She had bled. How could I not notice that she was bleeding? Even I never made her bleed.
Jameson pressed his back against the door, then slid in to a sitting position. Put his head in his hands. He was a Yale graduate. He owned multiple businesses, in multiple countries. He played the stock market like he'd invented it, and owned real estate so pricey, even Donald Trump was interested. He was considered by many to be a very smart, calculating man.
But suddenly he felt very stupid. Brought down by a woman with black hair and dark eyes. A sexy wit and a sexier body. A bartender, coupon clipper, temp worker. A college drop out turned party girl, with loose morals and legs that rarely closed.
So much better than him, in every way, shape, and form.
Her only downside was thinking she could use sex as a weapon. She'd always been too naive to realize that sometimes, weapons can backfire.
It had certainly backfired on him.
It took him a lot longer to find her than he would've thought. Sanders wasn't answering his phones calls, which was actually a surprise, even after everything that had happened. Jameson left several very angry, hostile voicemails. Regardless of his “work” position, Sanders was still family and this was an emergency.
Angier Hollingsworth, Tatum's best friend, wouldn't answer his phone, either, but that wasn't a surprise at all. Ang had never liked Jameson, and chances were the younger man already knew about what had happened. Was probably already on his way to avenge Tate. Or was possibly already with her.
Jameson finally tried Tate's phone, but it didn't even ring – just went straight to voicemail. Kind of ominous.
Hospitals are not very generous with patient information. It was evening before he found where she had been admitted, and even then, it was only because he'd lucked out – the hospital she was staying in was one his New York offices had made substantial donations to; Jameson's name was on one of the wings. Upon realizing that, the nurse was ready to give him any kind of information he wanted.
Actually getting to her room proved even harder, though. Jameson wasn't family, and he wasn't her husband. He wasn't anything to Tate, technically. They wouldn't even tell him what her room number was; he would have to wait till regular visiting hours, and even then, only if the patient requested to see him. He didn't really foresee that happening.
He saw Ang at one point, but Jameson kept his distance. He knew it wouldn't be pretty when they met up, and both of them had bigger things to worry about than defending her honor. The other man looked haggard. Tired. His clothing was rumpled and ruined. The cop had mentioned that there had been a man on the scene, someone who had seen her before she had started convulsing. Jameson had thought maybe it was Sanders. Now he was realizing it must have been Ang.
How else could Angier know she was here?
It was hours before Jameson found a nurse who would take a bribe in exchange for Tate's room number. Ang was nowhere to be seen, but it was well after visiting hours, so Jameson asked to be shown to the room. The nurse chattered away in a nervous manner, obviously a little awed by him. He ignored her, all his focus on one thing.
Tatum.
“Is she still unconscious?” Jameson asked as they stood in front of the room door.
“Oh no, she regained consciousness earlier today. The pain meds put her to sleep a little while ago. Would you like me to wake her?” the nurse asked, and then pushed her way inside the room.
“No. No, that won't be necessary.”
Jameson stayed standing in the doorway while the nurse fussed around the room. Only one small, fluorescent light was on behind the bed. The rest of the room was dark. There was a curtain separating Tate's bed from the neighboring bed. He frowned. That wouldn't do. She needed a private room.
“I didn't get to talk to her myself, and I shouldn't be saying this, but the doctors said she's going to be just fine,” the nurse assured him, all the while checking different machines that flanked the bed. Jameson cleared his throat, but still didn't enter the room. Something about that doorway. He felt like he was walking through the gates of Hell.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here ...,
“I thought she was in here because ..., because she ingested some Xanax. What does she need pain medication for?” Jameson asked, his eyes skimming over the foot of the bed. He still couldn't look directly at it.
Be a man, for god's sake. When has anything ever scared you? Go in there.
“They had to pump her stomach. It can be quite a painful procedure, and from what I understand, they had a problem getting the tube down her throat. Nothing permanent,” again, the nurse's voice was comforting and reassuring. Jameson had an epiphany.
She thinks I'm a concerned boyfriend. How cute.
“So she won't wake up, if I sit next to her, or touch her?” Jameson asked. The nurse finally glanced at him, and then did a double take, obviously surprised that he hadn't even entered the room.
“I doubt it. I mean, if you don't want to disturb her, I wouldn't start a conga line or anything, but just sitting and holding her hand should be fine,” she told him. He nodded.
“Thank you. You can leave.”
“Would you like me to bring you -,”
“No. Just leave.”
He didn't enter the room till after the nurse had left. He was slow in making his way to the foot of the bed, his footsteps soft in the quiet room. Jameson stood there for a while, staring at her feet. Then he slowly lifted his eyes, following her form under the blankets. A form he had gotten to know very well. A form that he felt belonged to him, something he had molded, created, with his own two hands.