Her game had been a bad one, a bust. Jameson had spent the whole day doing her “normal” things, and he hadn't acted normal at all. Deep down, she had thought maybe it would all humanize him a bit. Mistake. Now she wanted to make him hurt. Make him bleed a little. She didn't know if it was possible, but when she looked over his shoulder, something gave her the idea to try.

“Ang!” she called out, waving her arm in the air. Jameson turned as she pushed past him.

“Kitty-cat, how're things? Haven't seen you in a while,” Ang called back, still a couple buildings down from her. She jogged the distance to him.

“Too long of a while,” Tate replied, throwing herself in to his arms.

“Well, you could -,”

She covered his lips with her own, swirling her tongue through his mouth. He sat her on her feet, clearly a little shocked, slow in kissing her back. She put on a good show, running her hands along his shoulders and clawing down his chest. He finally managed to break the kiss, gently pushing her away. She winked up at him.

“You're my best friend,” she teased. He glanced behind her.

“Oh, are we onto the 'make-him-jealous' phase of the relationship?” Ang asked, eyeballing Jameson. She shook her head.

“No, we're onto the 'make-him-piss-blood' part. He hurt my feelings. I want to hurt his pride,” Tate explained.

“Glad to be of service.”

They walked up to Jameson hand in hand. The reception between the two men was cool, at best. Ang smiled his shit-eating grin, wrapping an arm around Tate's waist. He knew he was the more cherished between the two. Jameson smiled back in a lazy manner, letting his eyes wander over Ang's wiry frame and then over to Tate's smaller form. He knew he was the one she was going home with that night – and any other night. They both knew what she was like in bed. It was like being in the middle of a very loud silent-argument. She felt like her hair was going to stand on end from all the tension.

“Inside! Everybody inside, chop chop,” she ordered, scooting both men up the stairs ahead of her.

Of course it was super fucking awkward. Her friend Rachel – the girl she had covered for to cater the Kraven and Dunn event, thus the person responsible for the fucked up relationship Tate now found herself in – was the one throwing the dinner party, and it was mostly a bunch of twenty-somethings; all people who worked the same kind of jobs, led the same kind of lives. Jameson stuck out like a sore thumb. Originally, Tate had thought that would be part of the fun. But it just made things weird. He was quiet and taciturn, didn't even try to pretend to be interested in anything or anyone.

It didn't help that Ang took her statement very seriously and took every opportunity to touch her inappropriately. Jameson watched, that cool, disdainful look in his eye, but he didn't say or do anything. Just smiled. It made her a little nervous. She escaped in to the kitchen where most of the other girls were; Tate was normally a dude kind of lady, would rather hang out with the boys. Not that night. She chugged pinot grigio, wishing it was whiskey, and just hoped that Ang and Jameson would kill each other, curing all her frustrations.

Dinner was finally served. Jameson took a seat towards one end of a large table. They hadn't spoken a word directly to each other since she had kissed Ang, and Tate hesitated about which seat she should take. Jameson solved the dilemma when he yanked on her arm, forcing her in to the chair next to him. She didn't argue. Just drank more. Ang sat across from them and tried his hardest to flirt, but when she stopped responding, he turned his attentions to Rus, who became all giggly and red. Tate glared at her.

Stupid, normal girl. Bet she could just go out and have normal, boring sex. Bet no one calls her a dumb cunt – and if they did, bet she wouldn't be such a weirdo that she'd like it.

Jameson lightened up over the food, actually laughing and talking with some of the guys next to him. It made Tate feel a little better, up until he took her glass of wine away. Didn't even look at her, just reached out and grabbed it, moving it to the other side of his plate. Apparently, she was done drinking.

Asshole.

She helped clean up, and while she and Rachel washed dishes, everyone gathered in the living room. Ang was telling one of his “a day in the life of a wannabe porn star” stories, and everyone was laughing. When she peeked her head out, even Jameson had a smile on his face. She smiled and ducked back in to the kitchen. At least he was pretending to have a good time. Maybe that would gentle the blow that would come later.

“Hey, Rach,” Tate said, pressing her wrist to her forehead. “Do you have any aspirin or anything? I have a killer headache.”

“In my bedroom, I have some tylenol in the bathroom – maybe some stronger stuff, I don't know what's all in there. Help yourself. Go lay down, if you want,” Rachel offered, rubbing her back. Tate smiled and wandered down the hall.

Rachel's room was small, but she had an en suite, which Tate would kill for in her own apartment – even a half bath. She found the tylenol, but on another shelf in the medicine cabinet, she found some vicodin. Thank god. She took one pill and washed it down with the glass of wine she had snuck out of the kitchen.

She had pushed the bedroom door mostly closed behind her, left all the lights off, but she didn't lay down. She wandered around Rachel's room, not prying, but peeking through the stuff that was out. Standard pajamas, no lace or leather. Her closest didn't show a hint of kink. There was a dresser along one wall, with a bunch of jewelry on top of it. Tate picked through it, holding up earrings and moving to a mirror that was on the wall at the foot of the dresser, looking herself over.