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.

That's the real problem, not the dress, not the party, not the men looking at my tits like their eyes got stuck there and need roadside assistance.

The problem is that being married to Marshall has started making me feel like I'm disappearing, and I hate that so much I don't know what to do with it, so I do what I always do, I make it everyone else's problem.

I used to be Leila Tate, women called me when their husbands started acting slippery, men got nervous when I walked into a room, lawyers respected my files, and IB Investigations had a name because I was good at what I did, not because I was sleeping next to a famous man with anger issues.

Then everybody finds out Eminem has a wife, and suddenly my name gets shoved behind his like I should be grateful, like getting his last name is the best thing I could ever do with my life.

Fuck that.

My business isn't the same anymore, clients get weird, calls slow down, women act cautious because my face is too known now, his fans drag me online like I stole their imaginary husband, and every room looks past me, straight to him.

And Marshall, that jealous controlling motherfucker, doesn't exactly look heartbroken about it.

Of course he doesn't.

He hates my work, hates the hotel bars, hates the dresses, hates the men looking at me, hates that I have a whole life where he isn't in charge, and now that I'm working less, home more, easier to watch, easier to keep close, part of him probably sleeps better.

He'd never say it out loud, he isn't that dumb.

But I know men, and men always look innocent after they get what they want.

"You're playing with fire, you know that?" Monica's voice is close, and I glance to my right to see her standing beside me, her eyes darting between me and Marshall "You really want to go there tonight?"

I glance at her, she's watching both of us, not just me, eyes flicking between me and Marshall like she's timing how long we've got left before this turns into a scene.

I raise an eyebrow, smirking "Why? Is it working?"

She sighs, crossing her arms as she leans against the bar "You know him, you push him, he snaps, same shit every time, I know you two get off on this weird toxic cycle you've got going on, but don't push too far tonight"

I shrug, my eyes never leaving Marshall "He's the one with the problem, not me"

She gives me a look, not impressed, not buying it for a second "Yeah, that's what you say right before it gets ugly"

I don't answer because she's right and I'm still gonna do it anyway.

Monica doesn't bother to argue again, she just shakes her head "He's watching you like a hawk, and you know exactly what you're doing"

Before I can answer, Monica's eyes move past my shoulder, and I know before I even turn that he's coming.

Marshall starts moving, and when Eminem moves through a room pissed off, people notice.

Nobody makes a scene, they just get the hell out of his way, bodies shifting back, conversations cutting off, grown men suddenly staring at their drinks like ice is the most interesting thing in the room.

He moves through the crowd pissed off and controlled enough to make it worse, eyes locked on mine, jaw tight, shoulders stiff under his jacket.

He's already got the argument loaded before he reaches me.

Marshall stops inches from me, mouth tight, voice rough enough that I know he's already pissed "Leila"

I keep my face calm even though my pulse kicks hard "Marshall"

Monica gives me one last look and steps back because she knows better than to stand in the blast zone when we start acting like this.

Marshall looks me over, then looks past me where the guy has already decided breathing is more important than flirting "You wanna explain what the fuck you've been doin' all night?"

I tilt my head, smiling because I know it makes him worse "What am I doing, exactly?"

He steps closer, voice tight, jaw locked "Don't play stupid with me Leila, that fuckin' dress, the way you've been walkin' around, lettin' every dickhead in here stare at you like you're put on for them, you're tryin' to piss me off, and it's workin'"

The second he says it, I get meaner, because this dumb motherfucker still thinks it's about the dress, like I need some random dickhead at a bar to remind me men are cheap and easy.

"And so what if I am? You think I'm just going to stand by while you work the room, act like I don't even exist?"

His jaw tightens "You've been looking for a reaction since we got here, don't act stupid now"

I let out a sharp laugh, setting my drink on the bar "Maybe I'm tired of standing in your shadow while this whole room acts like I'm lucky to be breathing near you"

"You're my wife Leila, I didn't marry you so you could stand at a bar acting like some bitch in heat every time I'm not watching you"

I laugh in his face "No, you married me because you were scared I'd leave, and I married you because I'm clearly fucking stupid when I'm in love"

His face tightens, and I step closer "Now you're mad because I'm still me, the ring didn't shut my mouth, didn't fix your jealousy, and didn't turn me into some quiet little wife you can park in a corner when your ego gets nervous"

He steps in closer, like getting in my space is supposed to make me remember how to behave "Don't twist this Leila, you're acting like you don't give a fuck, like the ring didn't change shit"

I laugh because of course that's where he goes, the ring, the wife thing, the little word he keeps throwing around like it's supposed to put me back in place "Because you haven't changed either, you're still standing there acting like the world runs on your mood, still treating me like something you can pick up when you want me and ignore when you don't, and I'm supposed to just stand there smiling while you run the whole fucking room?"

His mouth pulls tight, and he looks at me like he's trying to decide whether to yell or drag me out before I make it worse "You've been pushing me all night, don't stand there acting innocent now"

"I'm not acting innocent, I know exactly what I'm doing"

"Yeah, and it's fucking stupid"

"No, what's stupid is you thinking I'm scared of that face, like I haven't seen every fucking ugly version of you already"

Marshall steps in closer, face hard, voice low enough that I know he's trying not to make it a scene while absolutely making it a scene "You keep pushing me Leila, like I'm not gonna push back"

I hold his stare because I want him past the calm shit, I want the real one, the mean one, the one who doesn't get to hide behind that bored famous man face tonight "Then push back, don't stand there doing that quiet psycho routine like I'm one of those little men over there waiting for you to decide if they're allowed to breathe"

His mouth tightens "You think you're tough?"

