19. Just For Fun

Harmony's P.O.V.

October, 2000

The white boy is knocked out cold from all of the drugs and the booze we partook in last night, more so him than me.

Sprawled out on his belly right next to me in a large king sized bed at the luxurious hotel room, one of his arms thrown over my legs while I'm sat with my back propped up against the headboard, my long jet black hair falling down my shoulders and draped in his huge white t-shirt I had put on over my nude body this morning.

Couldn't be bothered to go look for my own top that got pretty much ripped off of me and tossed somewhere along with my other clothes as soon as the both of us had stumbled in last night, completely gone on whatever we were high and drunk on, as well as the hedonistic need to just go at it.

My long hair cascading down my shoulders, I play with it absent-mindedly, sort of grinning at the memory of it all. Em and I have been going like this for the past two weeks, just getting absolutely fucked-up, arguably more him more so than me once again cause I prefer to still keep somewhat of a clear head. All I've been doing is just smoke a lil weed with him and get tipsy on all of the Tequila shots and my favorite girly cocktails at the V.I.P. section of whatever club we would be partying at, but the white boy... he's really being going hard, I swear one night I saw him take like 40 different drugs, all kinds of pills, shoots, you name it. If the shit could get you high, he consumed it, and I had watched him real close, both to make sure his crazy bleach-blonde ass even was able to wake up the next morning, but then also just clocking it, storing it in my memory for later just how eager this man is to go into a complete oblivion.

Drugs would be given to him anywhere, dealers literally approaching him all through the club and sometimes they would knock on the windows of whicher car we were in. Hell, he even told me his fans throw little baggies with pills onto the stage when he performs. He was laughing about it, and I did too. But I also told him he's crazier and more stupid than I thought he was if he would actually take those. Em cussed me out then and said of course he wasn't THAT retarded. So I asked the nigga who he thought he was talking to me like that. It was the end of that conversation though.

Anyways...

My thoughts are suddenly interrupted by the buzzing of both mine and Marshall's phones. Mine is on the nightstand right next to the bed, while his appears to be tangled in the sheets with him somewhere.

I roll my eyes and glance at the still sleeping white boy, checking if the buzzing would wake him up, but it doesn't. His mouth half open, light snores continues to escape from him and he doesn't even budge.

Specks of sunlight coming through the drapes on the window falling onto his face and sleep tossed blonde hair. Funny. He looks almost innocent when asleep.

My phone buzzes again, and I roll my eyes once more, already having a pretty good idea on who it is blowing me up like this. Just to humor myself though, I snatch the phone up and flip it open, scrolling through various unopened texts from the same number. I frown to myself after reading through some of them. A feeling I don't particularly like to experience spreading through me and messing with high I still got going on somewhat.

U r not holding up our end of the bargain...

U were meant to mess Eminem up, make him not able to concentrate...

Y r you dragging your feet, Harmony?

I hate being rushed.

Even more so, I hate being told what to do.

That's like, super disrespectful or whatever.

Plus, I'm a free spirit.

Like a cat.

I move on my own terms and make my own rules.

Just because I can.

Marshall stirs again, he grumbles something unintelligible in his sleep, rolling now onto his back, his mouth still dropped open.

I smile to myself and look around the room once more, spotting his notebook on the nightstand at his side of the bed. Fucking Britney Spears on the cover. I swear I can't with this white boy sometimes. Like he is so predictable to the point where shit is truly embarrassing. He always talks all this big shit about how he hates us pop stars, and yet, he's steady obsessing over us.

Another smile creeping on my lips, I stretch my limbs, crawling over him until I reach it, my fingers grabbing onto the notebook. I return back to my original spot once it's secured in my grasp and toss my head back over the headboard, flipping through the pages.

It's no use though. Just like before, I'm completely unable to read through or understand this man's crazy handwriting.

Oh well...

Gently removing Marshall's arm from around me (he barely even budges, still too far gone on whatever it was he partook in last night), I climb out of the bed, my bare feet hitting against the cold tiles of the floor sending little shocks through them. I literally hate feeling cold!!

I then make my way through the hotel room, looking around and spotting my purse dumped somewhere, and it's literally half the size of Em's notebook, but oh well, it would just have to do. Folding the journal in half, I stuff it inside my bag, the sound of the movement of the bed sheets behind me almost startling me, but when I look back, the white boy is still sound asleep.

I smile to myself and gracefully make my way towards the bathroom suit to pee, wash my hands, brush my teeth, then take a long hot shower, lathering my body up with the complimentary body wash, my hair secured in a messy bun on top of my head.

By the time I emerge from the bathroom, the steam from the shower still clinging to my skin right along with the scent of the fruity smelling tropical soap, and I crawl back into bed with Em, now wearing a crispy white spaghetti strap top and tong, my hair let loose from the confines of the bun I had previously put it in. The white boy is still asleep and I sneak another glance at him before feeling in the bed for his cell phone which I'm quickly able to retrieve.

