Tatum.
She was ghastly pale. Jameson hadn't gotten a very good look at her the night before, and he hadn't seen her for a month before that, so it was very possible that she had lost her tan in the onset of fall.
Still. This wasn't a normal pale. She almost looked gray. Her lips were a neutral shade, blending into her face, and they were pressed tightly together. Her eyelids were twitching, and he wondered what she was dreaming about; wondered if it was a nightmare he had created. She had IVs in both arms and a hospital gown was visible, peeking out from under her blankets.
She looked small. Vulnerable. Damaged. Jameson tried to remember how angry he'd been at her, how mad he'd been when he'd first seen those pictures of her with the baseball player. He couldn't seem to recall it, though; all the anger was gone. All the jealousy, all the meanness. Tatum could be stupid sometimes, he wouldn't deny that, but Jameson was the goddamn devil.
And that was much, much worse.
He pulled up a chair and sat next to her, studying her face. He didn't like to say it to her, because he wasn't that sort of man, but Tate was a very beautiful girl. Even without makeup, she was still stunning. Seven years ago, she had occupied his fantasies. Now all this time later, she occupied his mind.
His heart.
I didn't want to like this woman.
He reached out and gently grabbed her hand, pulled it towards himself. She twitched once and Jameson held still, but when it was obvious that she wasn't going to wake up, he brought her hand closer. Ran his finger tips across her palm. She had long, delicate fingers. Almost graceful. The thought almost made him laugh – graceful wasn't normally a word he would have used to describe Tate.
“I'm so sorry, baby girl,” he whispered, before bringing the back of her hand to his lips and kissing it.
“I never thought I'd hear you say those words.”
Jameson chuckled to himself and looked up. Of course. Sanders was standing in the doorway. His hair was immaculately done, his suit looked freshly pressed; though if Jameson had to guess, he would say it was the same suit Sanders had been wearing since yesterday.
“How long have you known she was here?” Jameson asked in a soft voice, lowering her hand to the bed and lacing their fingers together.
“Since right after she was admitted. I heard about the Bentley and the pool on my police scanner, then I called Mr. Hollingsworth,” Sanders explained, making his way into the room.
“Did you really?”
“Yes. He wasn't very nice at first. He told me to tell you that you can rot in hell. After I said I was no longer affiliated with you, he told me that she was here. I have been here ever since,” Sanders replied. Jameson nodded.
“Will you tell me what all happened?”
“Will you actually listen?”
“Just this once, I think I will.”
Jameson continued on as if nothing was wrong. He went to work like normal – no one even asked a single question when Dunn's name was taken off the building, and Jameson didn't respond to any questions about Tatum or Sanders. He went to work at eight in the morning, and was out of the building by six o'clock sharp, every evening. He was nothing if not meticulous.
But his nights he dedicated to her. Tate was kept in the hospital for observation. He would turn up around midnight, meet with Sanders in the cafeteria to get some coffee and discuss how she was, and then the two men would head up to her room, where they would sit in silence. Sanders would read. Jameson would work a little. Stare at her a lot. Think about her constantly. Think about what he was doing there, what it all meant.
This is not a game. She is so much more than a game. Maybe she always was ...
When she was moved to a psychiatric wing, it cost him a lot more money to get in to see her, and then even more to find out why she had been moved. They thought she had tried to kill herself and wanted to hold her pending a psych evaluation.
At least she's in a private room now.
Jameson wasn't sure who was more upset, Sanders, or himself. But Jameson wasn't there during the days, when the doctors were making their rounds. Sanders had to be angry in his place, and Sanders had never done angry very well. If Jameson had been there, she wouldn't have been moved. Not that he blamed Sanders – the younger man was sick with worry over Tatum, he didn't need accusations and anger.
All those nights she and Sanders had spent together, all those afternoons, Jameson had always assumed it was just Tate babbling on about anything that popped into her head. She was a smart girl and had a lot to talk about, maybe Sanders had been her sounding board. Jameson didn't know, and at the time, he hadn't cared.
It turned out they had been sharing their souls. Sanders knew every single one of Tate's dirty secrets, knew every vile thought she had about herself, or anyone else. Knew just about every single moment she and Jameson had ever shared. And Sanders was nothing if not fair, so he claimed he had told Tate everything. All about how he and Jameson had met, his life in England before Jameson, and even his time in Belarus.
Jameson didn't know what to think. Tate hadn't shared all her secrets with him, and he'd never pried in to Sanders' past. Two of the most important people in his life, and Jameson was suddenly painfully aware of the fact that he didn't know much about either of them. It had never bothered him before; or at least, that's what he had told himself.
Now it bothered him a lot.
So, of course, Sanders knew everything that had happened. Tate had told him. About how she and Nick really were just friends. She hadn't so much as kissed him. How she had waited all month for Jameson, had looked forward to him coming home. How betrayed she had felt by Sanders, when she found out Jameson had brought his ex girlfriend home. How hurt she was by Jameson. It hadn't been a game to her anymore. She had genuinely cared about him. Had been perilously close to falling in love with him.