Nick had lost the bet. He sighed. He was constantly reminding himself that he should never bet against AJ. The man always won. He had like psychic abilities or something. Nick
shoved his hands in his pockets and thought to himself that AJ should play the fucking lottery instead of making bets with him. He looked up at the numbers on the door. 1537. One large bodyguard stood outside the door looking rather menacing. Nick sighed
again. “Hey,” he said to the bodyguard. He got a nod inresponse. Nick cleared his throat. “Um, can I knock?”
“Mr. Mathers does not want to bothered right now,” he was told.
Nick nodded again. “But you see… I need to talk to him..um… about something…”
*NOTE: This story does not seek to pass judgement whatsoever. There is a fine line where kink can evolve into abuse. This is a story about that fine line.
Eminem cursed as he got out of the limo. “Fucking paparazzi. Fucking award shows. Fucking everything.” He ran his hands down his shirt. He looked over at Dre who nudged him forward. Slowly he made his way down the red carpet, answering questions of the reporters, nodding in all the right places. Funny how being a rebel still means fitting between the lines. Running his hands down his face he walked through the front doors of whatever the hell building they were in this time. `Fuck they all run together,’ he sighed. The young girl led him and Dre and the four other large black men to their seats. He slumped down into his seat. He let out another sigh and Dre looked down at him. “Dude, think about it this way: this is research for future albums.”
Em laughed. “Good point, but fuck Dre, I hate these damn things. They’re all fucking rigged anyways.” Dre flicked him in the head and leaned over to talk to the man on the other side of Em. Continue reading