“Tattle-tale,” she whispered.

“He's my assistant. He's not going to drive to Boston without at least telling me he's going to be busy for a couple hours, or seven,” Jameson pointed out. She nodded.

“Yup. Should've thought of that,” she replied.

“I understand running away from your family. But trying to skip out on me, that surprises me,” he said, moving so he was standing in front of her.

“I wasn't in the mood to hear you gloat. Not today, not right now,” she explained. He sighed and put his hands on her knees. She still refused to look at him.

“How about, if you let me come with you, I promise to keep my gloating to myself until we get home,” he offered. She laughed.

“I don't trust you to honor that promise,” she joked. He tilted her head up to face him.

“You said you trusted me,” Jameson reminded her.

“I trust that you'll be consistent. You're consistently mean,” Tate pointed out. He laughed.

“Yes, but I also consistently keep my promises. Move your ass, we're out of here,” he said before turning and walking out the door.

Tate went and waited on the front porch. She saw Ellie peeking out a window, but she moved away before Tate could make any sort of motion. Sanders pulled the car up right afterwards and he hopped out, running around to open the door for her. Before she could climb in, though, he held out a fist. She raised her eyebrows.

“For you, ma'am. I assumed you were serious,” was all he said. She held out her hand and he dropped two pills in to it. She stared in to her palm, almost laughing. Xanax.

“Sandy, I think you treat me better than anyone I've ever known,” she chuckled, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek.

“I have no doubt of that, Ms. O'Shea,” he replied before helping her in to the car.

She dry swallowed the pills and waited for Jameson to appear. It took about fifteen minutes, and then he was striding out the door, carrying both their bags. Her mother trailed after him, saying something that Tate couldn't hear. Jameson just ignored her, climbed in to the back seat next to Tate. He didn't say anything, just nodded his head towards the rear view mirror. Sanders started up the car and pulled away.

“Did you talk to any of them?” Tate asked, staring out her window.

“Yes. I told your father that the only good thing he ever did in his life was produce a very fuckable daughter,” Jameson replied. She burst out laughing.

“You're not serious.”

“Dead serious. I also added that you're a very good person, sometimes. I told your mother that I would gladly pay for her rehab, and I warned Robert that if I came across Ellie anytime soon with another bruise, I wouldn't bother breaking his jaw again, I would just rip it clean off,” he told her.

They weren't his family. As far as she knew, Jameson didn't really have much of a family. Mother died when he was young, father died a couple years ago. No siblings. No close cousins. Only Sanders. And he seemed to like it that way. So she couldn't figure out why he was bothering with her family, when she didn't even bother with them. It had started out as a game, a dare for her to undertake, but he had gone above and beyond that – he had made a mess, and he had done his best to clean it up. She was impressed. She felt a little like crying.

And when he reached over and clasped her hand – something he had never done before – Tate couldn't hold back the tears from streaming down her face. She would have been embarrassed, but the xanax made her not care. All she could focus on was his hand. His strong fingers, linked through hers. She squeezed his hand, so hard it hurt. So hard, she wouldn't be able to let go, not ever again.

Why did everything feel so different?

Because everything is different.

~11~

“Tatum.”

“Yes, my liege?”

“Shut up.”

“How can I answer you and -,”

“Why do you let me treat you the way I do?”

“I told you, I like it.”

“I would kill another man for talking to you the way I talk to you.”

“That's very sweet.”

“Do you think there's something wrong with me, treating you the way I do?”

“Not necessarily. It's consensual. Empowering.”

“Empowering?”

“Yes. You have the power to hold me down, say things, call me names. Slut. Bitch. But I have the power to say stop. End it all. Your power is an illusion. Mine is real.”

“Sounds kind of backwards. I could just make you do whatever I want, regardless of whether or not you say stop.”

“That's why I don't do all of that with just anybody. I trust you. You wouldn't do that.”

“You're very trusting of me.”

“Look, I like it. You like doing it. That's why we fit so well together most of the time.”

“Too well.”

“You want this to end? Just say the word.”

“It's not that easy anymore.”

“Why not?”

“You accomodate me too much.”

“How so?”

“The things ..., the things I want to do to you.”

“What do you want to do?”

“So many things.”

“So do them.”

“That's part of the problem.”

“Jameson. I keep waiting for you to let go, to just do whatever it is you want to do.”