"No, I think you're pissed because I don't need the performance, everybody else gets Eminem, I get the man under it, and he's just as jealous, petty, and fucking easy as the rest of them when his wife hurts his feelings"

He leans in close enough that I can't see much past his shoulder "You never know when to shut the fuck up"

I smile because he still thinks this is me losing control, and not me choosing exactly where to cut "I know exactly when to stop, I just don't like you enough right now to protect you from me"

His hand moves at his side, and I look right at it because I know him, I know when the mouth starts running out and the body starts looking for somewhere to put the anger.

I glance back up at him "Go on then"

His jaw locks "Go on what?"

"Do what you do when I cut too close, grab something, move something, act like it's not because I got under your skin"

His hand catches my wrist fast, fingers tight enough that my pulse jumps, and I smile because he gives it to me so fucking easy.

"See? There you are, not the legend, not the genius, not the scary king of Detroit, just a pissed off man grabbing his wife because she said the truth too loud"

"Stop running your mouth"

"Make me"

His grip tightens "You keep pushing because you want me to snap"

"No, I keep pushing because the snap is the only real thing about you, the rest is just that same tired bullshit where you put a beat under being a nasty cunt and everybody claps like damage made you a fuckin' genius"

His face tightens, and I know that hits because he hates when I talk about the act, hates when I remind him I can see through the bullshit.

He pulls me closer "You don't know shit about what I give the world"

"I know you're brave as fuck when there's a mic between you and the person you're cutting, but look at you now, no beat, no hook, no crowd screaming the words back, just me in your face and your hand around my wrist because you don't know where else to put it"

His eyes stay on mine, and his voice turns sharp "You're embarrassing yourself"

"No, I'm embarrassing you, and that's why you're mad, because every man in this room can watch you rap circles around the world but can't watch you handle your own wife without putting your hands on her"

"Don't put that shit on me"

"Then take your hand off me"

He doesn't, because of course he doesn't, because Marshall Mathers can hear the truth and still stand there acting like silence is innocence.

I laugh, and it comes out ugly "Exactly"

His mouth curls "You wanted attention, you got it"

"I wanted you to stop acting like I disappear the second I'm not standing in your shadow"

"Maybe stop acting like a fuckin' embarrassment"

That hits hard, but I don't let it sit alone, I shove it right back at him before he can enjoy it "Embarrassment? You've made a whole career out of dragging every private wound you've ever had into public, but I raise my voice in a club and suddenly I'm the messy one?"

His face goes hard "Don't talk about my music"

"Why, because that's the holy part? You can talk about my dress, my body, my mouth, my attitude, but I can't talk about the thing you hide behind every time being just Marshall gets too fucking hard?"

His grip tightens, and now he's not pretending he's calm anymore "You don't know shit about that"

"I know you sell your pain and then act shocked when somebody calls it ugly without the beat under it"

He yanks me closer "You think I'm ugly?"

"I think you're uglier when you're pretending you're not"

His breath hits my face, fast through his nose, and I can see it now, he doesn't want to fix shit, he wants to win.

He steps into me "You really wanna keep doing this here?"

"You started it here"

"You baited me"

"And you swallowed it whole"

His stare doesn't move "You think that makes you smart?"

"No, I think it makes you predictable, which is worse for you because I know how much you hate being read like a cheap little book with anger issues"

His hand moves from my wrist to my waist, hard, turning me enough that my hip hits the bar, and I shove at his chest with my free hand before he can pull me any closer.

"Don't fucking move me"

"Then walk"

"No"

"We're leaving"

"We're not"

His mouth comes close to my ear, voice rough and pissed "You're done making a scene"

I turn my face toward his, smiling because I'm furious enough to shake and I'd rather die than let him know it "Baby, you are the scene, I'm just the first woman tonight who stopped clapping"

His grip tightens, and he starts pulling me from the bar while people turn their heads and pretend they're not eating it up.

I yank back hard enough to twist his shoulder "Get your fucking hand off me"

"Stop fighting me"

"Stop proving me right"

He pulls me through the edge of the crowd, and I keep my heels digging just enough to make it ugly because if he's dragging me out, he's going to work for every fucking step.

He gets me to the darker side of the room, not private enough to make this clean, not hidden enough to make me feel less watched, and my back hits the wall before I can twist away.

His hand stays at my waist, keeping me there, face close, voice rough now "You keep running that mouth like you don't know where it gets you"

"I know exactly where it gets me, that's why I keep doing it"

"You're not in control"

"Neither are you, you're just used to everybody pretending you are"

His mouth pulls tight "You don't know when to stop"

"And you don't know how to love anything without trying to ruin it first"

He kisses me before I can throw the next word, hard and pissed off, and I shove his chest before grabbing his jacket right back because I'm just as angry and just as stupid and neither of us has ever known how to stop when blood is already in the water.

The kiss is ugly, teeth and breath and spite, his hand hard at my waist, my nails in his jacket, both of us trying to win with our mouths because the words finally got too close.

I bite his bottom lip hard enough to make him pull back.

He breathes against my mouth, still pissed "Don't think for a second you can pull this shit and not feel the consequences, Leila"

I smile, wrist still burning where his fingers were, breathless "Maybe I like the consequences"

His mouth twists like he hates that answer, his hand stays tight at my waist, and I know we're nowhere near done ruining each other tonight.