“Did she hit you!?” she demanded, grabbing Sanders by the collar. His face was red on one side, and his hair didn't look like bed-head, it looked like it had been pulled. He pressed his hand to his cheek.
“She ..., she forced her way inside,” Sanders replied. Tate turned around and strode towards the door. Jameson moved to stand in front of it.
“Stop it. I will deal with this,” he told her.
“She hit him! I'm gonna tear her fucking face off!” Tate snapped. Jameson put a hand on her chest, keeping her away from the door.
“You hit him once, and I didn't hit you back,” he pointed out. “Let me handle this.”
“By all means,” Tate sighed, her voice sounding dejected as she took a step back and gestured for him to open the door.
She stood politely aside, casting a sad glance back at Sanders. Jameson watched her for a second, then pulled the bolt back. Turned the knob. Started yelling at Pet to shut the fuck up as he swung the door open.
Tate sprang forward and went through the door like a runner after a starter shot. She barreled into Pet and they both hit the wall. Tate wasn't a fighter, didn't count that time with Jameson's maid as a real fight, but suddenly she felt like Muhammed fuckin' Ali. She was gonna crush this bitch.
They bounced off the wall and Pet grabbed a handful of Tate's hair, yanked her away. They careened in a circle, and Tate got her arms around Pet's waist. Using her legs, she propelled them back into the wall. Pet slammed into it, shrieked, and lost her grip on Tate's hair. They both fell to the ground and rolled around. Pet was taller, but Tate was heavier – she wound up on top. She straddled the other girl's waist and grabbed her by the hair.
“If you ever touch him again, I will kill you!” Tate screamed, slamming Pet into the ground. The supermodel swung her arms, slapping Tate in the face.
“Sie sind Müll!” Pet yelled. Tate slapped her back, then struggled to hold onto her wrists.
“I DON'T SPEAK GERMAN, YOU DUMB CUNT!”
Before she could land another blow, arms were around Tate's waist, plucking her into the air. With the weight off of her legs, Pet immediately started kicking, so Tate kicked right back, landing a solid blow to the other woman's thigh. She was rewarded with a shriek of pain.
“Stop it,” Jameson's voice was low in her ear. She ignored him.
“Don't you ever fucking come back here!” Tate screamed while Jameson hauled her backwards. “Don't you ever fucking talk to him again! Don't talk to him, don't touch him, don't come near him! Do you understand me!? He didn't come here for you! He came here for me!”
At some point, the fight had stopped being about Sanders, and had become about Jameson.
So when, exactly, did you lose to him? Stupid, stupid, girl.
Luckily, Jameson had the penthouse apartment, so there was no one else to witness Pet's psychotic break. Or Tate's. As security spilled out of an elevator, Jameson pulled her back through the apartment's doorway, all while she and Pet were still screaming at each other. Sanders slipped out into the hallway, explaining the situation to the guards.
“Calm the fuck down, Tatum,” Jameson urged. She yanked at the arms he had around her, tried to get a grip on the floor with her toes. There was so much adrenaline pumping through her body, she felt like she was going to have a heart attack.
“No, no, I'm not done! Let me go! That bitch almost killed me once, I owe her!” Tate shouted, kicking her legs wildly. His arms only got tighter around her, twisting and pulling her t-shirt up so it bunched up beneath her breasts.
“She didn't do that, I did that. Blame me,” he instructed her. Tate swung her whole body from side to side.
“I already do! But you won't let me hit you!” she yelled.
He barked out a laugh, which set her off, and suddenly she was caught in a bout of hysterics. There was a cough from the door, and Jameson turned them towards it. Tate figured she was quite a sight, only in a pair of tiny underpants and her shirt little more than a tube top, Jameson holding onto her like she was possessed by the devil.
That happened a long time ago, baby girl.
“Mr. Kane, we're very sorry. The man downstairs, he got confused. She said she was your fiancée, said she lost her key. He gave her one. The owner of the building and the manager have been called, they are headed down here. I'm sure you'll want to speak to them,” a security guard said from the doorway.
“My man out there, Sanders, can deal with it. His name is on the lease,” Jameson explained. Tate squirmed in his arms, but he still held onto her.
“Very good. We are taking her away now. If you need anything, have any questions, don't hesitate to call my office, anytime,” the guard urged.
“Give the number to Sanders,” was all Jameson said, turning away. The guard said goodbye and made his way back into the hall.
“Let me down,” Tate breathed, digging her nails into his wrist.
“Put me down,” she hissed again. He walked all the way down the hallway with her, carrying her back into his bedroom.
“No. You need to calm down,” he told her.
“Well, that's not gonna fuckin' happen, so you should just put me down,” she snapped. He let go of her abruptly and she teetered forward, a little shocked.
“Quite a little show you put on, Tate. I particularly liked when you were on top of her, your ass in the air,” Jameson told her, his tone even and calm. She stopped breathing for a second, then shook it off. She grabbed a hair tie from off the nightstand, roughly yanking her hair up in to a ball on top of her head.