After they had their celebratory glass, cheesecake was produced. They ate in silence, watching boats come and go. When they were finished, Sanders excused himself and went to his room, leaving her all alone with the devil. They sat in silence for a while, then Jameson lit up a cigarillo.
“Bother you?” he asked, glancing at her. Tate was shocked that he was even asking.
“No. In fact, I'm glad you're doing that,” she replied, then scampered away to find her purse. When she had it, she sat back down at the table and dug through the bag till she found what she needed. She pulled it out and Jameson laughed.
“You've got to be shitting me,” he chuckled. She shook her head.
“We all have our coping mechanisms. Got a light?” she asked, holding the Marlboro Light 100 out towards him. He shook his head.
“You are not smoking that filth on my boat,” he told her. Now it was Tate's turn to laugh.
“You're smoking right now,” she pointed out.
“This was imported from Cuba. It's a work of art. You're smoking something that smells like death. You'll stink, my boat will stink, no,” Jameson stated. She glared at him and dug a lighter out of her bag. She put the cigarette between her lips.
“Just because we have a deal, doesn't mean you get to tell me what to do. Those days are long gone, and I am -,” she started, when he got up and stood in front of her, pulling the cigarette out of her mouth. She watched as he broke it in half.
“I don't give a shit about our deal. You could be my Nana, and I wouldn't let you fucking smoke. No cigarettes on my boat,” he stressed.
Did he just say Nana?
“This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. You can smoke something because it was made in Cuba, but I can't smoke a stupid cigarette? Fine. Fine. What if I go find some fancy French imports? How about some German roll-your-owns? Fancy enough for Mr. High-and-Mighty?” Tate snapped, standing up and glaring at him.
“I don't care if they're from Middle Earth and rolled in gold. No cigarettes,” Jameson wouldn't budge.
“I'm sorry. Did you just make a Hobbit reference?” she asked, stunned.
“Yes. Don't change the subject. Give me your cigarettes,” he asked again, holding out his hand.
“Are you joking?” she laughed, clutching her purse to her chest.
“No. I don't want to find out you've been sneaking them in your room, or in the bathroom. Jesus, you haven't gotten Sanders started, have you?” he groaned.
“No! I'm not some drug dealer, peer pressuring Sandy in to smoking! And he's not that stupid anyway,” Tate snapped.
“At least you recognize what you're doing is stupid. I'm not asking again – give me the cigarettes,” Jameson demanded. She snorted and started to walk away.
“You can fuck right off, that's what you can do.”
She hadn't made it far when she felt his arms wrap around her from behind. It was like a five-alarm fire instantly spread across her skin. She gasped and struggled against his hold. He simply picked her up, holding onto her tightly so her feet were dangling above his own.
“Give up yet?” he asked from behind her. She could feel one of his hands pulling at the bottom of her bag, so she crushed it to her chest.
“No! I promise I won't smoke on your stupid boat! Let me go!” Tate yelled.
“Stop yelling.”
“I'll do whatever the fuck I want, you can't -,”
He shook her back and forth, and her fingers opened, letting her purse go. It slipped through her hands and past his, crashing to the deck. Most of the contents spilled everywhere, and when Jameson saw the pack of cigarettes, he kicked them hard enough to send them flying overboard. She gasped, and at the same time, he dropped her. She stumbled forward a little before turning to face him.
“I forgot how difficult you like to make things,” he grumbled, rubbing at his lower back.
“You can't just do that! You can't just grab people, and shake them until they do what you want! You can't just -,” Tate was shouting, when he reached out and clamped a hand over her mouth. She went to move away, but his other hand was at the back of her head, holding her in place. He forced her forward, till their foreheads were almost meeting.
“Stop. Yelling,” he growled at her. She tried to tell him off, but it all sounded like womp wuh womp womp from behind his hand. “I am going to take my hand away. You are going to be quiet. Yes?” She managed a nod, and he slowly removed his hand from her mouth.
“DON'T YOU EVER FUCKING -,” she started to shriek.
The hand on the back of her head bunched in to a fist, and before Tate knew what was happening, Jameson was pulling her hair. Snapping her head back. The sting caused her to gasp and her hands flew to his chest. Not to push him away, but to keep herself from falling into him. She was stunned, and by the look on his face, he seemed more than a little surprised, too.
In their past life, it would have been normal. Even expected. Jameson telling Tate not to do something, or she'd be punished. She does it to get punished. He pulls her hair, she loves it. The way other people kiss cheeks or hug, Jameson and Tate had pain. Pleasure. It was second nature to them, a second language. How easy it was to fall back into old habits.
Being with Jameson is like doing heroin. Highly addictive and highly lethal.
She stared up at him, frozen in place. In all their time together, over the course of those two months, she had never felt out of her depth with him, or out of her league. But in that moment, right then, suddenly Tate was that eighteen-year-old girl again, standing with him in his bedroom. Excited. Nervous. Scared. Unsure of herself, of what was going on, of what he was going to do. Back then, there had only been one thing she had been sure of – that she wanted him to do whatever he wanted.