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Tate had only called Nick twice. In a lot of ways, he was the worst, because he would be the most understanding. They had never dated, but she still kinda felt like she had cheated on him. Why couldn't she have just liked him? Life would be so must easier, if she would just be a nice, normal girl.

“Hi,” Tate said softly into the phone when he answered.

“God, it's good to hear your voice. I feel like I haven't talked to you in forever!” Nick laughed. She smiled, stretched her legs out. She was sitting in the hallway outside of the hotel room.

“I know, I know. It's been ..., crazy. There was a whole supermodel-smack-down episode, it got weird,” she said.

“Oh god. What have you gotten yourself into now?”

She gave him an abridged version of the fight. Nick laughed as Tate got heated up all over again, describing how she had tried to tackle Pet. He agreed that it sounded like the other girl had deserved to get her ass beat, but he didn't condone violence; though he did wish he had been able to see it.

“It was most definitely a show,” Tate laughed.

“Everything you do is a show,” he chuckled.


“When are you coming home? I miss you,” he said plainly. She chewed on her thumbnail, glancing down the hallway.

Italy, Austria, hell – pick a vacation, any vacation.

“I'm not sure, but you'll be the first to know,” she assured him.

“I hope so. Tate, I've been thinking. A lot,” Nick started. Warning bells went off in her head.

“That's never a good thing,” she joked, trying to lighten the mood. He didn't laugh.

“I know that you and Jameson have a history that goes way back. I know you and I haven't really known each other that long,” he began. She swallowed thickly.

“Nick, don't -,”

“But, I really think we'd be good together, and I like you, a lot. Enough to wait,” he said.

This all sounded horribly familiar, only in this picture, Tatum was Satan, and Nick was the poor fool in love. All they needed was a dark library and a roaring fireplace.

I am going to one of the darkest recesses of hell. Good thing I've already been there once.

“Nick, you don't know what you're saying. I'm not a good person. Just ..., just wait till I come home, and then we'll talk,” she urged in a quiet voice.

“Get him out of your system,” Nick continued. “Whatever you need. And I will be here. I understand.”

Tate felt like she was going to be sick, and as if that wasn't bad enough, the elevator doors at the end of the hall opened. A man in a dark suit stepped off. Strode towards her, his steps sure. Confident. She licked her lips, staring up at him.

“I know. I just don't want to hurt you,” she said, watching as Jameson came to a stop next to her.

“You won't. I know what I'm getting into – do you?” Nick countered. Jameson squatted down next to her, adjusting his cuff links as he did so. A suit. He was back in a suit.

Ah, there's my Satan.

“I haven't the faintest clue,” Tate whispered.

“Time to go, baby girl,” Jameson said softly, holding his hand out.

“Be smart, Tatum,” Nick warned on the other end of the phone.

“Never am,” she replied, then hung up the phone. She put her hand into Jameson's, allowed him to pull her to her feet.

“Important phone call?” he asked. She shrugged, dusting her hands off on her pants.

“Nick. Checking up on me,” was all she said. Jameson snorted and took off back down the hall.

“How is your boyfriend doing?” he asked as she trailed behind him.

“Jealous?” she taunted, wrapping a scarf around her neck. Paris was a lot colder than Marbella. After they had settled in at the hotel, she wound up having to buy even more clothing to match the change in weather. She wasn't sure how she was going to get all her new stuff home.

“Always jealous,” Jameson replied, pushing the down button for the elevator.

“At least my boyfriend never broke in to your apartment and attacked Sanders,” Tate countered. He laughed.

“I would like to see him try. Could he even find Spain on a map?” he asked as they stepped onto the elevator.

“You don't even know him, have never met him, and you're insulting his intelligence? My god, Jameson, you are jealous,”  Tate gasped. He cleared his throat, his eyes trained on the doors.

“I don't like it when other people touch my things,” he explained in a low voice. She laughed.

“That was almost sweet.”

“Almost, huh. Close one.”

They went to dinner. Once again, Tate felt a little dressed down. Jameson was wearing a suit that probably cost more than her first car. She was wearing low-rise skinny jeans and a racer-back tank top, paired with a slim leather jacket and scarf. They never quite matched, but Jameson never seemed to care, so she decided she wouldn't care, either. After seeing the name on the reservation, the maître d' didn't even look twice at her, anyway.

Sanders was already at the restaurant, and they all ate together. There was actually a lot of laughter. Jameson had a very dry sense of humor, and half the time she couldn't tell whether Sanders was being deadpan or serious, but she cracked up anyway. They talked, they shared food. It was fun.

After they were done, they headed back towards their hotel, but a different hotel was having some sort of event. Loud music was pouring into the street. Tate grabbed Sanders' arm and dragged him inside. Jameson eventually followed. She was pretty sure they were crashing a wedding reception, but she didn't care. She was two steps away from selling her soul to Satan, what could it hurt to crash someone's party?

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