“Stupid bitch. Stupid fucking bitch. Doesn't even know when to say enough. Fuck,” Jameson swore, bringing the scissors down to her stomach.
He glanced at her, but she didn't say anything, didn't make a move to stop him, so he continued on with whatever it was he was planning. It was rough going, using only his left hand, but he managed to make a jagged cut up the center of the jersey she was wearing. When he finally sawed through the thick lining at her collar, he rested the point of the scissors under her chin. Dug them in a little.
“Go ahead,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Just another mark, right? Not like I'll even notice.”
“I will say this only once, Tatum. I am not engaged. I wll continue to fuck other women. But I am with you,” he said in a very serious voice.
Since that night, seven years ago, he hadn't ever made her cry again. Not with his harsh tone and degrading words. Not with any of his sadistic games. Not with his punishing hands. He had choked her to the point blood vessels broke in her face, squeezed her to the point there were whole hand prints around her thighs, held her down for so long that she didn't think she'd be able to find her way back up again.
But speaking nice to her, that was too much. Saying sweet things, even in the fucked up way they had, was more than she could handle. Tears filled her eyes, spilled over her temples. Ran in to her hair. She hadn't wanted to care about this man. Not at all. She had wanted to play with him. Turned out, he was much better at the game.
“Liar,” she whispered.
He moved off of her then. Pulled her away from the floor enough to yank the remnants of her jersey off, and then let her fall back down, only wearing her bra and shorts. She watched as he shoved the jersey in to the garbage disposal, ran the machine till it clogged and stopped moving, smoke coming out from underneath the sink.
“I never lie, Tatum,” was all he said as he strode out of the kitchen.
She started to laugh. Really laugh; a sort of body heaving laughter, lifting her shoulders off the floor and causing her to shake. She could feel the porcelain cutting in to her, but she didn't care. She laughed, and the tears streamed down her face.
“Let me help you, Ms. O'Shea,” Sanders' soft voice was above her. She opened her eyes.
“Oh, Sandy. Sandy, why didn't you tell me?” she gasped for air, pressing a hand to her chest.
“Tell you what, ma'am?” he asked, grabbing her arm and pulling her in to a sitting position.
“That none of this is a game,” she breathed. He grimaced as he looked over her back.
“Because I knew you'd figure it out sooner or later, ma'am,” he replied, and then pulled her to her feet.
“I didn't want to like him, Sandy. I really, really didn't. I thought, if we just played. If we slept with other people, and just played around, I would finally beat him. I would win,” Tate babbled while Sanders wrapped an arm around her waist.
“If it's any consolation, ma'am, I think you have won,” Sanders told her, helping her walk up the stairs. She shook her head and leaned in to his shoulder.
“It's not fun anymore. It's scary. I don't know this game,” she whispered. He nodded.
“I know, ma'am. I know.”
*
Jameson was woken up a couple hours later to the sound of footsteps in his room.
Tate?
He had stayed up for a while, waiting for her to crawl in to bed, or to hear her sneaking out of the house. He had maybe gone a little too far with her, but she had made him so mad. How dare she Google him. How dare she look in to Petrushka. How dare she not trust him. How dare she fuck some guy just to get back at Jameson. Wear that guy's clothing home, to Jameson's home. He wanted to put her in her place. Remind her exactly what she was to him – even if he, himself, wasn't exactly sure.
But her eyes had looked so detached. Telling him to mark her with the scissors. Daring him. She wasn't present. She wanted the pain – not to remind her that she was with him, but to make her forget. He never wanted her to forget.
It broke his heart a little.
“Jameson.”
Sanders was in his room. He couldn't remember the last time Sanders had fully entered his room. Jameson sat up, rubbed his face, and then climbed out of bed. There was morning light shining through the windows, and the clock said it was six-twenty. He looked around him. Tatum wasn't in the room.
“Where is she?” he sighed. Sanders turned and left. Jameson followed close behind him.
She was asleep in Sanders' bed. Jameson was a little shocked – he was pretty sure no one else had ever been in Sanders' room. Jameson hadn't been in there since the remodel. She was laying on her stomach, and she didn't have anything on her top half. He winced when he saw the nicks and cuts on her back. They had been cleaned, there was no blood, but they still looked evil.
“I tried to take her to your room, but she wanted to get cleaned up first. She fell asleep. She was going to join you,” Sanders explained in his soft voice. Jameson sat on the edge of the bed, traced his fingers down her spine. She shivered in her sleep.
“No. She wanted to be with you. She feels safe with you,” Jameson replied.
“No. She wants you. She has been waiting for you.”
Jameson scowled. He wasn't in the mood for Sanders' little riddles. He stood up and pulled Tate to the edge of the bed, picked her up in his arms, curled her in to his chest. He nodded at Sanders and then strode from the room.