“Did you think about me?” Jameson's voice cut through the room.

“Excuse me?” she asked, letting go of her leg and propping herself up with her hands. He wasn't facing her, his eyes on the flames.

“While you were fucking Ang, did you think of me. You said you were lonely, that you had been thinking about me all weekend. When he was fucking you, were you thinking of me?” Jameson asked, finally turning to look at her.

Tate stared back, taking a deep breath. She didn't want to tell him, because the answer made her feel bad. Made her feel like a traitor. The other reason she had felt so bad all weekend. But he just kept staring at her, his eyes boring in to her soul.

“Yes,” she whispered. He smiled and leaned foward, over his arm rest.

“So while this guy, Angier, was inside of you, you were imagining it was me, weren't you?” he asked her. Tortured her.

“Yes.”

Usually, Ang was so amazing, he was able to obliterate any other person from her mind. She could barely think straight, let alone think of another man. But Jameson had her all messed up. He'd gotten under her skin and was running rampant through her system. It wasn't a matter of one being better in bed than the other – they were both spectacular. But only one of them captured her mind.

And it wasn't her best friend.

“Good. New rule. Anytime you fuck someone else, you picture me. Understood?” Jameson demanded.

“I don't think that even needs to be a rule; it'll just happen on its own,” Tate laughed. He gave one more tight lipped smile and leaned back in his chair.

“Jesus christ, that we even need these kinds of rules, really says something about us,” he mumbled.

“I think they're a good idea,” she told him. He laughed, and it was an evil sound. It sent shivers down her spine.

“You would think that, Tate, because you're a whore,” he stated.

Ah, now we're getting somewhere.

“Maybe. But at least I'm a responsible one,” she teased.

“That's an oxymoron,” he told her.

“You're an oxymoron,” she taunted him, laughing.

“That makes no sense.”

“You make no sense.”

“Stop it, Tatum.

“You stop -,”

“Don't make me come over there. I'm not in a good mood,” Jameson warned her.

“Maybe if you come over here, I could cheer you up,” she offered.

“Maybe I don't want to cheer up. Maybe I want to be in a bad mood,” he countered. She rolled her eyes.

“You sound like a little kid who wants to bitch just to bitch,” she told him. His head snapped towards her.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

“I think you heard me,” she said with a smile. He stood up.

“I think you want to get hurt,” he replied, moving to stand over her. She leaned back on her elbows, smiling up at him.

“I live to make you happy,” she told him, sighing melodramatically. He squatted down next to her.

“Are you ever scared of me?” he asked, his voice soft. Tate shook her head.

“No, not even a little,” she assured him.

“Sometimes I wonder if maybe you should be,” he added.

“And why is that?”

“Because, I have the strangest feelings about you. Like I want to take you everywhere and have you by my side, but I also want to hold you down. Make you beg and cry,” he told her. She kept her eyes focused on his, didn't move a muscle.

“Sounds like a pretty good plan to me,” she whispered. He reached out and traced a finger down her leg, from the hem of her underwear to her knee, and then back up again. His eyes watched his finger.

“How did I find you?” It was obvious that he was thinking out loud.

“That's pretty easy – you made me,” she responded. Jameson's eyes cut to hers, flashing blue in the shadowy room.

“I didn't know that's what I was doing, at the time,” he told her, and then started digging his nails in to her thigh, dragging them up her skin. She hissed.

“Me, neither. Maybe we found each other,” she breathed, letting out a sigh when he lifted his hand. He moved back down to the same spot and repeated the motion. She hummed and let her head drop back, closing her eyes.

“Sometimes I still can't believe you're here, Tate. That it's really you. Tatum O'Shea. Mathias O'Shea's daugher; Ellie's little sister,” he said, moving his hand to her other leg.

“I haven't been any of those things in a long time, maybe that's why it still feels so weird to you,” she suggested.

“If you aren't those things, then what are you?” he asked. She thought for a second.

“Just Tate. Bartender. Party girl. Ang's friend,” she prattled off things that came to mind when she thought of herself.

“Slut?” Jameson whispered. She opened her eyes.

“Oh yes. Most definitely that,” she sighed. His nails moved to her throat, so she kept her head back.

“Pain,” he added through clenched teeth. She gave a small nod as he dragged a sharp nail from underneath her ear down to her collar bone.

“Maybe just sex, period. Kinda encompasses it all,” she suggested.

“Very thoughtful of you.”

“I like it. Tatum 'Sex' O'Shea. Why not,” she laughed. Suddenly his hand was tight around her throat, squeezing. She rolled her eyes to look at him. He was staring at her neck.