Warning: contains dubious consent

Sucker

After:

"Something happen to your leg, Em?"

Marshall thought he'd pulled it off, had winced once, just once, getting into the limo. But Dre notices everything.

"Nothin'," Marshall mutters, but his knee is one massive bruise so he adds, "just banged my knee, getting on the plane." He frowns and reaches for the limo's minibar. Dre raises his eyebrows - it's two o'clock in the afternoon - but Marshall just scowls.

"Whatever." Dre shrugs and puts his sunglasses back on. After a moment his cell rings. It's the lawyers, calling about the contract. Dre talks on the phone for the rest of the trip.

But 50 - Curtis - doesn't seem to mind. He relaxes into the leather seats, hands resting easily on his thighs, wearing the biggest grin you ever saw. "Sorry 'bout your knee, man," he says with false sympathy. And just in case Marshall doesn't get it already, 50 winks at him, actually winks.

Motherfucker, Marshall thinks grimly. He wishes he could take a swing at 50, smash that shiteating grin right off his face. He gulps down the Bacardi and glares out the window instead.

*

Before:

Marshall shrugs like it's no big thing. Flying to New York to meet an unsigned artist before flying back to LA the next day to seal the deal? Sure, he pulls this kind of shit all the time.

Yeah. Right.

At least 50 seems convinced. "You serious? You wanna, you can just, fly me and my crew over to LA, like tomorrow? Man, man." He can't stop grinning. He's a tough guy, everyone knows that - nine bullets and all that shit - but 50 with his sweet easy smile mostly reminds Marshall of the kid who got in trouble for swinging on his seat in class, even after the teacher kept warning him that one day he'd slip and knock his teeth out.

"Fuck yeah I'm serious," Marshall says. He keeps his expression deadly serious, his voice perfectly even. "Just one thing you gotta do for me first."

Curtis waves his hands around, "Anything, man, anything. I been waiting for this call for-fuckin'-ever. Anything." He's still grinning.

Yeah, Marshall thinks, the kid that just keeps on swinging. Not because he's a rebel. Just because it's fun and he doesn't want to stop.

Marshall picks up his glass. He doesn't smile, doesn't even blink. "Fine. You just gotta suck my dick."

There's a long silence while Marshall takes a long, long drink. The alcohol burns on its way down. Three ways that this scenario can go. Firstly, 50 can laugh. Secondly, 50 can clock him, then laugh. Third? He might actually get his rocks off.

After Marshall finally puts the glass down empty, he sees 50 looking at him with a faint, faint smile on his face. "Nah," Curtis says slowly. "Nah. I don't think so."

Casually 50 leans forward a little and reaches one hand behind him, as though to scratch his back. Except that when his hand comes back into view, it's holding a black, gleaming gun.

Ah fuck, Marshall thinks and freezes. He hadn't reckoned on option four. And, yeah, he's gonna fire his fuckin' bodyguards.

"See, Em. I got a better idea. I think you," he points to Marshall with his free hand, "wanna come over here," and he points down to the carpet between his parted knees, "yeah, you wanna come over here, and you suck my dick. And then?" 50 grins again and shrugs. "Then you and me, we go to LA and sign some papers."

Marshall swallows. "What the-?" He doesn't take his eyes off the gun for a second, dangling casually between 50's big fingers.

"Come on. Don't be holding out on me now, Marshall." 50 spreads his legs a little wider and starts unzipping his fly. Big fuckin' grin. "You comin' over already? Or do I gotta make ya?"

Marshall hits his knee hard on the corner of the coffee table on his way down.

*

Later:

Dre is really anal about all that legal shit, so he's still talking to the lawyers about sub-sub-clause thirty-fuckin'-four when Marshall slips out to the parking lot for a smoke.

He's just started on cigarette number three when he sees 50 sauntering towards him in the evening dusk, hands shoved in his pockets. "Christ," Marshall mutters under his breath.

Marshall hasn't really spoken to Curtis since yesterday. Not since he stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and stumbled to the door without seeing a thing. By the time he got back to the hotel, 50 was already gone. Marshall sent the plane tickets over later by express courier and ripped up the reply.

"Cigarette, man?"

Marshall hands the box over without a word, scowling.

"Lighter?"

He tosses that over too, and they smoke for a while in silence. Marshall can feel the back of his neck burning. He'd jerked off last night, thinking about 50 in his mouth. And that had scared him worse than the gun. He drops the cigarette butt and grinds it beneath his heel.

"Marshall." He realises 50 is saying his name, has been saying it for a while now. "Marshall. Marshall."

"What fucking what already?" Marshall finally snaps, turning towards him. "What the fuck do you want now? You got your goddamn record deal."

"Hey." 50's still holding his lighter. He reaches towards Marshall, who barely restrains himself from flinching. But Curtis just pushes the lighter down into his shirt pocket, blunt fingers brushing lightly against the cloth. "Calm the fuck down, man."

"Calm down? I'm not the one who brought along a fuckin' gun-"

Sure 50 is a big guy but Marshall's been working out lately, he could probably take him on, put up a decent fight at least. Except that he doesn't struggle, doesn't even try when Curtis put his hands on Marshall's shoulders and pushes him back against the wall. "What the-" he starts to say, but now Curtis is kneeling on the tarmac and wait wait wait-

"You ain't mad about that, me packin' it yesterday? 's just a precaution, man, I take my piece everywhere. Nothin' personal. Come on, come on," Curtis says, and he's grinning upwards, hands on Marshall's thighs. "You knew that already."

Suddenly Marshall remembers, not just looking, but actually seeing. The safety.

"Come on," Curtis says, his breath warm on Marshall's navel. "You gonna let me do this?"

The safety catch was on the whole time.

"You're so-" Curtis says, and Marshall closes his eyes, tips his head back against the wall.

So fucking dumb.

By Ro, May 2003

[Home]