Prologue
She no longer understood the concept of time.
It was a social construct impressed upon lesser beings in a feeble attempt to bring some semblance of purpose to their constant monotony.
Day in, day out, performing the same series of tasks, in the same order.
No change, no variance, no difference.
Weeks slipped into months, years, decades. Of the same godforsaken thing.
Whether twenty minutes ago or twenty years, it was just that.
The same.
It wasn't for her.
She couldn't commit to this...this slow moving death sentence.
She couldn't be a nameless, faceless cog in this soul-crushing, spirit-murdering Hell Machine.
She wouldn't.
There was too much life, imagination and wonderment within her.
And she refused to let it be killed.
No, she was determined to prove herself.
For five, long, tiresome, restless months, she had toiled.
Up till all hours, for days at a time.
Often with no more than a cup of black coffee to sustain her.
How her mind had worked, in tandem with her hands.
Five months of her short life it had taken, to transform from an idea, a figment from the recesses of her brain, scribbled hastily on the back of an au jus stained napkin into a true, viable reality.
It hadn't been easy—nothing worthwhile ever was.
She'd been sent back to the drawing board more than she was willing to admit.
More times she dared to count.
While her mind was open, liberal, encouraged, his had been narrow, fickle and unbending.
Time and again, she'd yielded to him.
His wants, his demands.
She had to; he was the client and as such, was always right.
The client was always right.
It didn't matter if she had cried endless tears, worked her fingertips until ran red with blood and contemplated flinging herself bodily from the seventeenth floor; she knew it would all be worth the strife, struggle and anguish in the long run.
He was going to make her famous.
She didn't have to show her face, nor utter a sound, as most did in this post-millennium pop surge.
She didn't have to.
He was going to be wearing her all over his body.
Lower Manhattan
Winter, 2003
Smoking was an action which had never come naturally to Lola van der Stepp.
While most people smoked out of habit, driven to it by a combined insatiable need for the indeterminable cocktail of chemicals featuring heavily with nicotine, and often years of movements committed to muscle memory, Lola was not one of these addicts; a vessel which emphysema, lung cancer, COPD and, the like trailed behind as a lone, lecherous specter.
Waiting to claim it's next victim.
Instead, it was sheer nerves, raw, grated nerves, that drove her to reach for that gold cellophane wrapped carton, containing twenty cylinders of carcinogens to set alight whilst dangling from quivering lips.
There she stood in the morning haze, a cloud of greyish-white smoke enveloping her, smelling of artificial vanilla, a vain attempt to keep the less savory additives of that sluggish suicide in stick form at bay.
If Lola cared at all of the probably future implications and complications that could befall her, she gave no indication.
Her mind was occupied with other things.
Other troubles.
Peering from the window, looking out from seventeen stories in the air, the first flush of snowflakes kissing the panes, she should have been mystified by the frothy blanket of opaqueness beginning to blanket all in sight.
Enjoying the one characteristic that announced the coming of the Holiday Season.
Yet, her large, red-brown eyes, in that delicately thin, almost elfin face showed no joy.
Only bitter, soured trepidation.
And had for the last half year.
In many ways, it had been her fault.
She had allowed this.
Encouraged it.
For the the last five years of her meager twenty-five on this here planet, Lola van der Stepp had been an apt pupil at the Manhattan Fashion Institute, slaving away, shoulder to shoulder with countless others, all in hot, fevered pursuit of the same elusive goal: breaking into the guarded, cloistered world known as the fashion business.
It was dream Lola had fixated on since she was old enough to hold a Barbie doll and used construction paper and bits of leftover fabric collected from whom knew where to forge tiny ensembles.
Lola had always been intrigued by fashion, its many incantations and how one could use something as simple as clothing to express themselves, say things even when words failed.
She loved how even the plainest of garments could be used a million different ways
by a million different people without ever becoming stale or repetitious.
From the time Lola was in grade school, she had worked unceasingly towards this end.
Every night as she curled beneath her comforters and quilts, dreams of showing her premiere collection at New York Fashion Week in Bryant Park danced through her head.
She wanted to be the next Versace, Lagerfeld, Galliano.
