A Shady Place

7

(A/N: After some consideration and research, I've decided to replace the face claim for Megan with Sydney Graham.

Full disclosure, I am a white author, so being a woman of color is not an experience that I've lived. However, representation of well-developed, realistic characters of color is still severely lacking in all forms of media. So, I'm trying to step away from creating more unnecessarily white-centric narratives.

To all my BIPOC readers, if anything I write ever comes across as insensitive or inaccurate, please let me know! I will always (!) be open to revision and feedback.

Also, thank you to the Eminem discord chat for our discussion about this, you're amazing people. Whew, alright, lastly thank you for reading, and happy Black History Month!)

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"Well, who the fuck was she?"

"Ion know! She was already there when we got there, but I thought she was one of ours."

"Did anybody else take any of her shit?"

"Oh my god, shut the fuck up," I gritted out, eyes glued shut and my lungs struggling with the cold air. My body was still adjusting to the feeling of being upright. Both arms were secured over the shoulders of DeShaun and Marshall as we waited for a taxi, my joints angled awkwardly and the tendons in my wrists aching from the weight. The muscles in my legs still felt like they could slip off the bone at any moment, so they didn't seem like they'd be much use at that point. I shifted myself, gingerly testing out one foot then the other.

One of the hands, I wasn't sure whose, squeezed the side of my waist, and I was vaguely aware of the sound of a car pulling up to the curb. Peeling my eyes open, I eyed the yellow cab. Not too far.

"I can take her back to her room, if you wanna stay."

"Aight, yeah, if that's cool with you?"

"Yeah, yeah. Y'all still gonna be here in an hour—"

I wiggled my wrists free while the two voices negotiated, staggered a couple feet to the waiting taxi, then slammed the door shut behind me. Sprawled out on the backseat, I could smell the lingering, acrid scent of vomit, poorly covered up by cheap cleaning fluids and a fruity air freshener. I groaned, turning my head away and shifting so that I could lie on my back.

"Where to?"

"The..." I frowned, watching the flashing sky out of the back window. What the fuck. "The hotel by the arena."

"Mkay. If you gotta hurl, gimme a little bit of a heads up, I'll pull over."

I didn't respond, mouth didn't really feel up to it, but I kinda wished I had. He seemed nice. When the car came to a stop, I peeled my skin off of the sticky seat and fumbled with the door handle.

"Miss, you ain't paid yet," the driver called once I'd stumbled out, leaning over the passenger seat. "Total is $5.84"

"Oh, yeah," I slumped against the glass, digging my tingling fingers into my pocket and producing a five dollar bill.

"Do you mind waiting here? I can just go up and grab another dollar."

The man stared at the bill, then flicked his eyes back up at me. "Nah, it's okay. The last half a mile is on me."

I kissed my fingers and pressed them against the window. He gave me a crooked smile, and I lurched back to watch as the cab disappeared around the corner.

One of the streetlights above was buzzing quietly, a couple moths flitting in and out of the overhead stream of light. There were still a couple of bottle-blond kids milling around near the stadium, fists clutching scraps of paper or posters or tee-shirts, anything that a pen could be used on. Through my squinted eyes, it looked like one of them had brought a detached toilet seat. I thought about directing them to the club, I really did, just to reward their perseverance, but that would have required more walking than my body was up for. I also needed to pee badly. After having four bottles of orange juice forced down my throat, I was surprised I wasn't pissing standing up.