was going to take Nick up on his offer. She had been living in a hotel room for over a month. Sanders hadn't answered her phone calls for the last two weeks. No word from Jameson, at all. It was really over. She needed somewhere to go, someone to be. Maybe it wouldn't work out with Nick, but he was okay with that, okay with trying. And she had to at least try.
She was staying at a Marriott hotel, near the University of Arizona. There was a huge function being thrown at the hotel that night, a ton of baseball teams were gathering together. Food, champagne, awards of some sort. Seemed a good time to tell him she would move in with him.
“You're in love with Jameson.” Ang said it as a statement. She swallowed thickly.
“Maybe. But I'm done waiting for him to be in love with me. And he and his stupid girlfriend can go have their love child together and live -,” she started to ramble, pacing outside the doors to the hotel.
“Don't you watch the fucking news!?” Ang interrupted.
“Huh?”
“You idiot. It's not his. The real father stepped foward, proved that it couldn't be Jameson. There was a paternity test and everything. Jameson's lawyers have been suing the shit out of her. Will you come home now!?” he whined. She stopped pacing.
“Not his?” she asked.
No. No, no, no, no.
“Not his. That fucker, from the party, who hit you,” Ang told her.
“You are shitting me,” Tate gasped.
“Not at all. Apparently she didn't go straight back to Berlin after Jameson kicked her ass out. She hung around with that Dunn guy. It's his baby,” Ang explained.
She was blown away. She started laughing. She was fully aware that she looked completely crazy, cackling into the phone like a hyena. Well, Petrushka had wanted an American financier. She got one, and one who was almost as big an asshole as she was; winning.
“This is amazing. Ang, you have made my day,” Tate gasped for air.
“Good. Will you come home?” he demanded. She sighed.
“Ang. Do you love me?”
“What?”
“Do you love me?”
“Right now? Not very much,” he snapped.
“Just let me figure shit out, alright. I tried it with Jameson. It didn't work. Let me try it with Nick. If it doesn't work, I'll run home,” she promised.
“Or somewhere else. Tate ..., please. I'll sleep with you. I'll love you. Don't just give up,” he urged.
“A lot of women would kill to be in my position, moving in with Nick,” she pointed out.
“Exactly – and you're robbing them of that. I'm worried for you, worried you'll end up like your mom,” Ang said softly. She stiffened up.
“That won't happen. I'm not giving up. I'm testing the waters,” she replied.
“Last time you 'tested the waters', I had to pull you out, and baby girl, I'm not there this time around.”
Tate hung up on him. Stared at the phone like she was holding a snake. Ang had never called her 'baby girl' before, ever. He had called her just about every other name under the sun, but not that one. No, that was Jameson's name for her. What he had been calling her since she was eighteen. And to bring up the pool, that was low. Even for Ang.
She sighed and looked out onto the street, trying not to cry. Tate had made a deal with herself. No more tears. She focused on different things, tried to distract herself. There were a lot of really nice cars everywhere, a lot of rich baseball players were checking into the hotel. She saw a Porsche. A couple Escalades. A Ferrari. She smiled sadly when her eyes landed on a black Bentley.
At least someone at this hotel has classy tastes.
She walked through the lobby, glancing around. The hotel was buzzing with people. Lots of new people checking in, bell service people running around. A cart whizzed past her, filled with Louis Vuitton luggage. She frowned. Something didn't feel right.
Tate stood in front of an elevator, frowning at her feet. It was just Ang. His phone call was weighing on her soul. That's why she felt weird. And the Bentley. She would probably never be able to look at a Bentley the same again. Good thing she didn't know anyone else who owned one.
She took a deep breath as she heard a ding announcing the elevator's arrival. She walked forward, starting to lift her head, but something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. A man, striding towards the front desk. Impeccable suit. Styled hair. Trim frame. Tate gasped, turning even as she stepped into the elevator, ignoring the people inside.
“Sanders?” she whispered, craning her neck to see. There was shuffling behind her, and someone brushed against her elbow as they reached for the floor buttons. Fire spread up her arm.
“Going up, baby girl?”
She felt like the elevator was falling out from underneath her. She slowly turned, the doors sliding shut. Satan was in the elevator, smiling down at her. Taking up every square inch of space. She stared up at him, her jaw hanging open.
“How ..., how ...,” Tate breathed. He put a finger under chin, shut her mouth for her.
“You have a whole network of people trying to do what they think is best for you. Ang talked to Sanders. Sanders wouldn't calm down till I agreed to come out here,” Jameson explained in a soft voice. She swallowed thickly.