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Whispers Two	By : Queenie Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Eminem/Marshall Mathers Views: 6350 -:- 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.

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The phone was ringing. Now, about three people in the world have my number, and considering one was my dealer and one was my land lord, both of whom I owed money too, I wasn’t exactly keen on picking the damn thing up. Besides, it was eleven at night, and I wanted to get some sleep before hitting the streets. I let it ring out and snuggled back into bed, hugging my pillow. Bastards could sod off.

It rang again.

Growling, I sat up and glared at the offending phone. My landlord, if I didn’t answer, would make his way up the stairs and pound on my door until I got up and offered him a blow job instead of rent for the next week. My dealer, if I didn’t answer, would come round and pound on my door until I got up and offered him a blow job instead of the fifty pounds I owed him for junk. Either way ended in blow jobs. I may as well just answer the fucking thing.

“’Ello?” I muttered sleepily into the phone, rubbing my eyes and shivering. Fucking autumn. As bad as winter, and more sneaky.

“Jase! Took you long enough! What the fuck were you doing?” Suspicious pause, “You don’t have a customer there, do you? What have I told you about that, gringo?”

It was Vittorio, my best mate. I sighed, and tried to reach my blanket without pulling the phone off its stand. “No, I was sleeping. Y’know, sleep? ‘S what normal people do at night.”

“And since when have you been normal, bella chica? Besides, it’s eleven. Isn’t even night yet,” Torio prattled on. I pouted into the phone, glad he couldn’t see me.

“Don’t call me a girl. I know enough Spanish to know that you just called me a beautiful girl,” I muttered resentfully, “What do you want?”

“ But you are a beautiful girl, Jason. Anyway. I need you to answer a question for me,” he replied. “Do you think you can do that?”

“Not if it’s three hundred and eighty two divided by six, I can’t,”

Slight pause. “Sixty eight.”

“Wha
“
“Three hundred and eighty two divided by six is sixty eight.”

I sighed. I love Vittorio. I really do. But he is the most anally retentive person I know. “You had a calculator.”

“Did not.”

“You so did. Anyway, the question? The reason you awoke me from my slumber? Out with it.”

“Did not. Right. Jason Bexley, can you tell me why I have a white American rapper, who goes by the name of a delicious little chocolate, and who looks like he could most definitely melt in my mouth, in my club asking about you? Hmmm?”

I think my heart must have jumped up into my throat and tried to make a break for it. I gasped, flooded with a million emotions I thought I’d let go of. “You what now?” I managed to choke out, sitting down on the floor and leaning against the phone stand. “Come again?”

“Eminem, my dear boy. He’s sitting at the bar looking all uncomfortable and out of place. And quite cute, actually, all blond and innocent. You didn’t tell me you met him.” Slightly hurt sounding. “When did that happen?”

“In New Orleans,” I whispered, “Oh, god. Oh, Christ Almighty. Is he really there?”

“Yes, he is. He’s waiting for me to ring you. He apparently wants to see you. Jase? Why does Eminem want to see you?”

I closed my eyes. It was too much. It wasn’t happening. The magazine with him and his girlfriend in was still on my floor. “I fucked him,” I said, “We fucked. We made love. In New Orleans. He said he loved me and I haven’t heard from the prick in three months. Three months, Tory! He has a girlfriend! And now, now he thinks he can just waltz into my life and expect-”

“Jason! Dios, calm the fuck down, yes?” Torio interrupted, “Look, I don’t know the story, but he’s here now, and he wants to see you. What am I gonna say to him?”

“I don’t know! I can’t…not now, Tory, fix it, please?” I begged, relying on the fact that Torio can always be relied on to fix everything, all the time, and was four years older than me and was therefore much wiser than I could hope to be. “What am I gonna do?”

“Well, you have to see him, obviously,” Torio started in his ‘sorting things out’ voice, “Not tonight, though, you’re too emotional. Shall I get him to meet you somewhere tomorrow night?”

“Yes, please,” I said in a small voice.

“Where? When?”

“Would your club be ok, sweetie? At about ten”

Sigh from the other end of the phone. “Of course, Jase. And if he fucks with you, I’ll bash him up, ok?” I had to giggle at the thought of Torio bashing anyone up, with his tiny little slight build. But I was also intensely grateful and thankful that he existed.

“Thank you, Tory. Thank you lots. I’ll make it up to you, really.”

