“I am very train like, and you know, Rus has been lookin' mighty fine lately,” he commented, and she laughed again.
“You better not look twice, Ang. I'm serious, I don't want you to break her,” Tate said.
“I wouldn't break her. Just bend her a little. Fold her in half,” he replied. She looked over her shoulder.
“I'm dead serious, Ang. If you fuck her, she'll, like, fall in love with you. And it'll break her heart. I would be pissed,” she warned him.
“God, you're so boring anymore. I don't understand. You and Satan aren't boyfriend and girlfriend, but you spend all your time together, practically live together, and you aren't allowed to sleep with anyone else. Ummm ..., I'm pretty sure that's the basic definition of boyfriend-and-girlfriend,” Ang pointed out.
Tate already knew this, had already thought about it, a lot. Her relationship with Jameson was a strange one. It didn't have a label, but she kinda liked that – labels were boring. Labels could ruin things, made a person feel like they always had to be living up to it. She and Jameson, they just existed. It was easier. She tried not to think about it too much.
“We're allowed to sleep with other people,” she corrected Ang.
“Oh, that's right – just not me,” he grumbled, making a face. She laughed.
“Technically, it's just me who isn't allowed to sleep with you, so you could -,”
“Don't make me sick. You said he sleeps with other women all the time, but how many guys have you slept with?” Ang asked.
And that's where the “open relationship” aspect fell apart. Jameson had told her she could sleep with other men, and the independent-slutty-woman inside of her told her she could sleep with other people, but the desire wasn't there. She only wanted him.
And it was just her own thinking, just something inside of her, but Tate had the distinct feeling that though Jameson said it was okay, it was actually not okay. Not at all. Jameson Kane didn't like to share his toys, and Tate figured she was one of his better ones.
“Just because I haven't slept with anyone doesn't mean I can't, or won't. Besides, why go out for hamburger when I've got steak at home?” she offered as an explanation, trying to lighten the mood. Ang snorted.
“Sounds like bullshit. If your relationship didn't disgust me so much, I'd bug you more about it. Let's do something fun!” he proclaimed. She turned her attention back to the computer.
“Like what?”
“I don't know. What is Satan up to, anyway?”
“He's at home, going over some paperwork for some big to-do that's coming up in Europe,” she replied.
“Some big to-do? In Europe? Like what? Where?” Ang pressed. She shrugged.
“I don't know, I don't really ask. He has a house in Denmark,” she told him.
“Denmark? Odd, I would have figured him for a London man, or Berlin, or something. Why Denmark?” he asked. She shrugged again.
“I don't know. I told you, I don't ask,” she replied.
“Jesus, Tate,” Ang laughed, sitting upright. “He could be a serial killer, or a human trafficker, or a pedophile hiding from the law, or ...,” he kept listing stuff off. She turned to face him, smacking him in the leg.
“Shut up!” she laughed.
“... or a drug smuggler, or a thief of rare art work, or secretly married with a family, or -,”
They both stopped at that idea. Tate stared at Ang. It was a secret fear of hers. Jameson went away a lot. New York for a weekend. L.A. For a week. Back to New York for a day. Miami for a day. Back to New York. The ex girlfriend lived in New York, Tate was pretty sure. Though she wasn't sure at all about the “ex” status.
“He's always been honest with me. He would have told me,” Tate said in a soft voice. Ang snorted.
“Apparently you guys have more of a 'don't ask, don't tell' relationship. Some people don't consider a lie by omission really a lie. Look him up,” he suggested, nodding at the laptop. She glanced down.
“What do you mean?” she asked. He groaned and took the laptop from her hands.
“What's Satan's last name?” he grumbled. She chewed on her bottom lip.
“This isn't right, Ang. He doesn't pry in to my stuff,” she mumbled. He guffawed.
“Are fucking serious? Tate, he blindfolded you and made you spend the weekend with your family from hell. You're right, he doesn't pry – he rips shit open and makes a mess. Full name,” he demanded.
Tate gave it to him.
After Ang typed it in to the Google search bar, he handed the computer back to her. She was shocked at how many things came up right away. Jameson was a lot more “famous” than she would have ever guessed. She clicked on the images tab, and there were tons of him, in paparazzi photos. Him two years ago, at an L.A. movie premiere, some actress on his arm. Him at New York Fashion Week, just last February, a famous singer on his arm. Him standing next to a pool in swim shorts, soaking wet, talking on a cell phone while some ridiculously beautiful girl floated in the pool underneath him – some model whose name she didn't recognize. Most of the photos were because he was with famous people. They were getting photographed, and he was just caught in the cross-hairs.
But there were some of just him. He was very wealthy, which made him an attraction in his own right. A lot of the photographs were from European tabloids, talking about his playboy lifestyle over the past couple years. Nothing too bad, nothing she hadn't already known about or assumed. None of it bothered her, and she could look at Jameson all day, so the pictures were fun.