Adjusting

Why wasn't he happy? He and Justin were together again. So what he had to put up with Britney for another couple weeks. It was such a little thing. He dismissed the idea that he was making such a big deal out of the Brit situation in order to avoid the real worries stirring in the shadows. He refused to dwell on what had been said in his hotel room over a week ago.

At least consciously, sometimes the rapper's words would creep up on him. Repeating unexpectedly at odd moments. Making him see Justin's innocent actions in another more insidious light. With the rapper's accusations raging in his head, what was lovemaking would for a brief moment seem like a rough fuck. Or Justin's loving embrace, became a possessive hold. An innocent handhold, turned into an abusive grip.

Even this thing with Brit, became warped by Em's distorted perceptions. He would never have thought about Justin like this, if Em hadn't made such a big deal out of things. Blowing things all out of proportion. Where did he get off trying to be so high and mighty? Fucking Eminem. This was his goddamn fault. Growling, he flung open the door to the suite and marched down the hall toward Sexual Chocolate's suite. How dare he make him doubt Justin? Without thought, JC pounded on the door until it opened.

Lonnie stared down at his irate charge. As a bodyguard it was his duty to notice everything and see nothing; so he knew if not knew why Chasez was in such a foul mood. Justin had left early this morning with Spear's entourage. Lonnie sighed, and waited for the young man to ask what their schedule was. He was temporarily thrown by what Chasez asked instead.

"The bodyguards know each other; they talk. Right, Lonnie?"

Lonnie nodded, affirmatively.

"Do you think you could find out Eminem's whereabouts right now?"

"Don't have to ask," said Lonnie. "Like you guys use Jive studios, they're in Aftermaths. Not ten blocks apart. Actually, I heard they were gonna be there all of today and Tuesday. 'Cause they spent the weekend screwing around."

JC snorted. Of course. What else? It wasn't like Eminem did any real work. No. He was too busy wrecking other people's relationships. "Could you get me the number?"

Lonnie eyed the clearly upset young man. He wasn't sure that would be the brightest idea. But Chasez was the boss. "Sure. Gimme half an hour."

JC gave a sharp nod, and stomped back down the hallway. He had a bottle of JD he'd been saving. Hording, whispered a voice. He resolutely squashed it as he went to fix himself a drink.

By the time Lonnie came by with the number, JC had managed to work himself into a righteous rage. Closing the door behind the bodyguard, JC stared at the number. He dropped back into the armchair, he'd been occupying for the last forty-five minutes. Pouring himself another shot. Was he really going to do this? Call up Eminem and accuse him of ruining his happiness? He took another drink, slowly, trying to calm himself down.

It wasn't fair to lay the blame on one man. It wasn't Em's fault Justin seemed.... JC shied away from that thought. But if it wasn't Em's fault. Then it was Justin's. That meant Em was right. Justin was ab... JC shoved that thought away with an enraged scream. No! Justin wasn't. It was Em's fault for making him think he was. Em needed to shut the fuck up, and get out of his head. And he needed to tell him that. Fueled by rage and desperation JC dialed, not letting the fact that the machine picked up deter him.

"You fucker! Why did you have to say that? Why?" His righteous anger came out more a plaintive wail.

"I never thought... NEVER! Now, you won't shut up about it. I fucking hate your ass. Sounding so goddamn high and mighty. You're ruining everything. I can't even look at Justin without your smug ass spouting about abuse and fractures. EmfuckingEm the poster boy for misogynistic sociopathic homophobes! How fucking dare you make me question Justin's love?" JC spat into the phone, taking another drink.

He shot up out of the chair stalking to the bathroom. Almost mindlessly, ripping his shirt open. Buttons ricocheted off the mirror from the fury behind the movement. He stared sightlessly at the bruises from their most recent bout of sex.

"Where the fuck do you get off questioning how my man touches me? What's a painful bruise or two? It doesn't mean he's hurting me. You don't know shit. Stop making me think something's wrong. You arrogant ass! Like your such a big man 'cause you never hit your wife. So the fuck what? It was an accident. It's always an accident," screamed JC suddenly overcome with rage, flinging his glass at the mirror. Watching his image shatter in its depths. He didn't flinch at the bits of glass that hurtled outwards, tearing flesh here and there. He ignored the flecks of blood, stalking back into the other room.

"Coward. You're the fucking coward, scared of anyone different from you. I am not a fucking coward. You shit! 'Cause coward's run. I won't run. I won't give up on Justin. No matter what you say. He's not abusive. He's not," sobbed JC, before flinging the phone across the room. He stared at the dent in the wall, and made a mental note to send Lonnie to the manager with a check for damages later.

