Adult-FanFiction.org : Celebrity

Up From Here	By : aliciakristine Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Eminem/Marshall Mathers Views: 3454 -:- 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
- 5
- 6
- 7
06.

She woke
up the next morning at nine-thirty and for a couple of minutes thought the day
before had been a dream. A warm, wonderful dream that left her aching. But she
opened her eyes and saw the plasma screens on the wall. She couldn't help but
giggle, laying there in the middle of Marshall's huge comfortable bed, the sun
streaming through the picture windows on one wall. She giggled and giggled, so
happy she couldn't see.

"What's
so funny?" Marshall asked, walking out of the bathroom. He was wearing
nothing but a pair of thin white boxers slung low on his hips. He was almost
covered in tattoos, something that even her years in Boston hadn't stopped from
appealing to her. She hadn't taken the time to appreciate his body yesterday
and her fingers itched to explore the tight muscles of his stomach and chest.
They hadn't been there before. He'd been a skinny boy from the bad part of
town, too busy working to support himself to worry about working out.
Apparently things had changed.

"I'm
here," she said. "It's hilarious."

"I
brought your stuff in last night," he said. "You were passed the fuck
out, so I put it in the bathroom for you to sort through. I figured your
toothbrush and shit would be in there."

"Thank
you." She pushed the covers back, remembering that she was naked a second
too late. He grinned at her.

"All
that, for me?" he asked, sauntering towards her, his voice husky.

"You
haven't changed," she said, stretching and pretending like she wasn't
doing it just to turn him on. Her body lengthened, her breasts rounded into
perfect orbs of soft flesh on her chest, and her toes curled. He was on top of
her before she knew what was happening.

Afterward,
while she dressed, he told her that he'd called around that morning and found a
cancer specialist in Detroit that was willing to see her early that afternoon.
She was angry at first that he'd taken it upon himself to schedule an
appointment for her, but after she thought about it for a few minutes, she was
only touched.

Not to
mention scared.

A cancer specialist
sounded scary. She'd only been to see a doctor a few times since she'd been
diagnosed, and two of those times had been emergency room physicians. They
diagnosed her, told her what her options were, and referred her to other
doctors that she couldn't afford. But now a specialist? And one of the best in
Michigan? It made the situation so real.

She
dressed in the nicest outfit she'd packed, a pair of black slacks and a
pink-and-white striped 3/4 sleeve blouse. Her hair had dried in the knot she'd
tied it in last night after getting out of the shower, and it fell in loose -
if not messy - waves around her shoulders. Marshall loved her hair, and in his
own gruff way told her that he was glad she left it down.

She
didn't know where they stood. He was more affectionate with her than he'd ever
been, and she didn't want to ruin that by bringing up their relationship. It
had been less than twenty-four hours. Maybe he was still just so shocked by
even hearing from her that he didn't know how to act. Whatever the
reason, she didn't want to do anything to change the way he was acting towards
her.

While she
put makeup on in the bathroom, Marshall wandered downstairs and checked his fax
machine and office line for messages. He had eight faxes already and thirteen
messages. He didn't read or listen to any of them, just turned and went back
into the living room. It comforted him to have Tara here in the house, moving
about upstairs putting on her makeup and messing with that fucking hair that he
loved so much.

He didn't
want to admit how absolutely terrified he was.

He'd been
unable to sleep the night before and had lain on the top of the blankets
smoking blunt after blunt, watching Tara sleep beside him. Every so often, her
eyelids would twitch in dreams, and he wondered what she dreamt of. Him? Surely
not. It was unlike him to even consider something so... sappy.

God knows
he'd dreamt of her as a kid, the baggy shorts she wore that just grazed the
tops of her knobby knees. Even in her gangly awkward stage, he'd been unable to
resist her. He'd been living on his own for a year and a half when he met her,
and he foolishly considered himself an adult. He foolishly considered her a
child. It went without saying that he'd been wrong on both accounts. Despite
the gap in their ages, she'd been more mature than he was most of the time.
Soon after they started sleeping together, he realized that he confided in her
his very adult problems - money, his relationship with his mom, Ronnie's death.
He realized that she wasn't a child and it scared him.

