“This area VIP,” he informed her. Tate snorted.

“No one is even sitting in there,” she pointed out. He shook his head.

“VIP. You go back the way you came,” he repeated. She opened her mouth to tell him where he could go, when someone stepped in between them.

“Where the fuck have you been? I've been looking everywhere for you,” Jameson demanded.

“Uh ...,” Tate answered articulately.

“You cannot be here, please leave!” the security man was snapping.

“We're leaving,” Jameson informed her, ignoring the guard and grabbing her by the elbow. She didn't budge.

“Good, yes, you leave now,” the guard agreed, ushering them away.

“Now,” Jameson growled.

“STOP.”

It came out as a shout, even though she hadn't meant it to. Both men stared at her, the security guard looking shocked. Jameson just looked angry.

“I don't have patience for your bullshit, Tate, not right now. I want -,” he started.

“I want to sit down. Please,” she asked. He blinked down at her, his lips pressed into a hard line. She could tell he wasn't happy. Could tell that he really wanted to drag her out of there. By her hair, if necessary.

“I don't think -,” Jameson began again.

She brushed past him. He was blocking the security guard, so she made it all the way to one of the couches before all hell broke loose. The security guard started yelling, which set Jameson off. Jameson never yelled, not unless he absolutely had to, but he did stand toe to toe with the larger man, quietly explaining that he and his guest could sit wherever the fuck they wanted to sit. A second later, the man in the suit from earlier, the one who had also yelled at Pet, showed up. This seemed to settle everything. The security guard slunk away, followed by the suit-man, and then Jameson came and sat down next to Tate.

“Thank you,” she said. He raked his hand through his hair.

“You're not welcome. What the fuck are you doing?” he asked, stretching an arm out across the seat behind her. She kept her eyes trained on the dance floor.

“I just wanted to sit down. I was dancing, I wanted to cool off,” she replied, trying to sound casual.

“Tatum. You're a horrible fucking liar.”

They were interrupted by a scantily clad waitress. She was carrying a bottle of Louis XIII cognac. A gift for Jameson, compliments of the owner of the club. An apology for any distress caused by the staff or guests. Tate's eyes nearly fell out of her head. At home, a bottle cost anywhere from $2,000 to $3,000. The price in Spain, in Euros, in a nightclub ..., she was impressed. Beyond impressed.

The waitress poured out a shot, to taste. Jameson nodded his approval, so the woman filled up two old fashioned glasses, neat, and then left them alone. For the most part, Tate had avoided alcohol ever since her stint in the hospital, but when someone put a drink in front of her worth $166 a pour, she wasn't ever going to say no. Jameson sipped at his drink. She downed hers in one shot.

Before he could interrogate her some more, Tate skittered away and hustled into the bathroom. She had to get herself together enough to ask him about Pet. He must have known she was in Marbella. Maybe he was mad because Pet had almost blown his cover, his secret. Maybe the worst was yet to come. Maybe Jameson's sole purpose in life was to slowly drive Tate mad. He had almost succeeded last time. Maybe he just wanted to finish the job.

Five minutes later, she dragged herself back out of the bathroom, not feeling anymore “together” than before she had gone inside it. She dragged her feet as she walked down the hallway, dreading going back to Jameson. But just as she was about to exit the hall, she almost rammed into someone.

“I have been waiting to meet you.”

For someone so pretty, she sounds like she has a dick in her mouth.

Petrushka was much taller than Tate. Both women were wearing heels, which put Pet at around six-foot-three – easily Jameson's height or taller, and well over Tatum. It made Tate feel even more insignificant. Pet was also even prettier up close than she was in all those pictures on the internet. Tate was getting smaller and smaller by the second.

“I didn't know you were here,” Tate blurted out. She knew she had no right to be angry at Pet – Jameson had done everything. Pet had been used just as badly in his little game.

“I knew you were here. It is why I came here. I had to see you, with my own eyes,” Pet replied. Tate swallowed thickly, glancing around.

“I'm sorry, you know. About ..., how everything happened. I didn't know, just so you know. I didn't know he was bringing you home,” Tate stammered.

“It was all in good fun, I think,” Pet laughed, as if she knew some sinister joke. Tate was confused.

“Well, I didn't really see it that way.”

“That's because you are garbage, you couldn't possibly understand the things that people like us do.”

Tate was shocked. Here she was, assuming a kind of kinship with this woman. Sure, Jameson had painted a very psychotic picture of the supermodel – but god knew what he said about Tate when she wasn't around; she didn't trust anything that came out of his mouth. Plus, he had used Pet. Didn't that make them, like, sisters-against-the-cause? Judging by the pissed-mist rolling off of Pet, the answer was apparently fucking not.

“Excuse me?” Tate squeaked, not sure she'd heard right.

“You, you are ..., are trash. A silly piece of desperate trash. He uses you for his filthy sex, and that is it. He always comes back to me in the end,” Pet talked down at her.