2002

Confusion- 4

Emily POV:
Blondie yanked me out of the car and I almost doubled over in pain. His grip on my upper arm made my whole body shudder with shivers. Behind me, Marshall's threats wafted through the air like a bad smell. He would not stop swearing. I swore one of the guys would knock him out soon if he didn't shut up. I looked up at the sky filled with twinkling stars. They looked brighter than my future at the moment.

What did these men want? Why was I mixed up in this shit? Had I just been in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or did these men want something from me? Blondie dragged me across the concrete in an awkward but unkind manner. My shoes scuffed against his legs. I felt like we were on the outskirts of New York City but I couldn't be so sure. The only things I could make out were the illuminated facade's of the run down industrial buildings and the street lamps.
"Steps." Blondie said as he gave me a heads up and lead me up a wooden staircase. The house made me feel cold and uninvited. The splintered door gave off bad vibes.

"Get off me!" I heard Marshall yell as Freckles and the dark haired boy shoved him up the stairs, holding onto him as tight as they could. I turned my attention back to Blondie who swore and kicked at the door. His grip tightened, making me close my eyes shut. I turned away the best I could as he kicked the door down and splinters flew everywhere.
"Well that's one way to do it." Marshall snickered and Blondie just glared at him.
"May I remind you that we're the ones with guns." I looked at him then to Marshall, whose facial expression was hard to read. I couldn't tell if he was scared or completely pissed off. Probably a bit of both.

He flicked a switch and the room lit up. I looked around the place, not amused at the ripped up furniture and broken floorboards. This place was a shithole and I couldn't imagine anyone living here. But these thugs obviously didn't care. Blondie lead me over to a couch and thankfully I sat down, trying to eliminate the pain in my upper leg. Freckles shoved Marshall into a wall, sick of his smart talk. He straightened up and wiped his bloody nose with the back of his hand.
"Will you just shut up?" The dark haired boy shook his head and glanced a look at the gaping hole where the door was meant to be.
"I'll fix it soon." Blondie shrugged his friend off and walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. I eyed the three men suspiciously. I didn't want to take my eyes off them.
"So, you know Em?" The dark haired one with a soft face sat down next to me. I looked at Marshall who was leaning against the wall, a look of defiance in his eyes. Freckles had a hand on his shoulder.
"No." I stared blankly at the ground.
"You had his phone number." I ignored his remark and focused on the demanding pain in my leg. Blondie came over with a can of Coke in his hand.
"How do you know him?" He flopped himself down in the chair, his eyes on me. I gulped.
"I spent my night with him at the bar." He laughed and took a swig of his drink.
"And he gave you his number? How strange. Marshall's not really the 'lady' type."
"Shut the fuck up man!" Marshall yelled and Freckles shoved him up against the wall even harder.
"Do you know why we've brought you here?" I shook my head. Blondie stood up and tipped the can up to his mouth, guzzling the last of the contents and chucking it into a corner. "Marshall's in a bit of a sticky situation at the moment."
"What do you mean?"
"Should I tell her the story mate?" He looked over at Marshall and raised his eyebrows. There was no response. He coughed, clearing his throat.
"We go way back with good ole Marshall here. His days of underground rapping. Some good times there. The four of us were mates you know, did everything together. Until he blew up and became the famous 'Slim Shady'. He left us in his dust," Marshall glared at him. "It was only a few years ago he decided to contact us, apologize for all those years lost. He wanted to meet up. He came to Detroit with a huge amount of cash and a packet of cigarettes. And he thought we'd just forgive him like that?" he shook his head. "Of course my mates and I bought drugs with that shit tone of money. What else were we gonna use it for? But we ran out of cash and our cocaine supplier wondered why we'd stop dealing with him you know? We didn't want word getting out that we were a bunch of jockies who only bought off people once and never dealt with them again. So I asked Em for more money but he said no. Told us people would start getting suspicious when they found out money was being taken out of the accounts. I said that if he didn't keep supplying us with the money, we'd tell the public he'd been giving us money to buy drugs for him." He clapped his hands together and smiled.
"I'm not late dog, I don't owe you till Monday."
"No, you were meant to have the money to us the other week. $50,000.00 a month, is it that much of a favor to ask?" he turned to face me. "I'm sorry but you're stuck in the middle of all this now," he walked over to me. "What should we do with you?"
"She knows too much. We could have let her go but your dumb ass decided to spill the beans." Freckles said, clearly annoyed.
"But this was my plan from the start Andrew. We needed a new set of helping hands didn't we?"

"I'm sorry Emily." I blocked out his apologies. I couldn't stand his voice at the moment. His sorry's weren't going to get us out of this situation any time soon.
"Your apologies aren't going to fix anything. What's done is done."
"But I didn't-this wasn't meant to happen." I sighed. We were both tied to chairs in a damp and dirty room. No where to go. It was punishment enough being in the same room as him. I scowled at Em as I fiddled with the rope cutting through my wrists.
"You think I wanted this?" He spoke with anger and I was taken aback.
"Of course not. I just think that what you've done is dumb. You could have called the police."
"Oh yeah, lets see. Marshall Mather's, the most hated guy in America because he wasn't afraid to tell the world that he smacked a bitch and said the word 'faggot'. Marshall Mather's, looked down on by parents because of his  vulgar and violent music. Drug addict, crazy ex-wife, homophobic and misogynist. Man, do you that as soon as people find out I rap, they turn their heads away because of all the stereotypical bullshit? Oh he's definitely a gang-banger, oh shit he probably smokes crack 10 times a day. That guy doesn't know what music is," he laughed. "You really think the police would believe me if I told them three douche bags were taking money from me to buy themselves drugs?" I stared at him and blinked.
"We can get proof, they'll have to believe you then. Plus I'm a witness."
"Emily, it's not about who believes who. The coppers can't make the decision whether I'm guilty or not. Because of the drug abuse I've had in my past, they'll wanna weigh the facts up. It'll end up going to court."
"So?" I said, trying to keep my composure.
"The jury will obviously rule me out!" He shook his head.
"Not if they have evidence shoved under their noses! If you can build a good case up against these guys-"
"No, we can't go to the police."
"You're crazy."
"My reputation will be ruined."
"Well you might not be alive in the next few days to justify that."