“I know yuh in there! Open the doo-or!”

Landlord.

Tate cursed under her breath and began backing away. She noticed a note stuck to the fridge - “Avoid front door – I would be mad you haven't paid rent yet, but can't pay either. Love ya, bitch! Rus.” Tate swallowed a groan and headed for her bedroom.

“Tatum! I know yuh in there! You owe me money! I want it, now!” the landlord yelled. She hurried to her window and was fighting with it to go up when her cell phone rang. With an aggravated sigh, she pulled it out and answered it.

“I'm at the curb, where are you?” Jameson's voice demanded.

“Uh, still in here,” she answered in a hushed voice. “Look, pull around to the back alley. I'll meet you out there.”

“Back alley? And why the fuck are you whispering?”

She rolled her eyes and climbed out onto the fire escape.

“Just fucking meet me back here!” she hissed at him and then hung up the phone.

By the time she was dropping to the ground, Sanders was pulling the car up next to her. Tate practically fell in to the backseat, the strap of her jumbo-sized bag tangling around her legs. She laughed, breathless, as the car started rolling again.

“Okay, first of all, never hang up on me again. Second of all, what the fuck is going on?” Jameson asked. She stretched a leg over his lap, pulling at the strap.

“My landlord was at the door,” she was still laughing, pulling her foot towards her chest, the strap pulling tight around her ankle.

“Do you often run from him?”

“Only when rent is late.”

Jameson grabbed her leg, stilling her, and he pulled the strap free.

“You haven't paid your rent, Tatum?” he asked in a soft voice. Only she knew better now – Jameson was only soft before he did something sharp.

“Well, someone wasn't being very truthful about paying me – I've only worked six days in the last two weeks. Not exactly raking in the dough, so I couldn't pay. I have to start temping again; I have to pay my rent, Jameson. Rus depends on me,” she told him. He snorted.

“I'm not just going to give you a thousand dollars -,”

“Four thousand dollars.”

“Any amount of money, in cash, to run around with – you're insane. You'd probably spend it all on hookers and cocaine.” She didn't deny it. “I'm going to set you up an investment portfolio. As fun as sucking dick for money at eighty probably is, I don't think you want to be doing that.”

“Doesn't change the fact that I need to make rent. I need to eat, I need to pay my bills. Three days a week just doesn't cut it, I told you that,” Tate reminded him as she smoothed out her skirt. It had climbed up to her hips during her struggle with her purse.

“I'll feed you, and don't worry about the rest,” was all he snapped before turning away, looking out his window. Subject apparently closed. She snorted.

“You're too extra. What's got you in such a sweet mood?” she asked.

“Your life is ridiculous. You were skipped ahead in school, graduated at the top of your private school, and you were accepted in to an accelerated program at Harvard. Why are you fucking around? Such a fucking child,” Jameson growled.

She stared at him for a second. He sounded angry. Like, for real angry. It didn't make sense. Why did he care what she did? Since asking about Ellie that first night, Jameson hadn't asked her one single other thing about her life or family. She was kinda shocked he even remembered that she had been moved ahead in school. Tate frowned at him.

“You call it being a child. I call it living my life the way I want to,” she replied.

“But it's the wrong way,” he informed her, his voice dripping with disdain.

Who the fuck was he to judge her life!? She wasn't good enough to be his girlfriend, but he still got to boss her around and pass judgement on her life? She didn't think so. Her anger started to boil.

“Says who? The great Jameson Kane?” Tate snapped at him, her voice loud. “What, I should live a life more like yours? Why on earth would I want to do that? I get to be who I am, the real me, every single day. I say what I want, and do what I want. You hide behind your money, and your business, and your suits, and your intellect. Pretending to be this suave guy, when we both know you're two steps away from being a complete sociopath who -,”

She didn't get to finish her sentence. He turned around on her in an instant, grabbing her by the throat. She didn't miss a beat – Jameson Kane had yet to learn that Tate was usually capable of giving as good as she got. She knocked his arm loose, but by then he was halfway laying on top of her. It was a blur of hands and arms, her trying to push him back, him batting her away. They wound up stretched across the back seat, one of her arms pinned under his knee as he knelt over her. Her free hand pulled at his wrist, trying to yank away the hand that was back around her throat.

“You think I hide, Tate? You think I pretend?” he hissed, his face close to hers. She glared up at him.

“I don't think, I know,” she snapped back.

“And what is it you're doing, baby girl? Ran away from home. Ran away from your family. Ran away from school. That's all you do, run away. I'm counting down the days till you do it to me,” he told her. She sucked in air through her teeth.

“You call it running, I call it freeing myself.”

“Bullshit. If that was true, you wouldn't be so upset over what I said,” he pointed out.