“Tate,” Ang sighed her name, moving one arm so he could trace a finger down the side of her cheek.

Oh god. I'm not drunk enough for this. Please don't let him say something weird.

“What's wrong?” she asked, her voice soft.

“I just …, miss you. You know?” he said with a laugh, twisting some of her hair around his finger.

“I miss you, too, Ang, but that doesn't mean you get to make out with me in an elevator,” Tate tried to joke, grabbing his free hand and linking their fingers.

“That's not what this is,” he said quietly, his eyes wandering over her face. “I just know that it's going to be a long time before we see each other again. A long time before we have a day to just be us, together. Maybe never.”

Ridiculously, Tate felt like crying.

“Why are you saying that? We still have the rest of this trip, and I can come visit you, and we can -,”

He kissed her again, and this time Tate allowed it. It was different. It was soft, and it was sad. It was like he was saying goodbye, the only way he really knew how. She held onto his hand even tighter, pressing it to her chest.

“You were always my fave, Tater tot,” he breathed, pressing his forehead against hers.

“Ang, what is going on?” Tate whispered, staring up at him.

He didn't answer her. Just then, the elevator dinged and the doors slid open, startling her. They were on their floor. Even more startling was Jameson, standing in front of the doors, his arms crossed over his chest. One of his eyebrows cocked up as he took in the scene, Ang holding Tate, pressing her up against a wall.

“Interesting,” Jameson murmured. Ang took a deep breath, then smiled. Turned to face the door.

“Hey, Satan, you said do whatever we want,” he teased, then dipped Tate, practically licking the inside of her mouth. She made gagging noises.

“Very funny, Angier.”

Ang finally let her go, but not before slapping her on the ass hard enough to send her stumbling into Jameson. He saluted them and said goodnight, then strolled down the hall towards his room, whistling a little tune. Tate stared after him with her jaw hanging open.

What the hell is going on!?

“What the hell was that?” Jameson's words mimicked her thoughts.

“I swear, I have no idea. One minute, we're riding in the elevator with a bunch of his groupies. Next thing I know, he's kissing me like he's gonna die tomorrow,” Tate tried to explain.

“Ah.”

And that was it. Jameson turned and started walking back towards the room. Tate's mind was blown. Jameson hated it when Ang touched her. Hated it when Ang so much as breathed in her direction. She had just told him that Ang had kissed her, and he didn't care!?

“Is there something I'm missing!?” Tate called out, stumbling after him. Jameson held the door open to their room and let her go inside ahead of him.

“What do you mean?” he asked, taking her purse from her and tossing it onto a counter.

“Ang was being all weird, and you're not mad, and … and … I can't get this off,” Tate grumbled, hopping around on one leg as she tried to pull her sandal off. It finally came free and she chucked it over her shoulder.

“You want me to be mad?” Jameson asked, slowly moving to stand in front of her.

“You're always mad, it's one of the things I love most about you,” Tate laughed, and got her other shoe free. She threw that one, as well.

“Hmmm, one of the things. And what do you love the most about me?” he questioned in a slow voice.

“It's a toss up,” Tate answered, yawning while she swept her hair up into a ponytail.

“Between what and what?”

“Your dick and your mouth.”

“Jesus.”

“Well, by mouth, I mean words. How you talk.”

“Not much better.”

She snickered and moved out onto the balcony. The breeze was stronger that high up, lifting and moving her hair around. She sighed and pressed her forearms against the railing, leaned over it. Jameson came out and copied her stance, leaning against the railing as well.

“You know I don't mean that,” Tate said in a soft voice.

“Excuse me?”

“The thing I love most about you is you,” Tate tried to explain, then hiccuped. He laughed and moved behind her, putting his hands on the railing on either side of her.

“That would be much sweeter if you weren't drunk,” he pointed out.

“I'm not drunk. Just …, tipsy,” she offered. He laughed again, but it was a dark sound, and then she felt his teeth against her shoulder.

“Tipsy enough to let Angier put his tongue in your mouth,” he growled.

“Aha, I knew it, you are angry,” she teased, then yelped when his teeth nipped particularly hard.

“According to you, I'm always angry. Did you have a good time tonight?” he asked, moving back from her a little.

“I did,” she answered honestly, shivering as she felt his fingers run through her ponytail.

“Did Angier get anything else inside you?”

“Wouldn't you like to know,” she joked, then gasped as he yanked back hard on her hair.

“You wouldn't appreciate finding me with my tongue down Isadora's throat,” he hissed.

“No, I wouldn't.”

He let go of her hair and turned her around, so she was facing him.