See. This isn't hard. Way easier than playing with Jameson Kane.

~16~

“You have to stop her.”

Jameson looked up. Sanders had just burst in to the library. He looked like a ghost.

“Excuse me?” Jameson asked, leaning back in his office chair.

“Tatum. She just left,” Sanders explained. Jameson chuckled.

“I think that's probably for the best,” he replied. Sanders shook his head.

“No. She's drunk, Jameson,” he stressed. Jameson frowned.

“She'll be fine.”

“She's not fine! She just to-,”

Jameson slammed his hand down on the top of his desk.

“Don't fucking talk about her again! I don't want to hear her name, anything. Don't even reference her!” he yelled. Sanders stared at him for a minute.

“You don't mean any of this. You need her. What you did was wrong. Go find her, and apologize,” he said in an even voice. Jameson was shocked.

“I'm not apologizing for shit. Yeah, I did a shitty thing. She fucked my friend, Sanders. My business partner, in my own home. In your bathroom! I gave her money, she's gone. It's done, it's over. Drop it,” he snapped. Sanders took a deep breath.

“Are you saying you will not go after her? Not even, at the very least, to ensure her safety?” he asked. Jameson glared at him.

“Your are skating perilously close to the edge,” he hissed. Sanders stood up straighter.

“Then consider this my notice, sir,” he stated.

The shocking just did not stop.

“You can't mean that,” Jameson actually laughed. Sanders refused to look at him.

“Effective immediately. I will clean out my stuff and be gone within the hour,” he said. Jameson jumped up.

“I am practically family! You barely know her! You've known me for ..., for forever!” he shouted.

“I do not wish to be employed by a man of your caliber, sir. I find it beneath me,” Sanders replied.

She really got to him.

“If you really feel that way, Sanders, then fine. Go. I wish you all the best. This job will not be waiting for you,” Jameson attempted to call his bluff.

“Pardon me, sir, but I will not be waiting for it,” Sanders said, and then hurried from the room. Jameson blinked after him, then picked up a heavy crystal tumbler. Threw it at the wall as hard as he could. Watched it explode everywhere.

Well goddamn, no one knows how to fuck something up quite like I do ...,

~17~

Tatum wasn't sure how she did it, but she made it all the way back to Boston without crashing, and without getting arrested.

She couldn't figure out why she was so upset. She had drunken enough to knock out a sailor. The two xanax had been no help, either. She struggled to open the pill bottle while she drove, swerving all over the road. She knocked five more pills in to her mouth, then chugged some more whiskey. When she looked in to the bottle and saw that there were only four pills left, she figured what the hell. Anything to make pain stop. The empty bottle went out the window. Then when she was right outside the city limits, she picked up her phone. Called the only person she could think of; the only person she wanted to talk to, ever again.

“I'm so glad you called, sweetie. I'm sorry for everything I said -,” Ang began gushing the minute he answered the phone. She let out a loud sob and he stopped.

“I can't, Ang. I just can't. I need you so much,” Tate cried.

“What's wrong? Where are you?” he demanded.

“I don't know, I don't know where I am. What am I doing!? He was so horrible, Ang. So horrible. And she was so beautiful,” she sobbed, coughing and hiccuping.

“Jesus, you sound really drunk, Tate. How much have you had?” he asked.

“Oh, no no no, not enough. Not nearly enough,” she said, her breath hitching.

“Where are you, right now?” he asked again.

“I'm such a horrible person, Ang. I did the worst thing,” she whispered, her words starting to slur. The road was definitely getting blurrier.

“Oh god, what did you do?” he gasped.

“I didn't want to do it. I just wanted him to bleed a little. I don't think he has any blood. Does Satan bleed?” she asked, her mind starting to settle. Like a fog. She swerved across a lane and a car honked at her. She jerked the wheel back.

“Jesus christ, Tate, are you driving!?” Ang shouted at her. She hummed in to the phone.

“I'm flying,” she whispered.

“Shit. Pull over, right now, I'm coming to get you. Tell me where you are,” he demanded. She shook her head.

“Don't waste your time on me. I don't have a watch,” she laughed.

“What the fuck are you going on about!? You're scaring me right now, stop it. Stop the car!” he ordered. She shook her head violently back and forth, and then saw two of everything.

“I can't. I'm so dirty. He made me filthy. I have to wash him away. I have to get clean. I'm gonna go get clean. Clean, clean, clean, clean,” she began to sing softly, and then she dropped the phone. It hit the edge of the door and skittered out the open window, carrying Ang's screaming voice out onto the road.

A long time ago, on one of their jaunts through the city, she and Ang had discovered a swimming pool. In a nicer neighborhood; Olympic sized; beautiful. But expensive entrance fees. Fuck that. They had found a basement window that would open if someone wiggled it the right way. All Tate could focus on was getting to that pool. She parked the car – or at least she was pretty sure she parked it – and managed to get the window open, no problem. Dropping down was another issue. She was pretty sure her ankle was sprained.