Probably because I never really listened.
“You never asked permission any of the other times, so what's stopping you now?”
Jameson strode in to the room and went to his chair, which was pulled up to the left side of her bed. He took off his jacket and draped it over the back, before sitting down. She still hadn't turned to look at him. He cleared his throat.
“Do you want to do this now?” Jameson asked. She nodded her head.
“Like a band aid, just rip it off,” she replied.
“I'm sorry.”
Tate looked shocked. She glanced at him, and then her hand fumbled around on the mattress, looking for the bed controller. She found it and pushed a button until she was sitting almost upright. She had some color back in her face, though she was still much paler than she had been a month ago. It made her dark eyes and hair stand out. He couldn't stop staring at her.
Have I ever just looked at her?
“For what?” she asked. He wasn't quite sure how to answer her, wasn't sure if there were enough words, even. If there would be enough time, enough space, enough air, to express just how sorry he was to her.
“For ..., everything,” he finally answered. She managed a laugh.
“Sounds like a cop out. You don't have to apologize just to make me feel better. I'm okay, I don't -,” she started, but his anger at himself boiled over and spilled onto her.
“I'm sorry I hurt you,” Jameson snapped. “I'm sorry I was too stupid and pigheaded to just call you. I'm sorry I didn't stop you from leaving. I am really sorry I tried to give you that money, and I am very sorry I didn't go after you that night, but most of all, I'm sorry I didn't kill Dunn.”
“Thank you. That means a lot,” she told him, but her voice was flat. He narrowed his eyes.
“You don't believe me.”
He said it as a statement, not a question. Tate shrugged.
“I don't know. I'm trying not to think about it,” she replied.
“I never stop thinking about it. Thinking that maybe I -,”
“Why are you here, Jameson? You kicked me out. You brought her home to embarrass me – mission accomplished, by the way. I quite literally almost died from embarrassment,” she chuckled. His heart skipped a beat.
Dead? Never. You can't leave me.
“Not funny,” Jameson growled. “I was so upset with you. I thought you had gone back on your word. I saw those pictures of you, with that guy, and I just got so angry. So stupid. Jesus, what a fucking night. I even impressed myself with how much of a bastard I was.”
He groaned and leaned forward, putting his face in his hands. He wasn't the kind of man who could be easily intimidated, but suddenly the thought of meeting her gaze made him feel nervous. Sick. Made him feel ashamed.
Because I'm not worthy of her.
“Is this a game?” Tate whispered. Jameson shook his head.
“No, baby girl. No games,” he whispered back.
“What are we, if we don't have games?”
“Something else.”
“I hate you,” she sobbed, and Jameson lifted his head. She was back to staring at the ceiling, but now tears were streaming down her face. He frowned.
“I want you to know that I -,”
“I fucking hate you! What about that statement don't you get!?” she was suddenly screaming at him. He sat back, a little stunned.
“I am getting it, loud and clear. I just think -,”
“No! No! You don't get to think! I almost fucking died, Jameson! And I'm not blaming that on you, but you sure didn't fucking help! So I don't give a flying FUCK about what you think! I just want you to get out,” she sobbed, pressing her hands to her eyes. He stood up, but he had no intention of leaving. He moved closer to her bed, leaned over her.
“You and I have unfinished business, baby girl,” he told her softly.
She swung her arm in a wide arc. For someone who had “almost died”, she certainly had a lot of strength. She walloped him right in the ear. She let out a shriek and continued swinging her arms. Jameson didn't move away, just ducked his head and struggled to hold onto her arms. Her whole body thrashed around on the bed, and it took him a few moments to pin her wrists to the mattress.
“You and I are finished business, Kane,” Tate hissed, refusing to meet his eyes.
He remembered the night they had fought in his kitchen. When she had broken all the dishes and he'd held the scissors to her throat. The look in her eye that night was something he had never wanted to see again; had hoped to never see again.
Now, the look was back, only worse. Much, much worse.
I should've been the one in that pool.
“You and I will never be finished, Tate. Haven't you figured that out yet?”
“Get out.”
“No. Not until you tell me what I can do, what you want me to do, to fix this,” he replied, squeezing her wrists. She had to tell him, he had to know. Jameson Kane could fix anything, solve any problem – she just had to tell him how. He had to make this right somehow. She started to laugh and it turned into sobs.
“You wanna know what I want? What I really want? I want you to leave me alone. I want you to go away. I want to have never met you. I wish I had never met you. I wish that I hadn't catered that stupid party, and I wish I had never gone to your apartment that night. I want you to not exist anymore. I want you to just go away,” Tate cried, trying to pull her wrists free.