“Of course you will, Jase. I’d better go now and tell him.”

I was frantic, suddenly. Couldn’t let him go yet. “Wait! Wait, Torio, what…what does he look like?”

Another long pause, while I waited nervously, chewing on my nails. Then, finally, “Sad, Jase. He looks sad, and hopeful. Something happened between you, didn’t it? Like, more then fucking.”

I breathed out, banging my head lightly back against the phone stand. “Yeah,” I replied softly, “We fell in love.”

So he was here. Marshall was in London. I went out into the freezing night to the nearest newsagent and picked up a music mag, trying to figure out whether he was supposed to be touring here or not. Surely he wouldn’t come all the way to England just to see me, not after all this time. He had to be on tour. Yes. But I couldn’t find anything to do with any Eminem or D12 tours. Right. His bimbo girlfriend had probably convinced him to go on holidays with her. And he figured while he was here he may as well check to see that I was alive. Except, he just had to find that out off Torio. Why did he want to meet me? Why on earth did he want to see me? It was insane, utterly insane.

And there I was, standing, freezing, in the bloody newsagent, clutching Q magazine, and trying not to scream in frustration. “You gonna buy that or not, kid?” the shopkeeper yelled at me, “We ain’t a bladdy libraryght?ght?”

“Fuck off,” I muttered, putting it down and flouncing to the door.

“Yeah, blow me.” The shopkeeper was old and fat. I eyed him up and down disdainfully as I left.

“You couldn’t afford it.”

I went home. I couldn’t bear to work the streets that night, couldn’t handle the thought of whoring myself while Marshall was in the same city. God, one of my tricks could even have taken me to his hotel, and we would have passed in the corridors, me with the john and him with his bimbo, and it would be so unimaginably awful…No. Couldn’t accept that idea at all.

So I went home and had a hit of the very last of my stash, letting my problems all get washed away on a lovely stream of heroin. Marshall didn’t matter, I thought sleepily, swooning back on the floor. Didn’t matter at all. Was just a tosser of the lowest sort, bloody straight boy with his straight girl, didn’t affect me in the least…

Next morning I woke up on the floor, briefly forgetting how I’d gotten there. I looked around blearily, my eyes not really wanting to focus on the needle, the spoon, the candle. Right. I’d shot up and passed out on the floor again. Right. Well, that wasn’t exactly unusual, was it? No, not in the least.

I got up wearily and stumbled into the bathroom, gazing at myself irritably in the mirror. I needed to dye my hair again, I decided. I was sick of being a red head, which was my natural colour. And it was getting too long, stupid, wild curls past my shoulders. I’d cut it chin length and dye it black, it would be my way of moving on. Yes. But moving on from what?

I was an addict, that much I’d known since I was bloody fourteen. My skin was too pale, and looked absolutely awful in the light of day, soft blue smudges under each eye. I winced. I hated those smudges, it looked as if the colour of my eyes had run like cheap dye, staining my skin that grayish blue. I looked like a ghost

An underfed ghost, at that. Reaching up, I gingerly touched my cheekbones. They were much too sharp, proving that I hadn’t been eating enough. Having high cheekbones, I could deal with. Having cheekbones that looked as if they were about to break the skin of my face was a bit much. And it wasn’t just my face. I was too thin all over, my hips jutted out angrily, my ribs looked painful, my stomach, once nice and flat and hard, was now concave, arching in and abandoning almost all pretence at muscle. I ran my fingers down my torso, sighing. Three months ago I’d been an addict, yes, but I’d also had quite an alright body. Now I looked, not like a ghost, but like a bloody drug addicted skeleton.

Marshall was going to take one glance at me and walk out. I knew it. I could feel it. He wanted what we had three months ago in that magical city of New Orleans, where everything was scented with spices and jasmine. Where everything was touched with just enough magic to make you a little crazy. It had been enough to make him sleep with me back then, when I hadn’t looked sick. But London didn’t have the same magic, and I was no longer attractive enough for him, and it was all going to go horribly, horribly wrong.

I looked away from the mirror with a sigh. I was doing what Torio was always yelling at me about: worrying myself into a stupor. Fact was, I had no idea how my meeting with Marshall was going to go. I had no idea why he wanted to see me in the first place, and I had no idea whether or not he’d want to sleep with me again. So I may as well not even think about it.