It was
still hard for him to fathom that she'd called him, let alone that she was
upstairs in his bathroom getting ready for an appointment with a cancer
specialist. His entire world had been shaken so dramatically that he couldn't
keep his head above water. Tara called. Tara was in Detroit. Tara was at his
house. Tara was sucking his dick. Tara was asleep on Kim's old sofa upstairs.
Tara had cancer. He cooked Tara dinner. It made no sense to him.

He had to
do something to keep his mind from spinning itself out of his ears, so he
picked up his cell phone. Trey, a twenty-four year old kid from Detroit, was
Marshall's drug dealer and took care of other miscellaneous shit for him that
he didn't have time to do himself. When he answered, Marshall asked him if he'd
have Tara's car towed his house. After giving him the license plate number he'd
scribbled down the night before and telling him where the car was parked, he
hung up and went upstairs to see what was taking Tara so long.

She was
putting on mascara when he got upstairs and he watched her without saying a
word. When she finished, she capped the mascara, dropped it in a makeup bag on
the counter, and turned towards him. One hand flew to her chest and she gasped,
stumbling backwards against the counter. "Fuck, Marshall," she said,
frowning. "Make a little noise next time."

He
laughed. "I didn't mean to scare you." An evil grin brought a twinkle
to his eye and he said, "I'm glad I did, though. That was adorable."

"Adorable
my ass."

"Your
ass is adorable," he said, reaching around her to lift up the tail of her
shirt. She swatted him away and giggled.

"Stop,
jackass. What are you doing?"

"Looking
at your ass in the mirror, what do you think? Hold still."

"Quit!"
she said, giggling. "You're such a pervert."

"If
you could see your ass, you'd know why I want to look at it."

"Are
you saying I have a nice ass, Mathers?" The Detroit was back in her voice.

He picked
her up, his hands gripping her bottom, and she wrapped her legs around him in
surprise. "What are you doing?"

"You,"
he said, "have a very nice ass." He put her on the counter and
reached for the zipper of her slacks.

"Hey,
stop that," she said, but her legs tightened around him.

The pink
stripes in Tara's shirt made her pale skin glow. Marshall fidgeted in the
corner of the examination room while the doctor took blood samples and listened
to her breathing. He waited with one foot against the wall while she had x-rays
taken, sat in the waiting room with his sunglasses on and a hat pulled low over
his face and read an old copy of People while they did an MRI, and held
her hand while they did a spinal tap. By the time they left, it had been more
than four hours and they knew nothing.

The
doctor did promise to call within the next few days with the test results, and
in the meantime would fax her doctor in Boston for her medical records. He
scolded her for moving such a great distance without talking to her doctor
first, but she told him as politely as possible that living in Boston was no
longer an option. Marshall, surprisingly, kept his mouth shut and didn't get an
attitude with the doctor.

Neither
of them said anything until they were in Marshall's SUV, the vents blowing cool
air at them while they waited for it to warm up. She shivered in her jacket and
Marshall stared at the other cars in the parking garage, arms folded across his
chest. He'd worn a cream-colored sweater and a pair of dark jeans cuffed over
brand-new white sneakers. He looked almost respectable. She smiled at his
profile, loving his sharply turned-up nose and thin lips. She wondered if she
were still in love with him.

She
wondered if he was still in love with her.

As though
he could read her thoughts, he turned to her and smiled. "Blunt?" he
asked.

She
laughed. "You're awful."

"I'm
a pothead," he said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, as he took a
banana-flavored Philly from his pocket and peeled the wrapper off.
"There's a bag of weed in the glove box and a little tray, and a grinder
somewhere in here. Look in the console between the seats."

"Right
here, in the middle of a parking garage?" she asked, looking around.

"The
windows are tinted. I'm Emin-fucking-em. Nobody's going to fuck with us."
He looked at her through his thick eyelashes, the blunt between his lips as he
licked the side he was going to split. "Well. I might fuck with you."

She felt
her cheeks flush and pulled the weed and tray out of the glove box. "Only
you," she said, "would keep a weed tray in his car."

"This
isn't a car," he said, sounding offended. "It's a luxury sport
utility vehicle."

"Luxury
sport utility?" she echoed. "I think that's an oxymoron."

"You're
an oxymoron." He split the blunt with his thumbnails and she forgot what
she was supposed to be doing, watching him.

"You
do this often," she said.

"At
work I make other people do it for me," he said. "There are perks to
being a filthy rich pothead. You can make other people roll your blunts for
you."

"Do
you ever smoke joints?"