I flip the device open and go through his missed calls and messages, promptly deleting all of the ones from his management team reminding him about some interview and a label meeting he's got to do today just for the hell of it. I then toss his phone carelessly onto the bed sheets, throwing my body back down into the laying down position, my hair playing over the pillow and my eyelashes contentedly fluttering closed.

I don't even realize that I drift right back to sleep, but what eventually wakes me up is the white boy's rough voice, his Detroit accent distinct in it as he appears to be quietly freestyling to himself. I open one eye and watch him sat at the edge of the bed with just his boxers on, his blonde hair tousled still, a scrap of paper in one hand, gesturing with the other. Every once in a while, he would stop, put the paper down on his lap and scribble something on it with a pen he'd snatch from the nightstand. His voice hushed somewhat, so gentleman like of him to keep his volume down in order to not wake me up, but still coming out harsh, his words angry and choppy clearly aimed at someone Em dislikes, and I quickly figure out he's working on a diss.

For once though, it's not directed towards me, even though publicly, we are still feuding.

I listen some more, and it soon becomes clear to me that the person Marshall is currently talking about is Everlast. Some older white rapper that he's been beefing with lately, for whatever reason. Being on some white on white crime shit.

After a while, I sit up and lazily toss my hair off of my shoulders. Stretching my leg, I nudge Em with my foot. His freckled face frowning slightly when he turned to look at me. That same scrap of paper still clutched in his hand.

"Yo, I ain't wake you, have I?"

So considerate of him.

I'm almost disgusted.

"No," I say sweetly in response, and Marshall suddenly smirks. His squinted blue eyes shamelessly roaming over my body, causing my nipples to instantly harden under the tight fabric of my top once I feel his gaze drop to my tits, then he looks back up with a goofy grin on his face.

"You look good, you know that? Fuck you always look good as hell, rhinestone," he blurts out bluntly, and I immediately roll my eyes at how corny he always sounds whenever he's not rapping. I swear this man needs to thank the gods for giving him his talent and making sure he was born with a handsome face and a nice body, otherwise, he'd probably die a virgin cause let's face it, this white boy don't got no game.

"An actual diamond, Marshall. Cause you said it yourself, rhinestones are fake gems, and ain't shit fake about me, nigga," I sass him and he scoffs.

"Whatever the fuck you say. Yo, you ain't see my notebook around here, did you? I can't find the shit. Hope I ain't left it at the club last night. Cause man, I was hammered."

"Which notebook?"

"Ya know? The one with that pop tart slut Britney on the cover? Fucking Paul got that shit for me as a joke. I've got half the material for my next album on that bitch and then some. I fucking looked everywhere around this room but i can't find the goddamn thing."

"Um... no, Marshall, I haven't seen it."

"FUCK!!"

"Hey, calm down," I quietly laugh to myself, watching the white boy rage. Little does he know that that precious notebook of his is actually hidden inside my handbag. I guess it had never even occurred to him to actually look there. Cause I guess... he trusts me enough not to assume that I'd have something to do with it disappearing.

Awe, how cute...

"I'm fucking pissed, man. I need that shit, dawg. If I don't find it, imma have to restore everything from memory. And it ain't like I can't, but damn. That'll take time," he continues to rant, so I make my way over to him and slowly press my body against his back, my fingertips grazing lightly over his smooth bare chest and resting my chin over his shoulder, my legs spread apart behind him and wrapping around him.

"You'll figure it out, Marshall," I whisper sweetly into his ear before pressing my lips onto his cheek, causing him to scoff. His hands wrapping around my wrists.

"Since when have you become so supportive, rhinestone?"

"'Rhinestone', Em?"

"Oh, my bad. A diamond bitch," he huffs sarcastically, and I giggle, continuing to stay wrapped around him like a pretzel.

I can feel the heartbeat in his chest, slow but steady even as his breathing becomes somewhat ragged.

"Sounds to me like you were already working on something anyways," I shrug, dragging my fingertips up and down his skin. Marshall loosens his grip on my wrists.

"What, that? Just fucking around with that Everlast diss. Cocksucker called himself mentioning talking shit about my daughter."

See, I WAS right. He WAS freestyling about dissing Everlast. I'm ALWAYS right. I swear, it's almost boring in a way...

"Well, it sounded good," I compliment him, and I'm actually not lying. "You've got a real way with words."

"Shit, for real? I ain't know that," he scoffs, and I hear the cocky smirk in his voice. This white boy is always cocky. Sort of a part of his charm, I guess.

Then he adds that he's planning to have them two other guys on the song with him, some guys from a wigga rock band called Limp Bizkit, just for the hell of it.

