She snapped out of her daze. It was obvious that the secretary had been standing there for a while. Tate smiled and got up, following the woman in to a large office. Jameson didn't spare any expense – large windows with amazing views. Mahogany furniture. Impressive credentials in frames. Was that a real Mark Rothko on the wall!?

“I figured you would stand me up,” Jameson got out of his chair as the secretary backed out of the room. Tate shrugged and walked forward, flopping in to a chair across from his desk.

“As cute as stalking is, I figured I'd better nip this in the bud,” she replied. His eyes traveled up and down her form.

“You look different today. Every time I see you, it's like a different person,” he said. She glanced down at herself. She was wearing wide legged suit pants, ballet flats, and a blouse with puffed, cap sleeves. All black.

“I'm temping for an upscale salon today. What do you want?” Tate got to the point. He smiled at her.

“So impatient. How've you been? Did you finish school?” he inquired, taking his seat again.

She narrowed her eyes at him. He said he just wanted to talk, but then he would make comments about punishing her mouth, and other things. He said he didn't want to date her, but he seemed borderline obsessed with getting to know her. He made her mind spin in circles.

“I've been fan-fucking-tastic. I dropped out of school right after I left Harrisburg. Is that it?” she asked, surging to her feet.

“Sit down,” he commanded in a stern voice, and she immediately did so – shocking herself a little.

“What do you want, Kane? Let's not beat around the bush. You don't know me – you never cared to know me before, so what's the big deal now? If I disappeared off the face of the earth tomorrow, it wouldn't affect your life,” Tate pointed out.

“Maybe not. But I'm kind of used to getting what I want, and like I said, you intrigue me,” Jameson replied. She scooted to the edge of her chair.

“Okay, fine. My life story – I left home after the night I slept with you, didn't look back. My father called me, told me he wouldn't pay my tuition anymore. I told him to fuck off. My mother called me and told me I wasn't welcome in their home anymore. I told her to fuck off. Ellie called me and told me I was the biggest whore she'd ever met. I told her to go fuck herself. I dropped out of school. I got a job at a Chili's. I moved out my apartment. Got a second job cleaning motel rooms. Moved to a shittier apartment. Got my job at the bar – moved in with Rusty, to an even shittier apartment.

“But you know what's crazy? I was happy. I got to be me – I never got to be me, before I left. It was awesome. I drank a lot, I did a lot of drugs, I had a lot of sex, and it was all awesome. Now you're pretty much caught up to speed. Can I go?” she said it all rapid fire, speaking as fast as she could. Jameson leaned back in his chair.

“Do you still do drugs?” he asked. She rolled her eyes.

“Pot sometimes. I've tried ecstasy, and coke. Acid once, but not really in to all that stuff anymore. Never did anything super hard core,” she replied.

“Scandalous. How many guys have you slept with?”

“Too many to count,” she responded. Now it was his turn to roll his eyes.

“Stop being cute. How many?” he asked again. She shrugged.

“I don't keep count. A lot, but not, like, astronomical.”

“Any as good as me?”

“A couple.”

“Doubtful.”

Tate stared at him for a minute. Was he really insecure about how he stacked up? Seemed ridiculous. He'd probably been fucking his way through the Ford Modeling Agency. She knew there was no way she could compare to the women he must have slept with since their time together. She let out a deep sigh.

“Is that what you really want to know about? You can just ask,” she told him. “I'd had sex with one other person, before you. What you and I did was ..., intense. Probably not right on more levels than I like to acknowledge, but I liked it. It took me a while to admit that, you know. That I liked it. I thought something was wrong with me – you were a complete dick, but I couldn't stop thinking about it.

“Then a couple months after I moved back here, after I moved out of the apartment Daddy had rented, I went to this party. Got a little drunk. This guy was hitting on me, really laying it on, and it was like the old Tate kept whispering 'ew, you can't stand here and listen to this, it's inappropriate! You'll get in trouble!', but another side of me started going, 'who cares? He's hot, you're horny – just fuck him, you don't have to answer to anyone but yourself' – and it was like something in me changed. I could do that, if I wanted to. No parents to worry about upsetting, no reputation to really care about, none of that stuff. Turned out the guy was horrible in bed, a total waste of time. But it helped me realize something – I like sex. I like having sex, I like being sexy. I like being single. I like being me, and fuck anyone who doesn't like it,” she finished.

“So, you couldn't stop thinking about it, huh? Do you still think about it?” Jameson asked. Tate groaned.

“You are the most self-obsessed asshole I've ever met,” she told him. He laughed.

“You may have done a one-eighty, but I'm still pretty much the same guy – just sharper claws,” he warned her.

“No, I don't think about it,” she answered his question. “I didn't even recognize you at first, in that kitchen. Took a while for it to click.”