Lola started small; her foot in the door came in the form of crafting costumes for junior and high school productions by the Drama Club.
It was in these lean years Lola was discovered to have a fine eye for detail and pieces meant for silent extras managed to sing from the wings by her hand.
She exhibited a God-bestowed talent for embellishment and though time consuming,it thrilled her beyond compare to enhance pieces with beads, crystals, mirrors, anything to add texture and interest.
Eventually, little independent acting troupes and improv clubs were clamoring to have her creations for their plays, and comedies.
The costume making provided a lucrative side hustle for Lola, as she funded her college career solely on the backs of these off-Broadway and off-off-Broadway productions.
A feast for the eyes so to speak—or see.
And it was through her unique interpretations of classic stage costumes that Lola van der Stepp came to the attention of Michael Jackson.
Every year, a dozen or so promising students from MFI were selected to display designs to the public.
It may not have been a “true” fashion showcase—there were no lighted runways, no underweight, pubescent models gliding to and fro—but it was exciting nonetheless.
One piece from each burgeoning designer would be shown via a mannequin, more akin to an art instillation in a gallery.
Some griped; Lola was overjoyed.
One piece was all it took to catch the eye of the right person, who had the name, assets and influence to turn a glorified tailor into a sensation overnight.
Why, in the last five years, Lola had seen it happen four times from this very event.
People in her own generation were millionaires with their own brands and success of which she could only have dreamt.
She knew her time was coming, had been for ages.
She could feel it in the very fiber and essence of her being.
Le Exposition de Nouveau Talents as it had been so haughtily dubbed before Lola's own lifetime, took place the last week of May each year, near the end of the spring term.
The Grande Hall, a cavernous space used for any and all types of gatherings was filled to the brim with starry-eyed, bright young things in brighter colors; lower-levels of the glitterati mixed with press sent to cover the event for Human Interest, filler fluff pieces for the local newspapers.
On the third night was when Lola noticed him.
Lola, by nature a severe introvert, but made into the quite the charming conversationalist after a couple of Fuzzy Navels and a Harvey Wallbanger for the Hell of it in her system, had been working the room, striking up a chat with anything bearing lips.
Everyone with a viable pulse in that Hall could have been her stepping stone to fame, fortune, the so-called easy life.
She was turning from the open bar, a second Wallbanger in hand, with the intent of rushing the grey-haired biddy across the room.
The strings of pearls about her sagging throat and the genuine sable stole adorning her drooping shoulders waved to Lola like the beam of a lighthouse to a man drowning amid the choppy surf.
Lola was certain she could talk her way into that battle axe's good graces, when something glinted violently in her peripheral, catching her attention like a magpie and disrupting all her exploitative thought.
In a room filled to the brim with frivolous finery, he stood out, a glimmering God amongst insignificant beings.
All paled in comparison, taking on a sickly pallor when presented against him.
Every other man wore some form of suit or tuxedo as Le Exposition was regarded as a semi-formal affair.
Rules of fashion and etiquette simply did not apply to Michael Jackson.
Michael was tall, close to six feet, his form rather slim and svelte for a member of the rougher sex.
So smooth was his skin, a fair, porcelain, fragile china-white, his age could have been anywhere from thirty to sixty.
He seemed ageless; and androgynous.
His angular, taut visage, showed the very faintest wash of pink in hollowed out cheeks and a luscious, lightly glossed mouth.
Thin stripes of kohl enhanced huge, soulful and hauntingly sad eyes.
His hair, a stark jet, parted down the middle, flicked carelessly back from the face, curled ends sweeping broad shoulders.
His upper half was covered by a jacket of silver leather, inlaid all over with a mosaic of mirrors, that took and threw light so he appeared a human diamond in motion.
Continuing the theme, his lower half was clad in form-fitting, black leather trousers that stopped short, revealing ankles encased in socks so heavy with moonstone cabochons they sagged down onto patent loafers.
Unaware of herself, Lola had stopped, mid-stride, gawking at this man, whose name she had yet to learn, reached into the pocket of the spangled jacket, producing what appeared to be a newspaper clipping.
Judging by its ragged edges, it had been ripped rather than cut out.
