There had been some light talk in Spain. Heavier in Paris. He wasn't a man of much feeling or emotion, but once in a great while, it bubbled to the surface. Tate had a knack for bringing it out of him. At any given time, if someone asked him how he would feel if Tate walked out the door and never looked back, he would probably say “fine”; but if they happened to catch him at a truly honest moment, the answer would be “fucking terrified”. He didn't want her to go away, ever. They fit together and that was that. He didn't delve into it, he didn't question it. He just went with it.

God, if she would just do the fucking same.

“Maybe. Slightly. Some of her anger is gone. But there is still no trust. She is waiting for you to strike,” Sanders answered, his eyes sliding away to look out the kitchen door.

“She told you this?” Jameson was surprised. Sanders shook his head.

“No, I just know it,” he said.

“How?”

“Because I listen. I pay attention. I know her,” Sanders replied.

Ouch.

“Maybe we just know her in different ways. You fulfill her emotionally and I fulfill her sexually. Maybe this is just how it works for us. Maybe we've been in a threesome this whole time,” Jameson suggested.

“Sometimes, sir, you make me ill,” Sanders almost snapped, not keeping the disgust out of his voice. Jameson smiled.

“Glad to know I've still got the touch. I listen to her, Sanders. I pay attention. But I can only go so far – she's knows what I am. What else can I do?” Jameson asked. Sanders finally turned to look at him again.

“You could try asking her what's wrong,” he stressed. Jameson groaned and put his head into his hands.

“All I wanted was sex. Just a little freaky sex, every now and then. When the fuck did it get so complicated?” he grumbled.

“When you met your match, sir.”

“Sanders?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

“Of course.”

They stood in silence for a minute. One of the things Jameson loved about Sanders, they could be in complete silence. For long periods of time, sometimes for a whole day. And Sanders never minded Jameson's blunt, crass nature. It was heaven. If only he could train Tatum to be the same way.

“Where is she?” Jameson asked, lifting his head. She had left that morning, but he hadn't bothered to ask her what she was doing; she had left him half dead in the shower, completely weak in the knees. The woman could probably suck a golf ball through fifty feet of garden hose. It was outstanding.

“I believe she went to see Mr. Hollingsworth,” Sanders answered.

“Fuuuuuuuck.”

“I advised her not to do anything rash,” Sanders offered. Jameson snorted.

“And how did she respond?” he asked. Sanders was quiet for a while, and Jameson looked at him pointedly.

“She ..., she blew a raspberry. All over my face,” he replied. Jameson laughed.

“Poor Sanders. Still in love with her?” he chuckled. The other man turned slightly pink.

“I have lots of purell,” was all he said before walking out of the kitchen.

Tate was very nervous. She fiddled with the silverware at her table as she looked around the restaurant. It was evening, lots of couples were sitting around her, having romantic dinners. Perfect. She glanced at the front door and went back to fiddling.

She felt like her brain was cracking apart. Jameson's words, Sanders' words, all ricocheting off her neurons and brain waves. Driving her crazy. Or making her sane. She couldn't tell which anymore. She wanted to make everyone pay. But she wanted to be normal. But she wanted to hate everyone. But she didn't want to hate herself.

It was all too much.

“Tater tot! Sorry I'm late,” Ang called out, hurrying between the tables. Tate managed a smile, sitting up straighter. Tried to put on her best adoring look.

Sex hadn't worked, and now she knew for a fact that it would never work – Jameson had basically said that he wouldn't care. But love. Love was a different ball game. Jameson had told her that, a long time ago.

“... I don't really care about being the other man, as long as I'm the man. Can't be that, if you go off and fall in love with your best friend. ...”

Tate would convince Ang that she was in love with him. They had danced in and out of the friend zone for years – she was very confident that the temptation to call her his own, to win her from Jameson, would be enough to make Ang leave Ellie. Dump her, for Tatum. History, repeating itself. And Jameson hated sharing his toys, hated Ang, hated love. He had fought to win back his fuck-toy, but he wouldn't fight for her affections.

She had to believe that.

“No big deal. How are you? Haven't seen you in forever,” she laughed, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek.

“Yeah, well, ever since you pulled your weird, satanic, seduction act on me, I've been afraid for my soul,” Ang explained.

You don't know how close you are to the truth, Ang. Run far, far away from me.

“Oh shut up, you loved it,” she teased before they were interrupted by a waiter.

They chatted. They flirted. She made a lot of very direct eye contact. Felt a lot like throwing up. Really wanted to drink. But she kept on smiling. Kept laying it on thick. Ang would have no clue what hit him.

“So I gotta ask,” he started, after their plates had been taken away. Tate leaned across the table, smiling big. “What the hell is going on?”