~8~
At the beginning of their relationship, if it could be called that, Jameson played a lot of games with Tate. She had started it all, he had just wanted to finish it.
For one of his games, he had taken her home to visit her estranged family. Not a very funny game, it turned out. He thought the estrangement had been just that; a group of people who had gotten used to not talking to each other. They would get together, have some drinks, then go back to being the same as any family – still dysfunctional, but at least in the same room together.
He had been very wrong. Jameson could actually admit when he was wrong, it just didn't happen very often. It turned out the O'Shea issues ran much, much deeper than just Tate sleeping with Jameson when she was eighteen. No, there was a lot more. Mrs. O'Shea had a serious alcohol and prescription drug problem. Ellie was holding a grudge to the point she was almost delusional. And Mathias O'Shea …, well, Jameson may have been a sociopath, but Mr. O'Shea was closer to being an actual psychopath. Violent, mean, no empathy. Very strange.
It was no wonder Ellie wound up in an abusive relationship. Had Tate's life gone according to plan, she probably would've found herself in a similar situation. Her family cutting her off had probably saved her life, somewhat. Sure, the relationship Jameson and she'd had at the time hadn't exactly been normal, but she had been a fully functional partner in it, complete with her own opinions and free will.
Up until that little vacation, their relationship had been very casual. Sure, Jameson had somewhat realized that Tate meant more to him than just sex, but he hadn't delved into it too much. Figured it would just run its course.
He had come out of the shower one morning to discover Tate gone from his room. Which was fine, he didn't care too much what she did with herself. He had just started to pull clothing out of his luggage when he'd heard shouting from the room next door. Ellie and Robert's room.
Jameson didn't know why, but he'd had a bad feeling. He yanked on a t-shirt and some track pants, sighed, and headed out of his room. He hadn't wanted to deal with real family issues, didn't want to be the person to break up a family fight. But he had heard Tate's voice in the fray, and as always, she had piqued his curiosity.
When Jameson saw Robert hit her, saw Tate go down to the ground, the first emotion he felt was shock. Utter shock, that someone could hurt Tate. The second emotion was rage. Pure rage. He hadn't even thought about it, just slammed through the bedroom door and pinned Robert to the wall.
Jameson knew Tate wasn't exactly a wilting flower. She was a tough girl who had gone through some tough things, not to mention the fact that she had probably experienced more aggressive behavior from Jameson himself, while in bed. But in his mind, it was completely different. He was allowed to touch Tate that way because she was his; because it was consensual. Because she asked him to do it. Because she liked for him to do it. Because he would never, ever, hurt her. No one else was allowed to touch her like that, treat her like that.
Should've ripped his fucking head off.
That had marked the change. When Jameson looked back over the years, that moment was the true defining one. That's when he knew it was something different, that it was something more. Any other girl, he would've ended the trip, ended the relationship. Too much drama. Jameson wasn't about drama, he was about sex. But for Tatum, he wanted to grind Robert into dust. Wanted to pick her up and carry her away from it all. Shield her from her horrific family. Do bad things to her in bed, so she could forget about the bad things in real life.
I wanted to save her. Took me all these years to figure it out, but even back then, I wanted to be her prince on a white horse.
*
Tate sighed and leaned back against a wall. Jameson was smiling and mingling around the party. No one seemed to notice the bandage wrapped around his knuckles. When he had punched the photographer, he had clipped the camera. Sliced right through his skin.
Of course he hadn't gone to jail. Bribes went pretty far in Hong Kong, and by the end of the whole ordeal, the paparazzi were the ones being carted off in a police car. Jameson sent a bell hop to tell Ang and Isadora that they would need to find their own way back to the hotel, then he carted Tate outside. Sanders appeared not long after, snapping his fingers at the valet.
“Why would he say that?” Tate had asked, leaning over Jameson's hand, trying to judge whether or not he would need stitches.
“Because people are assholes. Maybe he'll think twice before asking questions like that again.”
“You shouldn't have hit him.”
“I should've hit him harder.”
“What was all that stuff they were saying, about my dad?”
“Stuff you don't need to worry about.”
“Jameson -,”
“Don't push me on this, Tate. I'm not in the fucking mood.”
Tate hadn't pushed him on the matter, but she didn't want to let it go, either. But after they got back to the hotel, she didn't have time to grill him. He immediately hopped in the shower to get ready for his party. So Tate followed suit and picked out an outfit. Took a shower as well. Made herself look as good as possible.
What a fucking waste.
Just like she'd predicted, she didn't know anybody, and just like she'd predicted, she had to watch Isadora pour herself all over Jameson. Tate wasn't jealous, per se, she just didn't appreciate the blatant disrespect. Ang showed up and blew a raspberry on her neck, promising to distract the Brazilian goddess for her. But before he could make it across the room, he got distracted by a different pretty girl.