He squinted at it earnestly, then was walking, followed closely behind and almost dwarfed by four hulking gents in identical grey suits, earpieces and dark glasses.
He had a security detail like that of President Bush and even more resplendent.
The man bore himself erectly, shoulders thrust back as a young cadet on maneuvers, and moved in a way that suggested he would commence skipping at any moment.
The quintet brushed past Lola, with her pivoting so as not to lose sight of him, her interest piqued, admiring, hungrily consuming his intricate vestments.
Masculine, but with enough feminine additions to touch on the uncommon without appearing outright foppish.
He was different and Lola always had been drawn to the unusual types.
She was an unusual type.
Again, Lola stopped mid-stride, as this wonderfully strange man made a direct beeline for her exhibit.
Of the dozens of costumes she'd constructed over the years, her very favorite rotated gently on a pedestal.
Two years previous, she'd been plucked to make costumes for a revival of The Phantom of the Opera that was so far off Broadway, a person had to go to Hoboken, New Jersey to see it.
Lola had crafted her own vision of The Masque of the Red Death; taking her cue from the 1925 Lon Chaney silent feature, Lola had designed a costume befitting an eighteenth century royal—a three piece suit with an absurdly ruffled cravat, and floor-grazing cloak, rendered in a deep, oxblood velvet.
From there, Lola's love of too much kicked into high gear and every inch of the ensemble was covered in tiny, meticulously applied crystals and pearls including the mask, echoing that of a skull, sparkled at the base of the costume, staring up with empty eye sockets onto all whom looked on.
There was a mild ruckus around her Red Death, and only later did Lola realize desperate inquiries were being made as to whom the designer was.
A shrill voice yawped her name and several fingers were jut in her direction.
The entire bustling Hall seemed to go silent, and recede into nothing but shadows as that man, that sparkling creature, began advancing towards her, the four scrambling after him.
Large, dark eyes focused on her, sharp, arched black brows raising on his pale forehead.
An odd, little spark flashed on his cheek and in an instant was gone, brushed away by an impossibility spindly hand.
A tear...he had brushed a tear from his face.
Was he...was he crying?
Yes...yes he was, as evidenced by how moist his eyes seemed and how another droplet of saltwater trickled over his cheekbone.
Had her work moved him so deeply?
“Lola van der Stepp?”
His voice electrified her, a soft, whispery falsetto that barely cleared his lips.
“Yes?” Her own voice, a true contralto rose two octaves unwittingly.
“You're the one who brought The Masque of the Red Death to life.”
He stated, rather than questioned it.
A muted sniffle escaped his upturned nose.
“Y-yes--”
“How long did it take you and your team to...create...it?”
Now it was her turn to squint.
He truly thought she had a team, someone beneath her?
Lackeys to do her bidding?
She wasn't Versace—not just yet.
“I...I have no team.” She admitted coolly, willing her nerves with a sip of mixed orange juice, vodka and Galliano liquer. “I made that costume...by myself.”
“Ah!” A gasp left that ribbony mouth, an expression of startled awe taking his face.
Her free hand was suddenly eclipsed by his and those lips pecked the back of it.
Such an overblown, gentlemanly gesture, but at this point, she could fathom no other way for him to behave.
“My name...” He was speaking off into her hand, breath warm on her own pale flesh, a note rosier than his.
“...is Michael Jackson.”
“A pleasure--”
She was cut off politely,
“The only reason I'm here, is because of you.”
“Me?” Lola, stunned, absently tried to pull her hand from his, only for his grip to tighten.
“You.”
He stood closer, towering over her.
Invading her personal space in a way that should have offended her, but didn't.
His aroma was sweet, laced with notes of sugary peach, vibrant musk and sedate amber.
Her heart was pounding, thudding so in her ears she could scarcely hear what he said next.
“Most of my clothing is bespoke...one of a kind...” He spoke off into her ear.
“I recently had a parting of ways with my previous designer—a difference of opinion, so to speak.” Michael explained, as if dismissing a personal clothier was an everyday occurrence.
“And I've been searching all over for a replacement. Then I saw a picture of your costume in the paper this morning.”
The rumpled piece of newsprint was shown to her.
A grainy photo, not even in color.