"Plus, they asked to be on the shit, neither of them liked Everlast neither, but them assholes was acting real funny lately. Whenever they was supposed to come to the studio to lay their verses, it's always some shit, you know? Either one of them gets a toothache or it's some other dumb shit," Marshall now rants to me, and the wheels begin to turn really quickly in my head.

"Um... you ever thought that maybe that's because they like... don't actually wanna be on a song with you?" I ask him, unwrapping my limbs from around his strong muscular frame.

Only to slowly crawl around him and sit face to face with him.

"Fuck you mean?" Em frowns.

I roll my eyes at him and pretend to contemplate.

"Well, I didn't wanna tell you, but shit. The other day I was doing an MTV TRL appearance with my girls, and Fred Durst and DJ Lethal were both also there, and I've heard them talking backstage, and they was both discussing getting out of some collab they didn't really want to be a part of and then Lethal, he said that while you would murder Everlast on the mic, he'd still whoop your ass in a physical fight," I state, lying my ass off.

Biting down on my bottom lip in anticipation, I wait to see if the white boy would bite or not. I figure that he would cause his pride is ridiculously fragile.

"WHAT?!" Marshall practically yelps then, his pale freckled face instantly turning red as a tomato from anger, a vein beginning to pulse in his temple as he regards me with squinted eyes.

He is actually... really attractive when he gets all worked up and angry.

"Maybe I shouldn't have said anything," I lower my eyes, playing with my hair.

"Nah, tell me more," he grabs my jaw, fingers urgently digging into my skin when he lifts my face up, forcing me to look back up at him.

But just as I'm about to start telling him even more lies, he frowns.

"Nah, hold up," he drags his other hand down his face, rubbing his chin in thought. "Hold up, hold up. How come motherfuckers always seem so goddamn eager to talk shit about me to you, huh, Harmony? I mean, first that Canibus dude was doing that, now the Limp Bizkit guys too?"

I shrug, twirling the end of my hair with my fingertips, my eyes never leaving his, the look in them all innocence.

A slight feeling of suspense curling it's way up my spine.

Would he believe even more of my bs?

Would he not?

Would he see that I'm playing him?

"Maybe it's cause they all know we are supposed to be beefing with each other, Em?" I then ask him. "So of course niggas gonna talk shit to me about you. They all think I dislike you just as much as they do. Even if I don't..."

Marshall seems to contemplate that, his freckled face blank, distrusting.

Then he suddenly breaks into a goofy grin.

"You saying you ain't dislike the motherfucker then?" He asks me cockily, and I roll my eyes at him openly. Like... this was what he got from what I've just told him?

Then I also realize that maybe I've had a bit of a slip of a tongue just now.

Maybe not.

"Nigga, ain't nobody ever disliked you. You'd actually have to be relevant for me to feel that strongly about you."

"Why all the disses then, girl?"

I smirk and play some more with my hair.

"Just for fun," I smile sweetly at him, not completely lying to him.

I mean... the first couple of times I went after him, it really WAS just for fun. Now I'm getting paid for it.

Marshall stares at me blankly, his blue eyes squinted like he's in deep thought, then he rubs his chin and chuckles, shaking his head.

"Hard as I try, I can't figure your crazy ass out. Something is wrong with you for real, girl. You know that, right?" He states, the amusement evident in his voice, and I'm quick to agree with him.

"You love that shit though. So what it say about you?" I then point out to him. "Anyways, back to Fred and Lethal talking shit about you and not wanting to be on a diss against Everlast with you," I remind him, figuring I might as well instigate beef between Marshall and those Limp Bizkit dudes.

Just like how I've started shit between him and Cannibus before.

Just for the hell of it, and just because I could.

Plus, it sort of upholds parts of the deal I've made with the organization.

Causing Eminem to lose some of his allies and all. Throwing him off of his game.

And it seems to work.

Crumbling the paper he was just writing on in his hand, Marshall punches the fist of his other hand against the headboard of the bed.

"Yo, imma murk both of them weak ass lame ass cocksuckers for talking shit about me!"

Then, all of a sudden this crazy bleached motherfucker is grabbing for his clothes which are still spread at the edge of the bed and attempts to begin to put them on.

"What are you about to do, Marshall?" The amused question slips pasty lips as I lean back, just watching him.

"Fuck you mean, girl? I'm gonna roll up on both of them cocksuckers and show them wassup," he bites back angrily, face still red and angry.

I continue to observe him and bite my lip. Something about this boy when he gets all worked up like this, it's just so freaking sexy to me.

Quite literally making my kitty throb, it's walls pulsing in anticipation.

Plus, I can't let him find out I was actually lying to him and merely instigating stuff between himself and those Limp Bizkit dudes, not yet.

"Don't leave."

