“We have been over this, so I am never going to say this again, understand? I did not fuck her,” he growled. Tate glared up at him.

“I'm still not going into that house,” she growled right back.

“Oh, you'll go. You'll go if I have to drag you there by your fucking hair,” he warned her.

“You'd probably love that,” she snapped.

“So would you.”

She sighed and some of the tension went out of her body. She rolled her head to the side and looked out the open doors. The moving men were visible at the end of the hall, boxing up odds and ends. Jameson stared down at her. Detachment. That's what was wrong with her. Tate had a way of detaching herself. Like she was present, could say all the right things, but she wasn't really there – she was somewhere he couldn't reach.

He hated that.

“I don't want to go there,” she whispered.

“Why?” he demanded.

“I don't like it there,” she answered.

“You used to love it there,” he reminded her.

“'Used to' being the operative term,” she pointed out.

“So what's changed? You keep claiming that everything is fine. Apparently, it's not fine at all. Apparently it's all completely fucked,” he called her out. She turned back towards him.

“That was a really interesting lunch you had, wasn't it,” she breathed.

Busted.

“They're concerned about you,” Jameson said softly.

“But you're not,” Tate finished his statement. He shooks his head.

“Don't be fucking stupid. I'm here. I'm doing this, for you. Stop asking questions you know the answers to. Now get the fuck up, and get dressed,” he ordered.

She sat up abruptly and he had to lean away. He had barely stood up when she pushed herself up as well, sliding against almost every inch of him. He stared down at her, waiting for her to argue, to whine, to try to bribe. The last one was fairly effective – he wasn't as immune to her charms as he liked to pretend.

“Fine. Fine, I'll go to that fucking hell house,” she said in a quiet voice.

“Good. We're leaving, now,” he snapped. She raised an eyebrow.

“So impatient,” she clucked her tongue at him.

“You should know that by now,” he replied. She sighed and stepped around him, slowly made her way towards the door.

“When they pack my clothes,” she started, “make sure they don't steal any of the expensive underwear.”

Then she disappeared down the hall. From where he was standing, Jameson couldn't see to the end of it, but he heard one moving man wolf-whistle. Another cat-called. Then the front door slowly creaked open, before slamming shut. Jameson chuckled to himself.

So feisty.

Goddammit.

Tatum sat in the back of the Bentley, chewing on her nail, trying not to show how nervous she was about where they were going. She hadn't been to the Weston house in a month. She hadn't actually been inside it since October, almost three months ago. She willed away the memories. Tried to think of happier times.

She glanced at Jameson out of the corner of her eye. He was leaning back in his seat, staring out the window. As if he knew she was staring, he reached over and rested a hand on her knee. But it wasn't to comfort. His nails bit into her skin and she sighed, resting her head back. His fingers dragged up higher, disappeared under the bottom of his overcoat. She had made it onto the elevator, wearing nothing but her bra and panties, when he'd casually stepped in behind her. By the time they got to the lobby, he had wrestled her into his overcoat. It was a peacoat, but it was large enough on her that it stopped above the knees.

“Scared, baby girl?” he whispered, still not looking at her. Tate concentrated on the roof of the car.

“No,” she replied.

She was fucking terrified. Over the past two weeks, Tate had perfected acting like she didn't care. Didn't care that Jameson was a sociopath who liked to cause her mental anguish, just to get off. Didn't care that Ang had slept with the person responsible for making her feel worthless, responsible for ripping her life in half. Didn't care that Ellie had stolen one of the last pieces of Tate's life that still felt safe, still felt right.

She spent so much time pretending like she didn't care, she'd almost forgotten what it felt like to actually care, about anything. Only Sanders grounded her, and she had to keep him at arms length. He was too clever, too close to her; he would figure out what she was plotting. And she would not be derailed, not this time. The house did scare her – she was worried she would take one look at it, and break down. Go back in time. Be stuck in that room. On that floor, looking up at him, just wanting him to see her. And she would not be that girl again.

For the last seven years, Tate had thought she was a bad girl. Not a bad person, but most definitely very naughty. She liked to have sex, she liked to have fun, she liked to do whatever she wanted. But she'd had an epiphany while she was in France. She was actually a good girl. She liked people, wanted to make people happy. She loved her friends, would do anything for them. She would never have done anything to hurt them, and whenever she accidentally did, she felt bad. She apologized. She did her best to make amends.

Tate felt like a sucker. All those years, running from her good girl image, and here she was, still the best fucking girl on the block. Didn't matter how many dicks a girl sucked, she was still good if she always said please and thank you. No more. She was over it. Over being so goddamn nice all the time. Jameson was the devil. Ang was disrespectful. Ellie was a bitch. When did it get to be Tatum's turn?