Game of Chance
Chapter 1
She’d never tell him, but she was sore for a solid week. The pain had abated after a few days, but there was still a lingering sensation, a slight tingling feeling whenever she fondly remembered the hours she spent in Marshall’s hotel room.
The memory overwhelmed her; it would surface daily and fade as she fell asleep, only to dream of him.
//
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s nothin’, Stella,” Contessa replied.
“No, tell me.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong…”
“Let’s think about this—I think you’re missin’ him, girl.”
“What the fuck? Missing who?”
“Oh, you know who!”
“Nah, I’m not thinkin’ about Marsh!”
“Yeah, right, Tessa! Don’t even try and deny it!”
“I don’t even know him, Stella. Hell, we didn’t really talk—”
“So? Maybe it was love at first sight?”
Contessa laughed at the idea. “Me? In love with rap phenomena Eminem? What’s the chance of that happening?”
//
Marshall twisted the tabs and pressed a few buttons in his Detroit studio to prepare for the next recording session.
“Ready, Curtis.”
“Before I go in, you wanna tell me why we’ve been workin’ longer hours than usual?” Curtis asked while glancing at his watch—almost midnight.
“You gotta keep working otherwise you’ll dry up.”
“Marsh, please! There is such a thing as down time. You wanna know what I think?”
“I’m pretty sure I don’t.”
“Too bad ‘cause you’re gonna hear it anyway. I think you can’t stop thinkin’ about her.”
“Her?”
“That chick from Frisco. Contessa, right?”
“Yeah, Contessa.”
“Shit, you’re the one with fuckin’ millions in the bank, why don’t you call her, send her a plane ticket, and fly her out here?”
“Huh? Look, I’m not thinking about her—and she’d never go for that. She has a life there. I doubt she can just pack up a suitcase and go away for a week.”
“You and I have gotten to know each other pretty good, right? You’ve been workin’ us like dogs this past week ‘cause you can’t get her out of your head. The way I see it, is there must be somethin’ special about her otherwise you’d have forgotten her face by now. You have the means to get somethin’ goin’, so why not take a chance?”
//
She was dancing; her hips swaying and bouncing to the intense drum beat echoing through the darkened room. His eyes followed each frenzied movement, devouring her feminine curves. Hurriedly, he downed his drink, and stalked over to the spot she’d claimed for hers on the dance floor.
Predatorily, he moved behind her and put his hands on her hips.
Without hesitance, her hips continued to roll erotically to the heavy bass.
What if that wasn’t me? She’d just let some random guy do this?, he thought. Just thinking about it made his temper begin to boil—a feeling of possessiveness came over him; he didn’t want another man touching her tempting body.
Fiercely, he whipped her around and crushed his lips against hers; he could feel her fists pounding against his chest, her struggle to get out of his grasp. Only when he felt her knee raise between his thighs and slam against him, did he release her, sputtering a string of curses.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” she growled. “I didn’t give you permission to—oh, my god! Marshall! I’m so sorry—”
“Jesus, girl, you almost killed me.”
“I didn’t know it was you!”
“Good, because I’d like to think that you wouldn’t let random guys kiss you like that.”
She had the courage to look indignant and appalled at what he was implying. With dignity, she turned around and walked to the bar—away from him and the accusations he’d left unsaid.
“How dare he,” she muttered and waved the bartender over for a drink.
Only a minute passed before she felt his presence next to her. She was angry and hurt, so she refused to acknowledge him.
“You’re the one who practically renders me impotent for the rest of my fucking life and you’re the one who’s pissed?”
“You’re the one who wanted to call me a whore—”
“I didn’t call you one, did I?”
“You sure as hell implied it, you bastard!”
“What else am I supposed to think when you put your ass in any guy’s lap?”
“It’s called dancing, Marshall.”
“Dancing? That was a hell of a lot more than dancing!” he ground out between his clenched jaw.
“Oh, excuse me, every time I dance, it’s an invitation for a bout of hot sex. In fact, you probably shouldn’t have sex with me because I’m sure to have some sort of disease by now! Since, you know, I’m whore!”
“But you don’t have anything, right?” he asked.
His eyes darkened as her hand whipped across his face, harsh and hard. “I wish I did because then you’d have to suffer for the rest of your life!” she screamed back at him and got up to leave.
//
His pride was keeping him sitting at the barstool, but soon regret reigned and he was dashing after her. Catching up to her, his arm darted out to grab hers.
“Don’t touch me, you might catch something,” she warned with such sarcasm that he flinched.
“I didn’t mean it like that, damn it!”
“Should I go get tested for you? I’ll even take a pregnancy test to ease all your worries!”
“Don’t be like that! I trust you—”
“Oh, please!” she replied angrily and stepped outside into the cool, night air.
Marshall followed her while trying to reduce his anger—but was rather unsuccessful at doing so.
“I do!” he repeated.
“No, Marshall, you don’t,” she bit out harshly. “That’s such a joke. First, you think I’m a slut, then you have the nerve to ask if I have some STD? Who the fuck do you think you are, Marshall Mathers?” she screamed.
“Calm down, please,” he urged, noticing the glances they were beginning to get. “I’m—I’m sorry!”
“Now, was that so hard?” she said and gave him a sideways smile.
“You just gave me hell for the past ten minutes and now you’re cool?”
“You apologized, that’s all you had to do,” she pointed out simply.
Chapter 2Author: zines@aol.com
These stories are for entertainment purposes only. They are completely fictitious, and the authors mean no harm to EMINEM, his family, friends, or anyone else that may have been depicted as a 'real life' character. No money was made on the fiction here, either directly or indirectly, i.e. paid advertising. In other words - it's just a bunch of shit we wrote for fun. Please don't take it seriously.