He stood there too worn out to care for several long minutes. He thought about the second bottle of JD he had stashed in his bags. He shouldn't. Getting smashed wouldn't solve anything. He should find something else to do until Justin got back. Except Justin wouldn't be back for hours. And when he got back he'd smell of Britney.

JC cracked open the bottle.

---

Proof glanced up as the phone quit ringing. "Do you ever answer that thing?"

Em shook his head, as he continued working on the mix. "It's on the Aftermath switchboard. That catches a lot of shit, but still I usually let the machine get it. So, I can screen 'em further."

Behind the glass Fifty glared, as he got ready to run through another rep. Em met his gaze dead on. He wanted this shit perfect. So anybody giving him shit wasn't going to be tolerated. Fifty sneered but started up again.

"Why don't you have a secretary," asked Bizarre, flicking tiny paper footballs across the room.

"'Cause the bitch copped a 'tude when I told her ass the next time she didn't put Hailie through immediately I was gonna boot her ass across the Atlantic."

It was shortly after one when the crew demanded a food break; Em reluctantly let the others break. Deciding now was as good a time as any, he headed in to check his messages. Most calls tended to be legit, especially since Shady records' number was harder to get than Aftermath's.

Em dropped into the chair, grabbed a pen, turned up the volume on the machine and hit play. Three-fourth's of the messages were crap, maybe five or six out of the two dozen worth checking into. He tossed aside the pen, when nothing but heavy breathing came from the last message. "Perv," he muttered, reaching to turn the machine off. Hand froze halfway there at the first hissed swear word from a familiar voice.

He didn't move until the kid's voice died out, then only to stop, and rewind the tape. Almost on autopilot as he settled on the edge of the desk to listen to it again. He couldn't quite shake off the stunned disbelief that had gripped him since he'd heard Chasez's voice. He hit play, needing to hear it again.

'Cause that first time still hadn't sunk in. Em didn't know what to think, part of him was irked all to fuck that Chasez had the balls to blame him for the fact that his life was in the shitter. On the other hand he was feeling smugly proud that despite how things had ended, something of what he'd said had reached the kid. Yeah, well. While you're feeling all Superman here, the kid sounds like he's falling apart.

Em sighed at the thought. Like this is my fault? Chasez obviously doesn't want my help. No. Definitely didn't want anything to do with him, if what he said was any indication. No. Em was pretty sure the kid would rather see him dead first.

'misogynistic, sociopathic, homophobe.'

Em snorted at the worst the kid could come up with. Well, he was certainly nothing if not polite. Kid, thought Em. I ain't made you question nothing that you hadn't all ready questioned. And it's about damn time your ass fucking faced up to it. The next words made the rapper frown, shaking his head in disgust.

'What was a painful bruise or two?'

Yeah, he'd heard that before. Everytime one of Debbie's men decided to take a swing at him. 'Stop bitching. It's nothing. A bruise. You're lucky it wasn't broken.' It was wrong. It was always wrong. You didn't hurt those you loved. For any reason.

Em winced at the sound of glass breaking. A sound he was very familiar with. Suddenly, he found himself hoping that the kid was okay. That he hadn't actually hurt himself. When Chasez's voice picked up again, he sighed in relief. Then winced at the reminder of what he'd called Chasez. As the kid's voice broke, Em found himself feeling for Chasez in a way he hadn't before. He knew that desperation. That fervent clinging to denial. He'd been there. That point where all you wanted was for it to be a dream. Or for it to all just fucking stop. He winced at the loud thud, before the sound cut off. He had a sudden urge to check up on the kid. Maybe he'd stop by the hotel, if he were in the neighborhood.

Em sighed pulling the tape out of the machine.

"What was that Em?"

Em forced himself not to react as he turned to face Dre. He palmed the tape, wondering just how much Dre had actually heard. "It's nothing," he shrugged. "No worries."

Dre frowned, eyeing the obviously twitchy Em. "Everytime you say nothing. It's always something I gotta be worried about." Dre stepped further into the room. "I heard yelling. Couldn't make out what was said though. Tell me you haven't done something I'll need very expensive lawyers for."

"I'm telling you, Dre. It's nothing."

"Gimme the tape," said Dre, holding out his hand. "I'll be the judge of that."

Em dropped the tape, grinding it beneath his boot. Glad, he'd decided against carpet in his office as it made a satisfying crunch beneath his heel. "I said, it's nothing," growled Slim.

Dre eyed the man, who was now almost literally vibrating with repressed violence. And began mentally preparing for the shitstorm to come. "Slim, what the hell is going on?"

"My business, Dre. I'll handle it. Nothing you got to worry about," he said. The blond walked away without another word.

Dre glanced from the disappearing Slim, to the crushed tape and back. This was not good. With a sigh, he flipped open his cell. It was time to make a few calls.