time she was getting ready, she didn't stop thinking about it. Why invite Ang, but then not want him around? She knew Jameson didn't like him, but he couldn't avoid him the whole time they were there, it would be ridiculous. But since he had flown Ang halfway across the world, Tate decided she could let it slide. For at least one night.
Tate shimmied her way into a tight, designer dress, and took care with her makeup. She didn't doubt that they would be eating at a nice restaurant and wanted to look up to par with Jameson.
She was shocked when Sanders pulled up in front of the restaurant and Jameson was waiting outside. He never waited for her. Usually when they met for dinner, he was already seated and working on his first drink. Or his actual meal, depending on how late she was running. But there he was, walking up to the curb and opening her door.
“What are you doing?” Tate blurted out, staring up at him. She tried to remember the last time he'd held open a door for her.
“Being a gentleman,” he replied, holding out his hand.
Tate burst out laughing.
“Can you even spell that word?”
“Get out of the fucking car.”
Tate stumbled a little as he yanked her out, still laughing. They said goodbye to Sanders, then made their way inside. But before they could make it past the entrance way, Jameson pulled her to a stop.
“What? Is there something on my dress?” Tate asked, looking down at herself. He was staring at her in the strangest way.
“No. You look perfect. I wanted to tell you that, before we went in,” he said. She snorted and looked up at him.
“Are you feeling okay?” she chuckled, pressing her hand to his forehead. He pushed her away.
“Yes. Just … you know everything I do for you, I do out of love, yes?” he questioned.
Funny time was over.
“Okay, now you're scaring me.”
“Shut up,” Jameson snapped, then put a hand on her back, guiding her forward. “I'm just trying to warn you. This is for your own good. Something that needed to happen.”
Tate went to reply, went to ask him what the hell was going on. But then they turned a corner, and all the breath left her body. She stopped moving and he pressed up against her from behind.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Tate hadn't seen or spoken to her parents in a long time. Before Jameson had re-entered her life, she'd gone seven years without speaking to her father. It worked for her. He didn't like her. She didn't like him. Her mother was a moot point – too drunk or high to ever matter. It was harsh, but it was the truth. They didn't care about her, so Tate didn't care about them.
So what the fuck are they doing here!?
The elder O'Sheas were seated at a table, picking at appetizers. Her father looked older, more weathered. He hunched over his plate, glaring at the restaurant. Her mother's eyes bounced around the room while she sipped at a large glass of wine. They looked completely out of place.
“No. No, I don't want to do this,” Tate hissed, trying to back away. Jameson held his ground and she felt his hands come to rest on her shoulders.
“I wasn't aware that you had a choice.”
“I'm not fucking around, Jameson. No more games, remember?” she reminded him.
“This isn't a game. This is life, baby girl. Time to suck it up and deal with it,” he told her. She gasped.
“Fuck that noise, I'm out of here,” she tried to twist away from him, but he held her in place.
“ Liebe, ” he whispered, his lips right at her ear. She held still. “Just do this. Say what you need to say. Forgive them. Tell them to eat shit and die. Whatever. But get it out and get it over with, you can't have this hanging over you anymore.”
Tate took a deep, shaky breath. He was right. Of course he was right; Jameson was always right. Bastard. She leaned back against him.
“Why?” she whispered.
“Because I care about you, and it's been long enough.”
She didn't want to be crying when she faced her father, so she pulled away from
Tate shimmied her way into a tight, designer dress, and took care with her makeup. She didn't doubt that they would be eating at a nice restaurant and wanted to look up to par with Jameson.
She was shocked when Sanders pulled up in front of the restaurant and Jameson was waiting outside. He never waited for her. Usually when they met for dinner, he was already seated and working on his first drink. Or his actual meal, depending on how late she was running. But there he was, walking up to the curb and opening her door.
“What are you doing?” Tate blurted out, staring up at him. She tried to remember the last time he'd held open a door for her.
“Being a gentleman,” he replied, holding out his hand.
Tate burst out laughing.
“Can you even spell that word?”
“Get out of the fucking car.”
Tate stumbled a little as he yanked her out, still laughing. They said goodbye to Sanders, then made their way inside. But before they could make it past the entrance way, Jameson pulled her to a stop.
“What? Is there something on my dress?” Tate asked, looking down at herself. He was staring at her in the strangest way.
“No. You look perfect. I wanted to tell you that, before we went in,” he said. She snorted and looked up at him.
“Are you feeling okay?” she chuckled, pressing her hand to his forehead. He pushed her away.
“Yes. Just … you know everything I do for you, I do out of love, yes?” he questioned.
Funny time was over.
“Okay, now you're scaring me.”
“Shut up,” Jameson snapped, then put a hand on her back, guiding her forward. “I'm just trying to warn you. This is for your own good. Something that needed to happen.”
Tate went to reply, went to ask him what the hell was going on. But then they turned a corner, and all the breath left her body. She stopped moving and he pressed up against her from behind.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Tate hadn't seen or spoken to her parents in a long time. Before Jameson had re-entered her life, she'd gone seven years without speaking to her father. It worked for her. He didn't like her. She didn't like him. Her mother was a moot point – too drunk or high to ever matter. It was harsh, but it was the truth. They didn't care about her, so Tate didn't care about them.
So what the fuck are they doing here!?
The elder O'Sheas were seated at a table, picking at appetizers. Her father looked older, more weathered. He hunched over his plate, glaring at the restaurant. Her mother's eyes bounced around the room while she sipped at a large glass of wine. They looked completely out of place.
“No. No, I don't want to do this,” Tate hissed, trying to back away. Jameson held his ground and she felt his hands come to rest on her shoulders.
“I wasn't aware that you had a choice.”
“I'm not fucking around, Jameson. No more games, remember?” she reminded him.
“This isn't a game. This is life, baby girl. Time to suck it up and deal with it,” he told her. She gasped.
“Fuck that noise, I'm out of here,” she tried to twist away from him, but he held her in place.
“ Liebe, ” he whispered, his lips right at her ear. She held still. “Just do this. Say what you need to say. Forgive them. Tell them to eat shit and die. Whatever. But get it out and get it over with, you can't have this hanging over you anymore.”
Tate took a deep, shaky breath. He was right. Of course he was right; Jameson was always right. Bastard. She leaned back against him.
“Why?” she whispered.
“Because I care about you, and it's been long enough.”
She didn't want to be crying when she faced her father, so she pulled away from
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