“You know, you should really watch the way you speak to me,” Jameson said softly, his finger taping against her collar bone.
“I'm not scared of you,” she whispered. He leaned close to her, pressing his hand flat against her chest.
“Liar.”
She shrieked and shoved him. As hard as she possibly fucking could. He lost his footing, stumbled backwards. Right into the gap in the railing Tate had crawled through only a moment ago. Good. She shouldn't be the only one to take a dip. She hoped he hit the water flat on his fucking back. Be bruised for a week.
Something wasn't right, though. Her eyes had recognized it instantly, but her brain took a second to catch up. Jameson wasn't a man that could easily be knocked off balance, especially when he had been ready and waiting for her to push him. He had taken a step back, to brace himself, and his foot had landed on a pile of chains. Slipped inside them, got tangled in them. He couldn't get any purchase, so he went over.
Tate suddenly remembered talking to Sanders that morning, him saying that someone would be working on the boat. Something was wrong with one of the anchors. In the wheelhouse, she hadn't seen Jameson release any. She didn't know much about boating, but she knew that most people dropped anchor when they stopped a boat. Jameson hadn't done it because the chain for one of the smaller, front anchors wasn't attached to the yacht. Now that same chain was wrapped securely around his ankle.
Jameson hit the water hard, on his back, just as she'd cursed him. Tate dropped to her knees, but she wasn't quick enough and the anchor was yanked out of its cubbyhole in the side of boat. It flew after him, falling into the water at the exact same spot he had, disappearing in the splashes.
She shrieked, laying flat. God, had it hit him!? It wasn't a big anchor, but it was big enough. And it was a long way down. Oh god, had she just killed Jameson!? Typical. That would be just like him – he finally talks to her, really talks to her, and then goes and dies.
Stupid dick.
Tate screamed his name, pounding her hand on the deck. He didn't resurface. She pulled herself to her knees, raked her fingers through her hair. He still didn't come back. She thought she was going to throw up. She had killed him. They were alone on a boat in the Mediterranean. Everyone knew they weren't getting along, that Tate was very angry at him. No one would believe it was an accident. She would go to jail for murder. Sanders would be an orphan.
I'll never see Jameson again.
And that thought, more than anything, absolutely terrified her.
She scrambled over the side of the deck, making it down a couple rungs before she lost her grip and fell into the ocean. She couldn't see shit, but Tate dove under water as far as she could. Resurfaced. Went back. Screamed his name. Over and over, screamed his name. She had never wanted to hear his voice as much as she did in that moment. Wanted to hear him yelling at her to shut the fuck up. Yelling at her to stop fucking screaming.
“Stop fucking screaming.”
I've gone crazy. I killed Jameson, and I've gone crazy.
She went still, treading water, looking around her. There was another sound, a cough, and she looked up. Jameson was standing on the deck, staring down at her. She gasped and fell under the surface of the water. Struggled to swim back up. She was having trouble – her heart seemed to have fallen out of its cavity and was now somewhere in her stomach.
She gagged and broke the surface, gasping for air. She couldn't see anything, her hair was covering her face, but something grabbed her arm. Strong fingers wrapped around her forearm, hauled her up against the boat. Pulled her onto the ladder. She found the railings and clung to them, wiping her hair out of her face as best she could with her shoulder.
“Dead ..., I thought you were dead ..,” Tate gasped. Jameson was on the ladder next to her, leaning out over the water.
“If you want to kill me, Tate, you're going to have to try a little harder. C'mon,” he urged, curling an arm around her hips and pushing her upwards.
When she got to the top, she stumbled away from the railing, pressing a hand to her heart. She stood with her eyes closed, trying to catch her breath. She had thought he was dead. Gone forever. And that had terrified her. More than jail, more than murder, more than anything. Not seeing him, ever again. Extinguishing him. If Jameson was gone, what would become of her?
Stupid girl. It was never a game.
“I thought you were dead,” she breathed, turning around to face him. He was walking towards her, running his hand through his hair, shaking the water out of it.
“Not quite,” he laughed.
“But ..., I saw the anchor, I thought it hit you. You didn't come up,” Tate said.
“It didn't hit me, I didn't die. The anchor, unfortunately, did die. The chain wasn't attached to the boat. It's somewhere on its way to the bottom now,” Jameson sighed, almost sad sounding as he glanced behind him at the water. Tate was a little blown away.
“You're sad about losing an anchor, and you almost died. Where the fuck did you go!? I screamed at you for forever!” she demanded.
“It dragged me under the boat – when I came up, I almost smacked into the bottom of the hull. I swam to the back, came up those stairs,” he explained. She shoved at his chest, albeit gently this time.
“It didn't occur to you to fucking say something!?” she snapped.
“No. You had just shoved me overboard, with an anchor chained to my ankle. I didn't think you really gave a fuck,” he replied. Tate shoved him again.