Suddenly straddling him, I push lightly on Marshall's chest, grinding my thighs against his hips as he looks up at me from where I've pushed him to lay down on the bed. My palms lightly pressing onto his chest still, his breaths still calm and steady beneath my hands before I start to drag them slowly up and down.

Marshall licks his lips, his icy blue eyes locking on me tight, sending all kinds of excitement straight to my core.

"Why you always gotta fuck with me, huh?" He asks me, both of his hands shooting up and grabbing at my face, squeezing it in between his hands.

"Boy please. You love this shit," I giggle in response to him.

Right before he pulls my face down to his in one quick motion, smashing his lips to mine and kissing me roughly.

Marshall's hands easily tangle in my hair while I turn my head to the side, deepening our kiss. His hands then snake their way down my neck and back, all the way to my ass which he squeezes, then slaps with the palms of both of his hands. Hard enough to make me let out a small whimper into his mouth. I then bite down on his lip hard enough for him to groan, but he only kisses me harder.

His hands making their way back up, he grips onto every curve of my body, feeling up and groping onto every inch of my skin, and my kitty gets wetter every single time, if it was even humanly possible.

I slightly lean back, fully aware of his hardness pressing up against the crack of my ass, and I shift, positioning his hard dick to the entrance of my pussy before lifting up and sliding my panties to the aide, I rub him against my wetness. Then sink right onto his cock with no hesitation, a loud satisfied moan escaping past my lips just as Marshall lowly groans in response, his voice having a rough rasp to it.

My head falls back, mouth dropping in a silent "O", and he only pounds into me harder, just as I continue to grind my hips onto him, riding him like there's no tomorrow, his hands snaking their way to my breasts, cupping them, then squeezing them, his thumbs roughly brushing over my nipples, causing them to harden.

"Fuck, Harmony," Marshall's hands continue to make their way from between my ass to my waist, his blue irises darkening in pure lust when he looks up at me through hooded lids, his eyes almost exausted like.

A pleasurable hiss escapes my lips in response, and I have to bite down really hard on my lower one, my top teeth sinking into it so harshly that I almost draw blood. All to retain at least some sense of control.

"Shit!"

We continue to grind against each other, both of us lost in it somewhat, the only thing keeping us grounded and in the present moment is the shared eye contact we keep with each other.

"Fuck. Goddamn. This pussy feels so fucking good, shit had to have been made for me," Marshall groans, the frustration in his voice obvious, causing me to giggle.

Until his grip tightens on my hips.

"Tell me it's my shit, Harmony," he suddenly looks at me dead ass serious, and I fight the urge to laugh right in his face. "Say it's mine."

"Nigga, fuck off," and I do laugh at him then. Simply couldn't help myself.

"I'm fucking serious, yo!"

"Boy, so am I!!"

And the very next thing I know, I find myself laying on my back instead.

The white boy was quick to flip us over, and he is now on top of me, fingers digging into the skin of my wrists while he locks my arms at each side of my head.

His jaw locking tight and his face taking on this blank expression while his baby blue eyes are completely crazed... The white boy very strongly resembles a serial killer.

"Tell me it's my pussy, Harmony," he continues to insist, fucking me harder, his hips driving into me over and over, his hard cock continuously hitting against my most sensitive spot inside me.

"Ugh, Marshall!!"

"FUCKING SAY IT!!"

Why in the world would he think it's his??

But just then, we both still against each other at the sound of this really loud knocking sound coming from the outside of the hotel room door.

"Marshall, I know you in there!" That giant-looking manager of Em's is clearly the one at the door.

Saved by the bell...

"Motherfucker," the white boy does nothing but grumble while he buries his face in the side of my neck, lowering his head and briefly kissing into the sensitive skin there, causing a few more light, barely audible whispers to scatter past my swollen lips.

Resting one of his large palms over the top of my head, Marshall leans in and whispers into my ear, pressing a kiss right under my lobe, "Let's just keep quiet for now. Then maybe he'll go away."

Paul Rosenberg doesn't just go away though.

Not him.

Not Eminem's manager.

Simply because one has to be truly resilient to even keep sticking it out with the white boy.

Well, either that or really greedy and able to see the big picture at the end of the very long tunnel that is.

And this man seems to be both.

The knocks on the door continue.

Followed by, "Marshall, I know you are in there! And if you don't open up right now, I've got the hotel staff right here with me, and they'll unlock it for me with no problems. So you and whoever your lady friend for the night is, the both of you are best make yourselves look presentable right now."

"Motherfucker!"

Before I could even think on what exactly is happening right now, the white boy throws some covers over me, while removing himself from me completely. He practically cradles me in the bedsheets while throwing some clothes on over his own naked body.

Right along with the beep of the hotel room key card being inserted in the lock and a very large, bald man casually strolling in.

"What are you thinking, Marshall?!"