Reparation (4 page)

“I find it disgusting right now that
Angier
and I have fucked the same person. I certainly don't ever want to be doing it at the same time as him,” Jameson said, standing up and straightening his suit.

“So you're saying there's a chance with another guy?” she asked, propping her knees up. She watched him as he sighed, then stared off into the horizon.

“If you were serious – which you aren't – I would do it. But only after I got to do every sick, deviant, fetish thing I could ever possibly want to do with you, first,” he told her.

“That could take years!” she laughed up at him.

“Yes, but my needs come first, Tate,” he reminded her, then turned and walked away.

Tatum wasn't sure if she'd ever actually been alone in Jameson's house before – she was pretty sure Sanders had always been there, at least. Without anyone there, it was big and drafty and kinda scary. She went to sleep in Jameson's bed, spooning his pillow. She felt like a baby.

She had worried about what to do for transportation, or how she would even get Ang out there, but it turned out Sanders and Jameson had been holding out on her. The Bentley wasn't the only car. There was a Jaguar S Type that never saw the light of day. Sanders preferred the Bentley, and Jameson hardly every drove himself. It was all hers, she was told. Tate decided not to point out that it would have made life a lot simpler, in the old days, if she'd had access to her
own fucking car.
Like, say, a certain night ... when she had wanted to leave ... but didn't have a ride ... so she drank herself retarded and stole a car anyway. Yeah. Not cute. One more point to the devil.

She had a lot of catching up to do.

She had to plead and beg for a couple of days, but she finally got Ang to agree to come out. She didn't even have to give him a ride, as it turned out.
Ellie
loaned him her car.
Barf
. But Tate smiled and hugged him at the door, pretended like she didn't care. Not even one little bit.

“See, it's not so bad,” Tate pointed out, ushering him inside. Ang frowned while he looked around.

“It's worse.”

She had dinner delivered and they ate in the kitchen. That room had taken her a while to get used to, as well. She had some good memories in it, most of them burned into the island. But there were some bad memories, too. Ukranian-Danish monsters, stomping around Tatum's land.

“It's a lot, but you get used to it,” she commented as they walked out of the kitchen and he took in the huge hall.

“Maybe
you
get used to it – you grew up somewhere like this, I bet. I grew up in a shoe box,” he said.

“This is the sitting room,” she started giving him a tour.

“What do you do in a sitting room?” Ang asked, glancing in the large room. Two sofas faced each other over a large, flat coffee table, and a gigantic fireplace stood on the far wall.

“I have no fucking clue. On the other side is the living room,” she turned back to look behind them.

“My whole apartment could fit in here,” Ang breathed, walking into the room. Turning to the pristine couches. There was a bar at the back of the room and a door in the far corner. She led him through it.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed, and she smiled, not turning on the lights in the conservatory. The lights around the pool and pool house were on, casting an orange glow into the room.

“I love this part of the house. In the summer, Ang, you would die. It gets so warm in here, almost like a sauna, and it looks right over the pool,” she explained, walking the length of the room.

“It smells amazing in here. Who takes care of all these? I gave you that bamboo once, and you killed it,” he reminded her.

“It's one of Sanders' hobbies. Jameson and I aren't allowed to touch anything. One time we overturned a table of American Beauties. He was able to save them, but he didn't speak to us for about two days,” she told him.

“And how did you two manage to overturn an entire table full of roses?” Ang asked, an eyebrow cocked up. She snorted.

“Shut up.”

“
Slut.
”

“You love it.”

She led him upstairs. She gestured to Sanders' old room, but didn't go inside. No one went in there, it was like an unspoken rule. Across from the main house was a guest house – a home still bigger than most average Americans'. Sanders was staying there.

She showed Ang the upstairs study, a den, a game room. Several very posh guests room. She showed him a bathroom so big, her old apartment could have fit inside it. They both laughed at the fact that their homes could fit inside just two rooms in Jameson's home.
Rich people
. Then they circled back to the main hall, worked their way towards the door at the very end.

“What's left?” Ang asked. Tate chewed on her bottom lip.

“
My
room,” she replied, and swung the door open. She went inside, but Ang stayed in the doorway, looking around.

“Your room, huh. Looks more like Satan lives here,” he commented, his eyes wandering over the dark decor. The heavy, oak furniture. The huge, black bedspread. She rolled her eyes.

“You scared of the devil, Angy wangy?” she teased, walking further into the room. He snorted and followed her inside.

“So this is where it happens,” he sighed, striding up to the bed.

“What?” she asked, standing next to him.

“The magic,” he deadpanned, and she cracked up.

“Sometimes. C'mon, look at this,” she said, and led him into the walk-in closet.

“If you're trying to impress me, it won't work. My sexual favors can't be bought,” he told her, fingering one of Jameson's blazers. Tate pulled the jacket down.

“Yes, they can. Try it on,” she offered, holding the jacket out. He looked like he was going to be sick.

“I'm sure you miss him, but I am not about to dress up like him and ride around on you while you wear a saddle, or whatever sick fetish you richies are into,” he said loudly. She burst out laughing.

“Ang. This is Dolce & Gabbana. It cost over $2,000. Have you ever worn an article of clothing that cost that much? C'mon, put it on, and we'll go get high, and then he can bitch about that time
Angier
made his two-grand-jacket smell like weed,” she suggested.

Ang put it on.

“I'm taller than him,” he commented, staring at his wrists where they jutted out of the cuffs.

“Duh. Haven't you noticed?” she asked, walking around, straightening out the material. She smoothed her hands over his shoulders, let her touch linger.

“I mean, yeah, I guess. He's just ...,” he let his voice trail off.

“Larger than life?” she filled in for him. He nodded again.

“Don't tell him I said that.”

“Won't breathe a word.”