Yeah, right.

The shower was too hot, the way I liked it, and I came out slightly pink all over, my skin a little sore. Spreading out my towel on my bedroom floor and lying down naked, I switched on the TV and prepared another hit. If I had to face him, I was at least going to be high as a kite. As the needle slid into the tender flesh behind my knee I sighed softly and imaged that the meeting would go perfectly, kind of like making a wish on a shooting star. Except, just maybe, not quite as glamorous.

It was nine o’clock before I realised it, still lying naked, and now shivering, on my floor. Fucking autumn, the cold had sneaked up on me again, as well as the time, apparently. I jumped up and rushed in for another hot shower, in an attempt to warm up, then as quickly as possible threw on some clothes, the ones I’d already mentally picked out. Torio’s club was, in fact, a bondage club, and I had to look the part. I giggled as I slipped into my silver vinyl pants, Marshall had probably shown up in typical Eminem gear, baggy jeans and a jacket six sizes to big for him. And he’d probably dressed in white. White! I stretched my black fishnet shirt over my chest, frowning as I saw it was much baggier than it had been the last time I’d worn it. I hoped tonight he’d picked up on the vibe from the place and at least put something black on. Although, it would be just like him to do the opposite. A lot like me, actually.

Big, chunky Doc Martins boots were added, along with a silly dagger pendent I wore to be ironic and piss Torio off, and then I sat down to do my makeup. Applying it while trying as much as possible to avoid looking at my face wasn’t the easiest thing I’ve ever done, but at last I came up with an acceptably eyeliner and lipstick smeared creation. I stepped back from the mirror and rolled my eyes, the look practically screamed ‘Rent Boy! Rent Boy!’ but I was just going to have to live with it. Glancing at the clock, I cursed. I was going to be late. Quickly I combed my hair and put it back in a messy braid (longing for the ease of short hair, and vowing to have it cut the next day) and rushed out the door, completely forgetting my coat, my wallet and my actual knife, which usually lived quite comfortably in my right boot.

Force, Torio’s club, was already full by the time I got there, flirting with the doormen to get them to let me through even though I’d left my ID at home. I immediately ducked into a back room, Torio’s office, without even looking around to see if Marshall was there. I needed a bit of time to get my head together before I saw him.

“Jase!” Torio grinned at me, standing up from his desk. “What the fuck are you doing in here? Eminem, THE Eminem, probably the most hated man in the world, at least according to the patrons of Force, is sitting all on his own out at the bar. Go! Go rescue him!”

I poked out my tongue and collapsed on his desk, trying not to knock off all the important looking papers. “I can’t!” I wailed, “I can’t possibly go out there! Tory, fix it?”

Torio shot me an exasperated look. “Gringo, you’re hopeless. The man is in love with you! It’s screamingly obvious to all but yourself, you big bimbo.”

“He has a girlfriend, Vittorio!” I exclaimed, “A girlfriend! Her name is Donna and she’s an underwear model and she’s from fucking Texas! For the love of god, he isn’t in love with me.”

Torio chose to ignore my dramatics, and merely slapped my forehead. “Hmm, gee, I’m a straight, hombic bic rapper, who is constantly in the public eye, and I just slept with and fell in love with a cute little rent boy. I wonder what I can do to prove my manliness? I know! I’ll fuck an underwear model! Jesus, Jason, wake up. You’re trade, you should know that guys who like guys always pretend to want to fuck underwear models.” He paused, looking at my hurt face. “Jase, you didn’t really think something could actually work between the two of you, right?”

“No,” I whispered, “Not really. I mean, I’m the one who said I wanted to not see him. I’m the one who convinced him it wouldn’t be a good idea. But it still hurts, you know?”

Torio nodded and gave me a hug. “I know, bello. Come on, you have to talk to him, if nothing else.”

“I don’t wanna go out there.” I muttered petulantly. Torio rolled his eyes.

“Fine. I’ll send him in here then, yes?” And before I could react, he was out the door, locking it behind him and leaving me there, still lying on his desk, with a small battalion of butterflies doing drills in my stomach.

I was going to see him. For thrst rst time in three months, I was going to see him. Any minute now, Marshall was going to walk through that door, and I didn’t have a clue what I was going to say to him.

I just hoped the first words out of my mouth wouldn’t be, ‘I love you.’
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Whispers Two