"Yeah,
sometimes."

"What
about bongs or pipes?" While she talked, she rummaged around in the
console for the grinder, finding it beneath a dozen unlabeled, caseless CDs.

"Sometimes.
Mostly blunts."

She shook
her head and stuffed the grinder full of weed. It had been a long time since
she'd played with it, and she closed her eyes and sniffed. "It smells
good."

"It
tastes even better." He took it from her and dumped the weed into the
empty blunt wrapper. His hands were quick and skilled as he rolled it up and
wet it with his tongue and lips. "Let's ride."

Instead
of pulling onto the highway and heading back towards his neighborhood, he went
south. "Where are we going?" she asked, not really caring. She just
wanted to be near him. She wanted to forget that she had just left a cancer
specialist's office, that there was something killing her from the inside out.
She wanted to forget that Rob had divorced her and took her son with him, that
her money was gone, that her car was about to break down. All Tara wanted was
to be in this sleek black car - no, SUV, she corrected herself with a grin -
with Marshall.

"Can
we stop and get something to drink?" she asked when he handed her the
blunt.

"You're
pretty high maintenance."

"Yeah,
well. I let you fuck me."

"Let
me? You were all over the nuts."

"I
was doing you a favor," she said, having more fun than she'd had in years.

He just
shook his head with a smirk as he pulled into the gas station. "Run in,
would you? I'll sit out here and keep an eye on the weed."

She gave
it back to him and he handed her a $20 bill. When she opened her mouth to
object, he shushed her. "Take it, Tara. Don't make me knock you the fuck
out."

"I'll
break your skinny nose," she said, slamming the door. He watched the
subtle sway of her hips as she went into the convienence store, his stomach
aching. How could she be so sick? She seemed so healthy.

Marshall
took the girls out for a movie that night, a rare treat. Tara insisted on
staying home. It was bad enough that she just showed up at their house and
practically moved in - she wasn't going to get in the way of their alone time
with him. They were going to see a new Pixar animated movie, something that
Marshall didn't particularly look forward to, but the girls were excited enough
to keep his spirits up. He waved goodbye to Tara and followed the jabbering
girls into the garage, shutting the door behind him.

After
they left, the huge house was silent. A security guard lived above the garage,
but Tara had yet to see evidence of him. The maid came in during the days and
left before the girls got home from school, and the nanny had the night off.

Tara
wandered into the kitchen, made herself a sandwich, and settled down on the
plush sofa in the family room to watch TV on his satellite dish. But even with
more than 300 channels to choose from, Tara couldn't decide on anything worth
watching, so she turned the set off.

She'd
been in the house for two days now, and she still hadn't seen the entire bottom
floor. She peeked into rooms, surprised to find a library, not surprised to
find a room whose centerpiece was a fancy pool table. There were more
bathrooms, a few rooms that were empty or sparsely furnished and not decorated,
and finally, Marshall's studio. It was larger than Tara expected, full of
state-of-the-art equipment. Instead of gold and platinum records on the walls,
they were painted beige and autographed by hundreds of people. It took her
twenty minutes to circle two walls, reading names. 50 Cent, of course. Mariah
Carey, Mehki Phieffer, Snoop Dogg, Taryn Madding, and dozens of others that
Tara had never heard of before.

A white
G-Unit sweater was lying across a leather chair, and books of CDs sat on a low
bookshelf against one wall. She flipped through them, surprised to see more
than just rap albums - there was pop, classic rock, R&B, even a few
underground DJ mixes. Sometimes she forgot that there was a whole other side to
Marshall than Eminem, rap God. The bottom shelves of the bookshelf were full of
spiral notebooks, three-ring binders, and stacks of papers. Tucked into the far
side of the room, a microphone hung from the ceiling in a booth encased in
glass. A wooden three-legged stool was pushed into the corner. She wondered
what it was like to sit on that stool, the microphone against your lips, and
say things that hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, of people would spend
money to hear.

Turning,
she flipped the light back off and went to the library. After looking through
the shelves for a few minutes, she found a best-selling novel that she'd heard
quite a bit about and settled down on the couch in the living room with a
canister of Pringles to read and wait for them to get back. Funny, she thought,
that for so long she'd lived by herself and gotten used to the solitude - even
preferred it - but after only a couple days of Marshall, she could think of
nothing else but his return.
- 5
- 6
- 7
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Up From Here