“Good. At least I've got something on him,” he commented, pushing up the sleeves.

“At least two and a half inches. He's like six-two,” she told him, coming back to his front.

“Short stuff.”

“You've got more on him than that,” she teased, winking at him. He nodded.

“Damn straight, and don't you forget it. Now where's the weed?” Ang asked.

They moved into the make-shift office Jameson had created out of a balcony. She opened the windows before pulling up two chairs for them. She produced a joint and they tucked in, Tate spreading a blanket across both of them. They sat in silence for a while.

“It's so peaceful here,” she finally sighed. Ang nodded, taking a deep pull.

“Surprisingly. I thought hell would be a lot scarier,” he managed to squeak out before exhaling the smoke.

“A person can get used to hell,” she replied softly.

“What?” he asked, turning towards her. She shook her head, taking a drag.

“It's not so bad, huh? Nice house, nice grounds,” she commented, passing it back to him.

“Heh, nice grounds.
Groooouuunds,
” he drew out the word before leaning forward and grinding the butt out against the window sill. “I'm happy if you're happy, kitty cat. Are you happy?”

“Most of the time,” Tate breathed, closing her eyes.

You don't want to do this. Don't be this person.

“What do you mean? Are you really okay?” he asked, and when she opened her eyes, he was looking at her. She wondered why he hadn't thought to ask that question
before
he had started fucking her sister.

“Yeah, I'm good. Just cold, let's get out of here,” she said, pushing the blanket away and standing up.

After she secured the huge windows, she led him back into the bedroom. She showed him the sideboard where Jameson kept most of his every day things – a lot of cuff links, tie pins, watches, things of that nature. Everything plated in gold and diamond and platinum. While Ang guffawed over all the stuff, Tate made her way over to the bed. Knelt on top of it and crawled towards Jameson's side.

“Holy fuck, Tate, this table holds more money than I'll ever see in my life. I don't know whether to be impressed, or disgusted,” Ang called out from behind her. She pulled a box out of Jameson's night stand and then turned back to Ang.

“Look at this,” she offered, knee walking back towards him. He met her at the edge of the bed and she opened the box. “This is a Jacob and Co. watch.”

“It's awesome,” he said, taking the box into his hands and looking over the timepiece.

“It's worth over $300,000.”

“
Fuck!
” he exclaimed, and dropped the box. It bounced on the mattress and rolled, the lid snapping shut. She laughed and picked it up, sat it on the pillows.

“I know, right? Who would spend that kind of money on a watch?” she asked.

“Why the fuck would you even let me touch that? That watch is worth more than
I
am,” he laughed as well, but he looked a little shaky.

“I think it's funny. All this stuff, it's silly,” she said, reaching out and playing with the button on the blazer he was wearing. He was taller than Jameson, but leaner. The blazer was pretty loose on him.

“It's fucking stupid. A watch!? Why? How often does he wear it?” Ang asked. Tate shrugged, unbuttoning the jacket and pushing it open.

“Not often. Once in Spain. You should see the shit he keeps in the safe,” she said, plucking at his shirt. He began absent mindedly batting at her hands while he glanced around the room.

“You're shitting me. Please tell me it's behind a huge portrait of like his dog or something,” he chuckled. She hooked her fingers inside his belt.

“No. It's in the closet,” she replied.

“Tate, what are you doing?” he asked, finally clueing into the fact that she was touching him. She smiled up at him. Ang liked to pretend he liked being poor, turned up his nose at rich people, but really, he was fascinated by it, and even better,
distracted by it
. It was one of the things that had attracted him to Tate, she knew. It was probably part of what drew him to her sister.

Bitch
.

“What? I feel like I haven't touched you in a long time,” she said, pulling him close and wrapping her arms around his waist. She pressed the side of her face to his chest and he sighed, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.

“Are you really okay? You kinda scare me, sometimes,” he mumbled. She ignored the sadness in his voice and worked her hands up his back. He felt so different from Jameson.

“I'm okay, Ang. I'm happy here. Everything is great,” she whispered, massaging her fingers back down his spine. He shivered under her touch.

“You can always come live with me,” he said softly. She laughed low in her throat and pulled away a little, running her hands up and down his sides.

“Do you think your
girlfriend
would appreciate that?” she asked, watching him from under hooded eyelids. He ran his hands under her hair, lifting it away from her shoulders and piling it all on the back of her head.

“I don't think she'd care, but more importantly,
I
don't care. You've been my best friend for a million years,” he replied. She smiled, running her teeth over her bottom lip while she pressed herself against him.

“Sometimes a little more than a friend,” her voice was soft. He laughed, scratching his fingers over her scalp.

“Most of the time. God, we used to have fun,” his voice fell into a murmur as his eyes wandered over her face.

Please, don't hate me after this. I have to get my soul back.

“Used to?” she asked, her voice soft as she ran her hands along his body.

“Tater tot, we haven't had fun since Satan came to town,” Ang chuckled, his hands moving to the back of her neck.

“Hmmm, he's not in town right now,” Tate reminded him. He narrowed his eyes.

“No, he's not, and I doubt he would appreciate me seducing his succubus in his lair,” he told her.

“I doubt he'd care. Besides, succubi are supposed to sleep with lots of people,” she pointed out.

“Succubi? Is that how you pluralize it?”

“Succubuses sounds weird.”

“Like a slutty bus.”

“Slutty
buses
.”

“Wait,” he stopped. “Did you just imply that you want to sleep with me?”

“Ang. If I laid it on any thicker, I'd be staked out on the mattress,” she said bluntly.

“I thought it was '
against the rules
', or some bullshit,” he said, glancing around the room, like he was checking for hidden cameras, or waiting for Jameson to pounce out of the shadows and eat him.

“That was before; besides, since when have you cared about what upsets Jameson?” she evaded answering him.