But somehow, he'd seen it, gleaned the particulars from that singular shot.
It was going over Lola's head, over her waved, flaxen locks, but was he asking her--
“Do you know of Saint Ignatius' Children's Hospital in Brooklyn?” Michael questioned, leaning in further, one of the polished mirrors on his jacket scratching her wrist.
“Vaguely...” She heard herself reply, far too busy with inhaling his cologne.
“In November, a new unit will be opening up and I need an outfit to wear to its unveiling. Will that be enough time for you to...create...something for me?”
Had he asked her to douse herself in kerosene and strike a match she'd have likely done it.
“Of course.” She mumbled into his chest, where a peek of long neck gave way to a smooth chest, showing a smattering of black fuzz and the collar of a v-necked white shirt.
Was she hypnotized?
“Splendid!”
For a split second, she saw a dazzling white smile.
Then...he was kissing her.
Michael Jackson was kissing her!
Openly, wantonly, brazenly, before God and all present.
His arm around her waist, mashing her to him harshly.
Almost pushing her through his body.
She had no time for it to truly register what was being done to her.
Caught so off guard, Lola staggered, flailed and Michael was gone.
Flanked by three of the bodyguards, he was ushered away.
The fourth remained, clutching Lola's cocktail—so that was why it hadn't shattered on the floor.
Witnesses nearby were observing light fixtures, floor tiles, shoe laces, everything but her.
Scandalized, Lola clawed at her throat and squeaked,
“What in the Hell was that?”
Nonchalantly, as though nothing were amiss, the guard informed her, handing her drink back,
“That was Michael Jackson. One of the wealthiest men in New York and one of the greatest humanitarians in the country.”
When a thin brow raised, indicating she knew no more then than before, he elaborated,
“You know that wing on the kid's hospital he mentioned?”
“Yeah--”
“He built that. It's The Michael Jackson Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. It's going to be able to assist over seven hundred infants and mothers at any given time. He's not just going to the unveiling—it's a shindig being held in his honor. And he wants you to dress him.
The guard came up with a small notepad and stub of a pencil.
“Here, write down your address. Mr. Jackson is going to send around one of his cars to pick you up in the morning, so you can start work designing his outfit.”
He couldn't just commandeer her like that; she did have other things in life to attend to, besides him, even if he was well-monied.
She wasn't and had quite a few responsibilities staring her down at all times.
Scribbling, Lola started to bellyache,
“Hey, I do have class tomorr--”
“No, you don't.” The guard glanced at the chicken scratch. “I just told you, Mr. Jackson is a big wheel in this city. Hell, in this hemisphere. He's already spoken to your professors, your administrators, everyone concerned with your education right now. And it's 'understood' you will be on break until his outfit is completed.”
Lola stared up at this brick building of a man, with burnished red hair to match, the room and its occupants swirling around her.
She was...on break?
How? She'd signed up for a summer course less than a month ago.
And now...she wasn't required to go?
Michael Jackson had made it 'understood' by her overlords?
Her mind couldn't seem to comprehend the concept, and throbbed within the confines of her skull.
Before he'd even met her, set eyes on her, Michael Jackson had taken charge of and done away with the business of what surely would have been a headache if she'd missed her classes and assignments to work for him.
And with the way some of her instructors were so temperamental, as artsy types so stereotypically were, something as slight as a change in the way the wind blew could reduce them to childish fits, it astounded her that Michael had sweet-talked them.
(Or perhaps painted their palms green.)
Michael Jackson certainly knew what he wanted and how to get them.
Lola was both flattered and frightened by a man who didn't weigh much but could sling said weight around just the same.
Doors didn't close on Michael Jackson; when they did, he used a greenback covered wrecking ball to tear a hole in the wall to get anywhere he aimed to be.
Was 'no' even in his lexicon?
Had he heard it before, and if so, was it ever heeded, or flagrantly ignored?
Already he'd shown that such trivial things as guidelines, rules and such were not barriers to stop himself, but humps to overcome.
Step his long feet past without so much as a scuff to be seen on his pristine loafers.
The guard bid Lola a good night and ambled away, disappearing into the crowd after his charge.
