Completion (The Kane Trilogy 3.5)

“No. But I figured this would be a cheap, easy way to see the city,” she explained, turning to look as they rolled by the famous Peninsula Hotel. Jameson had told her he normally stayed there when he visited, but had decided on a larger, “brand name” hotel for her this time.

“Cheap? Do you actually have to worry about stuff like that anymore? Big Daddy Kane won't give you access to his funds?” Ang teased. She rolled her eyes.

“That's boring. I can whip out the black American Express card easy peezy, but then we wouldn't get to see it like this,” she pointed out.

“He gave you a black American Express card!?”

“I am not buying you stuff.”

“Oh, yes, you are.”

They actually did go shopping after that, near the water front there were a lot of shops. Tate was a sucker when it came to Urban Outfitters, in any country. Sometimes, a person just needed a clock that looked like it was melting. Or at least, she did. They laughed at their purchases as they headed to the Sky 100 deck, inside the seventh tallest building in the world. They had tea service while over looking Victoria Harbor.

“He's calling me,” Tate mumbled, glancing down at her phone. Before she could answer, Ang yanked it away from her.

“This'll be good, trust me,” he said quickly, then answered the call, making moaning sounds.

“We are in public!” Tate hissed, smacking him with her napkin. Ang waved her away and pressed the phone to his ear.

“Sorry, sorry about that, you know how Tate's mouth is. God, she's even better than I remembered – glad you haven't ruined all the years of hard work I put into her,” Ang said quickly, sounding breathless. Tate couldn't hear Jameson's response, but she could guess.

“You're such a dick,” she grumbled, throwing the balled up napkin at Ang's face. He was silent for a while, then glanced at her before turning away.

“No. Yeah. Yeah, sure. Gotcha. Do you want to talk -, okay. On it. Too late, Satan, you said whatever it takes,” Ang's voice was teasing towards the end.

What the fuck are they talking about?

But before Tate could ask that question out loud, Ang hung up the phone. Didn't even offer for her to say hello or goodbye.

“What was that!? I wanted to talk to him!” Tate snapped.

“Just some man talk. His meetings are running late, he told me to entertain you, so c'mon. Get naked,” Ang instructed. She snorted.

“Fuck off. What did he say?” she asked.

“Just that – he's gonna be with his lawyer for a while, that's why he was calling you. Said that we could hang out and do whatever we want tonight. So let's make it good, god knows when we'll get a chance like this again,” Ang said, slowly standing out of his chair.

“I'm not having sex with you.”

“You're so boring now.”

Tate wanted to go back to the hotel to change, but Ang pitched a fit. He wanted to go to the Avenue of the Stars, take a picture next to the Bruce Lee statue. And once they were down there, he wanted to stay so they could watch the “symphony of lights” - when several of the city's larger buildings would put on a light show, set to music. So another couple hours were spent milling around till that happened.

Despite her continued complaining about wanting to change out of her sweaty clothing, Ang dragged her to a nightclub. Tate had to admit, it was pretty good fun. He plied her with alcohol. Copious amounts of alcohol. After a certain point, she stopped caring that she was wearing sweaty clothing. Stopped caring about almost everything.

“We should do this more often!” Tate yelled, hopping around to the heavy bass.

“If you could convince Satan to move to L.A., we could!” Ang yelled back, dancing around her in a circle.

“He does have that condo there,” Tate said, trying to sip at her drink while still hopping.

“Use your magic snatch to talk him into it,” Ang suggested, poking at her crotch. She spit out her mouthful of liquor, laughing.

“Magic snatch, that's the best.”

Tate had no clue what time it was when they finally left the club. Late enough that the stifling heat had abated somewhat, a breeze blowing through the streets. Ang caught them a cab, managed to get them back to the hotel. She was somewhat aware of the fact that he wasn't nearly as drunk as she was; in fact, he didn't seem drunk at all. But she was too tipsy to care. She laid back in the taxi, sticking her feet in his face.

When they got to the hotel, Tate tried to take out her cell phone so she could call Jameson, see if he was home. If he was, he probably wouldn't be happy – it was after two in the morning. But as she felt around her shorts, she didn't feel the familiar lump of her phone.

“Wait,” she said, grabbing Ang's arm as they walked through the lobby.

“Huh?” he mumbled, chowing down on some sort of meat-on-a-stick he'd bought from a street vendor.

“My phone. I lost my phone, we have to go back,” she said, shoving her hands down the front of her shirt, checking to make sure her cell wasn't stashed in her bra.

“Nah, I've got it,” he told her, continuing on towards the elevators. She jogged after him, straightening out her top.

“Why!? When? Give it to me,” she demanded. He took it out of his back pocket and she snatched it from his hand. The screen lit up – eight missed text messages and three missed phone calls. Oh god. She unlocked the phone.