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Just For Tonight	By : mynx Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Eminem/Marshall Mathers Views: 2163 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know Eminem (Marshall Mathers). I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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The next few minutes were spent talking about general observations they made during the awards show. Trent was pleased to find that “Marshall” was more eloquent than his loudmouth alter ego, and that he’d found Pop Princess’s dress a bigger eyesore than the wig that went with it.

“You’d think with her money, she could afford some taste,” he muttered as he nursed his Long Island Iced Tea.

Trent snorted as he absently rolled a toothpick between his forefinger and thumb. “I thought people like that hired a fucking crew to dress them.”

“If that’s the case, they’re getting paid to do a shitty job.” Eminem stretched his limbs, the long sleeves of his two sizes too big Tommy Hilfiger sweatshirt riding up his forearms. “So, uh…” He shrugged. “What you been up to?”

He returned the shrug with one of his own. “Just taking some time off before I get into another project.”

“Yeah?” He smirked, sliding his shades up his nose. “You ain’t gettin younger, man.”

“Could say the same about you,” Trent muttered good-naturedly as he contemplated the award statuette between them.

“You ain’t gonna jack my moonman, are ya?” he asked, arching a brow.

Trent snorted, “Like I want anything to do with MTV. They’re nothing but a bunch of fucking posers.”

Eminem snorted, not surprised by his answer. “Then why the hell are you here?”

"Had nothing else to do.”

Smirking, Eminem slanted his gaze at Trent over the top of his specs. “You coulda been writin’ a song about what shit your life is because you can’t program your VCR.”

A tight-lipped smile stretched across Trent’s darkly handsome face. ”Yeah, and what would you write about? How you’re so original because you write songs about killing your wife and having your kid watch? Wow, I’m really fucking impressed, man.”

Trent’s eyebrows rose curiously at the calmly seething expression on Eminem’s face – it seemed that he had chosen the right thing to say. However, he hadn’t counted on the subtle fury behind the other man’s reply. “And obviously you don’t get the fucking joke.”

“Joke?” Trent scoffed quietly. “Oh, I get the joke, it’s just not funny.”

“Then you don’t have a sense of humor.” Under his breath, Eminem murmured, “Not that I expect you to have one.”

“Hey, fuck you.”

“No thanks, I ain’t a fag.”

Trent snarled. “And what the fuck makes you think I am?”

“Bitch, please,” he laughed. “Might as well tattoo it on your forehead.”

How he hated being stereotyped. “How about I tattoo your ass with my boot?”

Eminem jumped to his feet, ready for a fight. “Let’s see what you’re made of, then.”

Trent rose to the challenge, despite the fact that his adversary had at least four inches on him. “Let’s get one thing straight, ‘Marshall’ – if there’s a bitch here, it’s not me.”

Eminem’s next reply was a crack to his jaw, and he pounced before Trent could even stumble to the ground. Fists flew every which way, some landing their intended target, some not, but neither were given enough time to inflict serious damage, as the restaurant security barreled through a crowd of gawking celebrities and pried the two apart. Much cursing and flailing of limbs ensued before the two were kicked out of the party and onto the curb of the busy city street.

“What the fuck?!” Eminem darted toward the door and was met with a bouncer built much like his bodyguard. “Fucking let me in, motherfucker!”

The guard shook his head and handed him his glasses, which had fallen off during the scuffle, as well as his award statue. “Sorry, Slim, you and your friend ain’t allowed no more tonight.”

“Fine, fuck y’all then!” He then lewdly grabbed his crotch and shouted, “Suck this, faggots!”

“Way to gain their trust there, Slim.” Trent muttered behind him as he pulled himself to his feet, shaking the rattle out of his brain.

Snarling, Eminem pocketed his ss, ts, then pulled out a cell phone and punched a few numbers. “Don’t fucking call me Slim, faggot.”

Trent snorted as he rubbed his stiff, aching jaw. “Isn’t that your name?”

Eminem shot him a loathing glare, his powerful blue eyes glowing under the streetlight. “I fucking TOLD you, my name is Marshall!” He then frowned at his non-functioning phone, his jaw dropping when the cell completely fell apart in his hand. “FUCK!”

Though he tried, Trent couldn’t stifle a laugh as Eminem chucked the battered phone against the outside wall of the restaurant. “Looks like you’ll have to walk back to your hotel, Mmmmmarshall.”

“Fuck you,” Eminem hissed, flipping him off in the process.

Trent stuffed his hands in his pockets and pondered hailing one of the taxis parked on the curb, when a hailstorm of excited noise diverted his thoughts. He turned around and shook his head as he watched the other man unwillingly become the center of attention. Eminem, Slim, Marshall – whatever his name was – he may have been an asshole, but even he didn’t deserve to be hounded by the paparazzi, especially when he was in a bad mood. He knew the feeling, after all.

“Hey! Hey, fucker!” He shoved his way through the mob, caught Eminem’s sleeve and pulled him from the sea of lights. Quickly dragging him rds rds the nearest taxi, he then pushed him inside and slammed the door as he joined him. Shielding his eyes from the flashbulbs pressed against the window, Trent barked orders at the bewildered man behind the wheel. “Just get us out of here, now!”

The driver did just as he was told, Trent sighing with relief and dropping his head back on the seat as the vehicle sped away from the unsavory mob.

“What the fuck was that for, faggot?”

Trent raised a brow at Eminem, who was rubbing his forehead. “Is that how you thank people for saving your worthless hide, you little shit?”

Eminem snorted with vague amusement. “I wouldn’t talk about being little if I were you.”

“Like I h’t h’t heard that one before,” Trent said with a roll of his eyes. “And obviously your mother didn’t teach you any manners.”

“My momma didn’t teach me a lot of things.”

“Uh, not to interrupt anything…” A voice called Trent’s attention, and he lifted his eyes, meeting that of the driver’s through the rearview mirror. “But do you guys have a place to go or what?”

“Waldorf Astoria,” Eminem muttered, yanking his sleeves over his balled fists.

The name of the locale triggered a double take from Trent. “No fucking way.”

“Hey, the kid with the black hair!” The driver snapped his fingers to call Trent’s attention. “Where to?”

Trent stared at Eminem, who locked his harsh, yet preoccupied gaze onto the world beyond the passenger side window. “Waldorf…”

Eminem groaned, propping his head against the doorframe. “Fuck, can’t you get dropped off somewhere else?”

Trent shook his head; the concept of gratitude was lost on Marshall Mathers, it seemed. “I just saved your ass out there, you fucking wigger.”

Even he couldn’t ignore the look of deep-seated hatred that Eminem felt for that word. “Don’t fucking call me a wigger, faggot.”

However, it didn’t stop him from using it. “Then don’t call me a faggot, wigger.”

As the drive quietly rolled on, Trent watched as Eminem occupied the spot furthest from him, as though he was afraid of catching something. He didn’t consider himself a cruel man, but for the unselfish act he committed, he wasn’t about to let Ghetto Superstar get away with his behavior.

With this thought in mind, Trent smiled secretively. Tonight could prove entertaining, after all.
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Just For Tonight