Whispers Two

**Disclaimer: As normal, all this is pure fiction. None of it actually happened, it camecame outta my head. Jason is mine, I use him all the time for other stories, so don't nick him unless I say you can :) And this story contains heavy drug use, prostitution, bad language and lotsa gay sex. Right. I think that about covers it!

~Introduction~

Bee-stung lips, angry blue eyes, sprinkling of freckles over soft, soft pale skin, bleached hair, earrings in both ears (and he still claimed he was straight.) Slender, tattooed arm around the shoulders of a pretty young woman.

Pause. Breath Jason. It’s ok. Get on with it.

The young woman. She was twinkling at him with big eyes and a five million mega-watt smile. Bleached blond (with dark roots) weighs about three pounds, tits the size of fucking beach balls. Skirt up to her crotch and so feminine I could practically smell the estrogen coming off the pages of the shitty magazine I’d just bought. She clung to him as if she were drowning and he were air. Sickening. I hated her already.

But that caption. Fuck. The caption topped it off.

‘Controversial rapper, Eminem, spotted backstage at a D12 concert with his new girlfriend, Donna Thompson…’

His girlfriend. His *girlfriend.* Three months on, and he already had a girlfriend. The fucker. The absolute hypocritical unbelievable lying GAY bastard. It hadn’t taken him long at all to slip back into his happy little world of complete and utter denial. It hadn’t taken him long at all to forget me. Forget that he’d told me, very softly and seriously, after letting me be the very first man inside him, that he loved me.

It had been three months. Three fucking months, and no word from him, no sign of him, nothing. He didn’t care. He’d never cared at all. And I’d been stupid, stupid, stupid to think that he had.

Back in London, I’d hung around Vittorio’s bar for a few weeks, waiting for *something* from him. Anything. I would have clung to anything the man had bothered to throw me. But no. Nothing.

Three months.

I started to wonder why I’d even bothered. Bothered trying to pick him up in the first place, bothered going back to the hotel with him, bothered falling in love with him. After a while, I convinced myself that it hadn’t been love anyway, not really. Just a couple of nights infatuation, and even that was a waste of my time. Love? Of course not. Jason Bexley didn’t fall in love because, well, because whores didn’t, did they? Especially not with American rappers. Especially not with Eminem, Slim Shady, Marshall fucking Mathers. Whatever you wanted to call him. Hell, I didn’t even like his music.

I’d been deluding myself. And it wasn’t long before I’d been back out on the street, my night with Marshall always a dim flame in the back of my mind. It wasn’t long before I started pretending to forget, started to get things back to how they’d been before I met him. Started to believe once more that love was just a fairytale.

But of course, the fucker had to spoil everything, didn’t he? Spoil everything by appearing in this crappy fucking magazine, his arms around some bimbo underwear model from Dallas. Dallas! Of all places! It was like he was trying to find the furthest possible life form from me to fuck. Like I was just being erased from his mind. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, should NOT be reacting this way. But the man that I thought I loved was fucking some stupid blond bitch from Dallas, Texas, U.S. of fucking A, and I was nothing but a memory. Probably one that he was trying to forget.

Well, fine. If he wanted to go about being ‘controversial rapper Eminem, with his bloody fucking girlfriend,’ then I’d go about being exactly what I’d been before he happened.

The absolute prick.

But I really didn’t care. Which, of course, didn’t explain the tears falling on the page and smudging his impossibly smug, happy face.

I threw the magazine across the room and sat slumped against the wall, angrily picking at the quilt of my bed. Marshall Mathers had managed to make me cry again. I hated crying. I hated feeling so emotionally weak. Fuck, it, I hated him. I did, I really did.

The magazine had fallen open on the page I’d been reading. Marshall, who was looking directly at the camera, seemed to be staring straight at me, triumphantly proclaiming he didn’t need me. He didn’t want me. He’d never loved me. He loved Miss Big-Tits Dallas, a partner he could parade around and shag in limos while his mates stood around outside exchanging knowing looks. He wanted someone he didn’t have to hide away in a hotel room.

So fuck him. Maybe I loved him, ok, I did, that’s what the anger’s about, I’m not stupid, I can see that. Maybe I loved him. But I didn’t need him either.