Intoxicated || An Eminem Fanfiction

Chapter 65

Leila's POV

Weeks have passed since that night in bed with Marshall, the one where we laughed too much, touched too much, talked shit between kisses, and fucked half the night like we weren't two fucked up unstable people who had no business being married, with enough jealousy, ego, trauma, and bad habits between us to make a therapist rich and probably make the poor bitch block both our numbers.

For a minute I let myself enjoy it.

Which is stupid, because peace with Marshall never lasts, peace with Marshall is just that little quiet part before one of us says something wrong, looks at somebody wrong, takes something the wrong way, and suddenly we're back swinging like two unstable fucks who don't know how to love each other without making it everybody's problem.

Tonight it's me and I know it before we even leave the house, I know it while I stand in front of the bedroom mirror fixing my lipstick, wearing the red dress he already hates before I even turn around properly.

So naturally, Marshall now has a problem.

He doesn't say much at home, which is how I know he's pissed, because Marshall quiet isn't calm, Marshall quiet is just him sitting on the argument until he can make it sound like I'm the unreasonable one.

He looks at the dress like it has personally ruined his night, asks if that's what I'm wearing, then stands there with that tight jaw and that stupid husband tone like I'm supposed to suddenly give a fuck because his balls got twisted over a neckline and a thigh slit.

So of course I wear it.

The car ride is just as stupid, quiet in that ugly way where nobody is actually calm, his hand tight on the wheel, eyes flicking to my legs every few seconds, me staring out the window like I don't notice him sitting there one bad comment away from emotional warfare.

By the time we've been at the club for a few hours, the whole thing is already sitting between us like a loaded gun, and both of us are loading that bitch with both hands, him staring holes through me every time another man looks too long, me smiling wider just to make him choke on it, both of us acting like we're not already halfway into a fight when really we're just waiting to see who gets pissed enough to pull the trigger first.

The club is loud, packed, sweaty, and full of Detroit industry fuckers acting like standing near Marshall means they're important now.

They're all watching him, producers, local rappers, label people, grown men with big chains and no backbone, waiting for him to nod, laugh, say two words, anything they can run around bragging about later like it means he gives a fuck about them.

Marshall has been across the room for ages, surrounded by grown men fighting for space up his ass, laughing too hard at shit that isn't funny, nodding like little bitches every time he opens his mouth.

It's embarrassing.

A whole room full of men acting like getting ignored by Eminem is still better than being seen by anybody else.

And there he is, looking bored.

Of course he is.

He always does that, lets people worship him, lets them crawl all over him for a piece of access, then stands there with that tired little face like being treated like God in his own city is ruining his night.

Poor Marshall.

Must be hard having half of Detroit sucking him off with eye contact while he pretends he doesn't like the attention.

I lean against the bar with my drink in my hand, watching him over the rim, and for a while he doesn't look at me, which pisses me off because I don't need him to look, I don't need shit from any man, but I don't like being ignored by my own husband in a room already treating me like I'm only there because of him.