Degradation (The Kane Trilogy 1) by Stylo Fantome

“Not like that, not like what we are,” he replied, gesturing between himself and Tate.

“Like how, then?”

“Like the same girl from an escort service. I've never let him sleep with a girl I was actively sleeping with on a regular basis. I don't do that. I would never be okay with you sleeping with him, or any of my other colleagues. Not now, or at any point in time in the future,” Jameson told her. She nodded.

“I'll keep that in mind.”

“You had fucking better.”

“Hey, don't get mad at me – I'm the one who was solicited. I deserve like restitution, or something,” she joked. Jameson laughed.

“Restitution? Like what?” he asked.

“A $50,000 pearl necklace,” Tate replied without hesitation. He snorted.

“Just go ahead and start holding your breath, I'll get right on that,” he told her. She made a face at him.

“I missed you, you know,” she blurted out. His eyebrows shot up.

“Really? The succubus missed her lord and master, Lucifer?” he joked, and she almost choked. It was basically the same joke she made about them in her head.

He's psychic, I knew it.

“Maybe 'miss' is too strong of a word,” she corrected herself. He laughed.

“Shut up, you couldn't have missed me that much. You were too busy getting stoned with Angier,” he taunted.

“One night. It was a peace offering, he came over to apologize. I would never turn down good weed,” she told him. Jameson laughed again.

“Are you sure that's all that happened? I don't know if I trust you,” he said. She rolled her eyes.

“I solemnly swear that I did not sleep with Angier while you were in Los Angeles,” Tate held a hand over her heart while she promised. He nodded.

“Good. So, what did you miss about me, baby girl?” he asked, leaning his forearms on the island. She thought for a second.

“Your penis.”

He barked out a laugh.

“I already knew that. What else?”

“I don't know. Sometimes you're almost funny. You let me run around in my underwear all the time – Rus hates it when I do that at home. And sometimes you're almost halfway sweet to me,” she tried to explain.

“Jesus, I sound like if Stalin owned the Playboy Mansion,” he pointed out. She nodded.

“Yes. Exactly like that,” Tate agreed.

“Shut up. What else?” Jameson pressed. She was thoughtful again.

“The way you treat me. Sometimes, and don't get me wrong, I love him, but just sometimes ..., Ang kind of babies me. Coddles me. Tries to take care of me too much. Like he's afraid I'm gonna fall on my face if I'm out of his sight. You, on the other hand, practically push me down the stairs and just tell me to move my feet,” she laughed.

“You make me sound abusive,” he remarked. She shrugged.

“I meant it as a compliment. And you kinda are, in a way. I just happen to like it,” she told him. He glared at her playfully.

“I'm not abusive. I'm ..., aggressively sexual,” Jameson explained. She rolled her eyes.

“More like a sexual aggressor,” she teased.

“You flatter me too much. And I might have missed you, too, just a little bit,” he confessed. She pressed a hand to her chest.

“See? There it is – sweetness. Be still, my beating heart.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Tate got up and wandered across the kitchen, grabbed some crackers and then leaned back against the cupboards. While she munched away, she watched him. He had turned to watch her, as well.

“On a scale of one to ten,” she started, “how much did you miss me?”

“I don't have a basis for comparison.”

“One - you didn't think about me once, ten – you cut your trip short because you couldn't live without me,” she suggested. He thought for a second.

“A two?”

She threw a cracker at him.

“God, you're such a dick. Sweetness, gone. You probably didn't miss me because you were too busy plowing some starlet,” she joked. Jameson was silent, just stared at her, and she gasped. “Oh my god. You did, didn't you?”

“I don't think you really want to have this conversation right now,” he said, moving away from the island and heading towards the kitchen door.

“Was it your ex?” she called out, and he stopped. Turned back towards her.

“No. She's not an actress, and she doesn't live in L.A.,” he assured her.

“Then who was it? Has she been on tv? Please tell me I've seen her in a show or something,” Tate laughed. He leaned against the doorway, shoving his hands in to his pockets.

“You're really okay with this?” he asked. She moved back to the island and pulled herself up so she was sitting on top of it, facing him.

“I want all the gory details. Was she prettier than me?” Tate asked.

“I don't know how to answer that question,” he replied. She laughed.

“You're shy, Jameson?” she teased. He shook his head.

“I can't say if she was prettier than you because there were two women.”

“You slept with two women, in L.A., in one week?” Tate tried to lay everything out. He shook his head again.

“In one night.”

“Impressive. Smooth operator. Did they pass each other going through the front door?”