This is not a romantic get away. This is something very, very bad.

The blindfold fell away and she blinked, trying to adjust to the light. The car they were in had tinted windows, making it hard to see outside. Jameson was sitting next to her, carefully folding the sash up and putting it in his jacket pocket. She scooted closer to her door, peering out the window. She didn't get it. All she could see were trees. A narrow, gravel road. She pressed her forehead to the glass, tried to see ahead of the car. Glimpsed a house in the distance.

Oh. My. God.

“You didn't,” Tate breathed, her heart stopping in her chest. She turned to look at Jameson, and he smirked at her.

“I told you, I always win,” he said, stretching an arm out along the seat behind her.

I am so. Fucking. Stupid. Goddamn Satan wins again.

She lost her damn mind. Screamed and slapped him across the face. He ducked the next blow and grabbed her wrist, but she was already throwing herself at him, grabbing his hair with her other hand and trying to kick at him. Her dress was too tight, she couldn't really reach, and had to settle for kicking him in the shin.

They wrestled around for about a minute. Jameson could stop her whenever he wanted, she knew he was just letting her work out her frustrations – so she made the most of it, pulling his hair, pounding on his shoulders. When she scratched at his face, though, she apparently went too far. They were driving in an extended-back town car, and he slammed her onto the floor.

“This isn't a fucking game!” she screamed at him. He pinned her wrists by her head.

“Calm the fuck down!” he shouted at her. She used every muscle she had, swung her weight around underneath him. He didn't budge.

“How could you!? How could you!? You must really fucking hate me, Kane!” she shouted at him. His hand came down over her mouth, clamping it shut.

“Calm. Down. Take a deep breath. It's not that bad. This was going to happen some day, I just sped up the process,” he said. She shook her head and cursed at him from behind his hand. He pressed down harder. “Shut the fuck up and calm down. You made me go to that ridiculous dinner. You kissed Sanders in front of me. You kissed Angier in front of me. You owe me.”

She forced herself to go still, and he finally removed his hand. She breathed heavily, staring up at him. He was very close to her, his hair messy and hanging over his forehead. One, long, red, scratch mark went from under his ear to just under his jaw. Not too noticeable. Pity. She took a deep breath.

“This wasn't about you, you had no right to do this. I'm nothing to you, why would you do this?” she whispered. He frowned at her.

“You are not nothing to me,” Jameson replied. She shook her head.

“You're always telling me I'm nothing. Reminding me, over and over again. Nothing, nothing, nothing. You're the devil,” she said, moving her eyes away from his to stare at the roof of the car. She could feel tears at the back of her throat and she didn't want him to have the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

“I will fully admit to being the devil, but I have never said you're nothing. Look, if you can't do this, if you can't handle this, we will go right back to the airport and I will take you home. You never have to talk to me again. Just say the words. Admit you can't handle this,” he told her. She took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Move,” she snapped, and he got off of her. Pulled her onto the seat next to him.

She fixed her hair. Dug out a mirror and fixed her lipstick, which had smeared all over her chin. She straightened out her dress, pulled the stockings back in to place, fidgeted with the jewelry. Jameson reached out and tried to place a hand over her own, but she pulled away from his touch as if he burned her, refusing to even look at him.

“Tate, we -,” he started, but she shook her head. The car was pulling up in front of a large, colonial style home. Not unlike Jameson's home in Weston, though this one was on a much grander scale. More pillars, more bricks, more rooms. She knew it had more rooms, because she had been in it many times. She took a deep breath.

“You'll never win, Kane. So how are we doing this? Is there an explanation, a back story? Are you my boyfriend? Am I your paid whore?” Tate asked.

“We ran in to each other in Boston. We're friends,” he said in a slow voice. She cackled.

“Friends. We have never been friends, Jameson,” she snapped, listening as Sanders got out of the driver's seat. Talked with someone who had come out the front door. Jameson put a finger under her chin and pulled her gaze to him. He looked angry.

“Baby girl, I might just be the best friend you've ever had,” he told her. She smiled sweetly at him at the same time Sanders pulled her door open.

“You better start smiling, Jameson. You know how my family loves a happy face,” she whispered, and then took Sanders' hand, allowing him to pull her out of the car.

Her mother, sister, and some guy she didn't recognize, all stood on the porch of the house she had grown up in, the house she had been living in when she had first met Jameson; the house she hadn't been back to in seven years. She took a deep breath.

Show time.

*

Her mother actually cried. Like real tears, not drunk ones. Hugged her. Gushed over how beautiful Tatum was, how amazing she looked. Tate managed a smile, but she had a feeling that it looked more like a smirk, as that long ago phone call played through her mind. Her own mother, calling her a worthless whore, a good for nothing, a home wrecker. Telling her own daughter that she wasn't allowed to come home, ever again.