“These were all I could find,” he said, holding up a pair of sneakers. Tate took them from him and glanced at Jameson.

“Did you pack these for me? I'll look ridiculous,” she told him, before bending over and slipping on the shoes – a pair of white, skater-style, DCs.

“I know how you are; we can't make it through a whole night without you complaining about your fucking shoes. I just grabbed the flattest ones I could find and threw them in the car,” Jameson explained, taming his hair by running his fingers through it a couple times.

“Very thoughtful of you.”

“I know. Let's get the fuck out of here. Sanders, did you settle up for me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. So glad you're home.”

“Um …, me too, sir.”

They started filing out of the room. There was a brief argument because Tate wanted to keep the almost full bottle of Jack Daniel's. Jameson told her to leave it. She didn't want to waste the booze or money. He pointed out that she'd had enough booze, and it wasn't her money, so she shouldn't worry about it. She glared at him and tucked the bottle under her arm, stomping out the door ahead of him.

“That girl,” Jameson grumbled, but he chuckled while she gingerly made her way onto the spiral stair case.

“I'm sorry, but someone seems to have forgotten something,” Sanders' voice came from inside the room. He turned around, and then Jameson really did laugh. Sanders was holding up a rose colored, lace bra. The one Tate hadn't been able to find.

“You know what? Keep it. A souvenir for when you go back to Russia,” Jameson joked, winking at Sanders before turning to leave.

The bouncers weren't keen on the idea of Tate leaving with the bottle, and another argument was had. In the end, Sanders was able to talk it out of her hands. She danced outside, and was delighted to discover that the rap star party from the private room next to theirs was waiting out there, as well.

While they waited for their cars to be brought around, the two groups socialized. Well, Tatum chatted with the ladies while Jameson and the rapper smoked cigars. Sanders stood by a wall.

“So I gotta ask,” one of the girls started saying. “How do you keep a man like that? I read an article saying he used to sleep with a different girl every night.”

Tate laughed and looked over her shoulder. Jameson was standing a little ways behind her. One hand held a cigar to his lips, and the other was shoved into his pants pocket. Her high heels dangled from his wrist, and she smiled.

That man is perfection.

“Lots of threesomes,” Tate finally answered, and all the girls laughed.

Eventually, the rapper's limo was pulled around and they had to say goodbye. Tate waved them off, then danced back to her boys. The DC shoes she had changed into allowed for a lot of movement and she wondered why she hadn't just worn them in the first place. She backed Sanders up against a wall and forced him to suffer through her “twerking” on him. When the car was pulled up, he finally pushed her away. She snorted with laughter and fell against Jameson.

“Ready to go home?” he asked. She nodded, clutching his lapels and pulling him closer.

“More than ready,” she replied, before kissing him sloppily.

“You realize,” he pulled back from her as his hands squeezed her hips, “you're providing a show.”

“Huh?”

Jameson jerked his head to the side and Tate glanced behind her. Several men with large cameras were across the street, snapping away. She glared at them. They had probably shown up for the rap star, but then realized who Jameson was; Tate didn't like it. Paparazzi had been responsible for a lot of her and Jameson's problems early on, so she didn't like to provide them with anymore fodder.

So she turned around and gave them the finger, with both hands, holding them up in front of her face.

“That just makes them take more pictures,” Jameson informed her, wrapping his arm around her waist and walking her forward, up to the car.

“So? Nothing usable, they'll have to blur it all out,” she replied.

“You're ridiculous.”

“You're ridiculous.”

“Tate?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

The drive home didn't seem as long. Probably because she spent most of it on his lap, kissing and touching as much of him as he would allow. He produced a bottle of Dom Perignon, 1999, and they toasted their glasses. The second glass wound up getting spilled down Tate's front, and then it was a free-for-all. By the time they rolled up to the house in Weston, she was straddling Jameson's lap and he was gripping her jaw, forcing her to look straight up while he poured the champagne down her throat. It spilled over the sides of her mouth and ran down her neck, over her breasts.

“That was a waste,” she breathed when she'd swallowed everything. She ran her hands over her chest, then flicked champagne in his face.

“Tatum, if it gets you wet, it's never a waste,” was his retort. She laughed.

“Good response, Mr. Kane. Can we go inside now?” she asked.

“I thought you'd never ask.”

They tripped up the front stairs, banged up against the door. Like a couple of horny teenagers, unable to keep their hands off each other. Jameson finally unlocked the front door and they literally fell inside, landing hard on the stairs. Tate groaned and Jameson pulled her up, moving her so she was a couple steps ahead of him.