“No no no no no no,” she chanted, trying to grip onto the sink so she could break away. But she couldn't really flex her fingers and she slid backwards, falling to the floor and landing on her butt. She fell back against the door and then forward, winding up in a heap halfway in the bedroom and halfway in the bathroom. She tried to focus, but the room was so dark and she was so drunk, she couldn't figure out what going on at first.

Wrestling. Two people were wrestling. She started to laugh. Jameson was wrestling with Mr. Dunn. They were shouting, but she couldn't tell what they were saying. Jameson sounded very angry. She glanced down at herself, realized what a fright she must look. Managed to wiggle her underwear back on, push her dress back down, all while still folded up on the floor.

When she looked back up, the wrestling was over. Mr. Dunn had disappeared. Jameson was slowly walking towards her. She could only see his legs from her position, so she tilted her head back. Back. Waaaay back, taking him all in. He was such an imposing man, a person needed outstanding vision to see him. She blinked up at him.

“I fell down,” Tate whispered.

“Yes. Yes you did, baby girl,” Jameson whispered back. She hiccuped.

“Did you win?” she asked. He sighed and squatted down in front of her.

“For once, I did not. You dealt the last hand. Had all the chips. Did you invite him in here?” Jameson asked in a gentle voice. Tate shook her head and nearly threw up.

“No. He came after,” she replied.

“After what?”

“Afterrrrr ...,”

“Did you want him to do that?”

“I thought I did.”

“You asked him to have sex with you?” Jameson questioned her. Questions. So many questions. Q. What a strange letter.

“No. He asked me. I can't feel my lips,” she told him.

“And you said yes,” Jameson whispered. She nodded.

“Yes. You have a Danish beauty. I'd like a financier of my own,” she laughed. Jameson smiled down at her.

“Wait right here, please,” he requested, and then he left the room.

She laid back down on the floor. Curled up in to the fetal position. She was pretty sure she was crying. What had she done? What had she done!? Something horrible, terrible. Jameson was Satan, but she was worse. He hurt other people, which was bad. She hurt herself, which was so much worse.

All I have is me.

Jameson came back in to the room. Tate managed to push herself upright again, but had to keep her hands planted on the floor to keep from swaying. He squatted down again, and she looked up at him. Narrowed her eyes. He had something in his arms, bundles of something. He began dropping them on the ground, all in front of her. She looked down, tried to focus.

Oh my, that is a lot of money.

When there were no more bundles, she looked back up at him. He had his hands clasped together.

“Eight weeks. $4,000 a week. Your services are no longer required, Ms. O'Shea. Please get the fuck out of my house,” he said, oh-so-politely.

Tate held her tears in check until he left the room. Then she sobbed. Climbed to her feet. Stared at the money. She stumbled back in to the bathroom. Tried not to look at the broken mirror or the blood on the counter. She grabbed the bottle of Jack from off the floor, and then swiped the bottle of pills as well. Then, on her way out of the bathroom, she grabbed a set of keys off a hook by the door. When she left the room, she kicked the piles of money out of the way.

Tate didn't want to see anybody, didn't want anyone to see her. She took a set of back stairs, previously service stairs. Had to go out a back door and cut around the side of the house to get to the driveway. No small feat, while wearing five inch heels and borderline black out drunk. When she got to the line of cars, she pushed the car lock button till she saw the Bentley's lights blink.

“Thank God,” she groaned, shambling towards it. She had her hand on the door handle when there was a crunching sound.

“What are you doing!?” a voice yelled from behind her, and then she was being yanked in a circle. Sanders was holding her arms.

“Sandy!” she cried out, falling to the side. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her upright and then leaned her against the car.

“Oh my god, what happened?” he asked, holding her face towards the light. She pulled away.

“Oh Sandy, didn't he tell you? I won! I finally, finally won. Chalk one up to the little guy. I'm going home now, I don't know if I'll ever see you again,” Tate told him, moving and yanking open the car door.

“I don't think that's such a good idea,” Sanders said quickly, grabbing her arm again.

“Oh, I really do. Mr. Kane personally asked me to leave. He's a very sore loser. Please keep in touch,” she asked, trying to drop in to the seat. Sanders pulled her up again.

“Please. I'm begging you. Just stay here,” he asked. She pushed him away.

“I wouldn't stay here another minute, not even if you paid me,” she informed him. He gripped her arms hard.

“Tatum,” he said her name sharply. That got her attention. Sanders had never, ever said her first name before; she wanted to cry again. “Don't do this.”

“I have to do this,” she replied, and then shoved him as hard as she could. He stumbled over the loose pebbles and she slipped in to the car, locking the doors. Sanders pounded on the roof but she ignored him and started up the car. Wiggled her fingers at him as she drove off.