Lola stared after him, a cold sweat springing up all over her.
Haunting thoughts entering her fevered mind:
Did Michael Jackson hire her solely for her garment-creating talent...
Or more?
She touched her lips, still tingling from his kiss.
And summarily downed the rest of her Wallbanger in a single, throat burning gulp.
The following morning, Lola stood, the only occupant of the elevator, eyes trained on the illuminated numbers above the door, counting down her descent from the seventeenth floor to the first.
A half-consumed, smoldering pink cigarette dangling from her mouth, a testament to her trepidation.
Lola had never considered herself a chain smoker; a single pack of those pink tubes of tobacco and mystery chemicals usually lasted her well over a year, as she only took to lighting up in the face of arduous projects or midterm and final exams.
This was different.
Everything was different.
Lola had sat up all the night, never removing the dress she'd worn, only pausing to kick her pumps off as she had come through the door.
Take out the thirty or so bobby pins that had kept her tasteful French roll in place.
Opened the drawer on the side table next to her recliner, removed the small box containing the cigarettes and a crystal lighter...and lit up.
Her mind adrift, trying to make sense, if there was any sense to be made, of her meeting with this Michael Jackson.
Though she had never set eyes on the man himself before that very night, she was familiar with his name.
Not exactly Michael Jackson, per se, but his surname.
Jackson.
As she had traveled about the City and outlying areas, working, she had seen that name repeated.
Everywhere.
Jackson Plaza, Jackson Square, Jackson Park.
Once she'd driven a needle, thread and all, through her thumb whilst sewing on a shitty Singer after class in a haste to complete a project and had sprinted down to the Jackson Free Clinic to have it removed and two stitches put in.
She had been treated in a facility that, if not outright owned by the Jackson Family(?), had been funded by them.
Michael was indeed a 'big wheel' as his guard had put it.
By the looks of it he, or at least his kin, owned much of New York and were constantly building up around it.
If he were in real estate as Lola guessed, his wealth had to have been a well that never ran dry as property values stayed on the upgrade.
Michael Jackson stayed on her mind, danced in the rings of smoke she blew into the air.
His strange behavior towards her.
First crying, then kissing her.
Especially the kiss.
People didn't go around nearly Frenching people they'd just met and had it been anyone else, Lola would have bloodied her knuckles punching them for such an indiscretion.
Yet, as it had come from Michael... the action was somehow overlooked.
Alright to her.
Lacked the nefariousness of kisses from other men whom she'd had no trouble with slapping, punching, or kicking to extract herself from.
This worried her; she couldn't figure what had compelled her to allow it--
Her thoughts were interrupted around five a.m., by her house phone commencing to jangling off the hook.
Stumbling about, as that second Wallbanger indeed had her banging into walls, tables and chairs she'd answered the call, voice slightly slurred and throaty,
“...Hhhhhhhello?”
On the other end, she recognized the voice of Michael Jackson's ginger body guard as he informed her,
“Mr. Jackson requests you be ready for pick up at eight o'clock.”
That was it.
No hello back, no good morning.
Not even a laid-back hey.
Only the order, and a click.
And there she was, in that elevator, smoke wafting from her mouth, a leather-bound portfolio clutched to her chest.
The bell signifying she'd reached the first floor chimed, with the doors sliding open to reveal the modest lobby of the Widmark, her home for the last three years, with its sickly yellow walls and heavy dark furniture littering the lobby on brighter woven rugs.
It was a pretentious slice of a building that liked to pretend it was something on par with the high rises of Park Slope or Brooklyn Heights, when really it was only a few cursory steps above being a tenement.
Lola stayed because the rent was fixed, while the rent of other buildings soared into the stratosphere, and gentrification made the area a bit safer to live and thrive.
The lone doorman, perched on a stool near the revolving door, sat asleep, the sports page from yesterday's paper in his lap.
There were dead bodies that got less rest than Hal and in all her time living there, Lola couldn't ever recall seeing him awake; or even the irises of his eyes.
If it weren't for his large, hairy belly, spilling out from beneath the hem of his navy jacket, trimmed with brass buttons, it's fat quivering now and again, she'd have taken him for a dead body, too.
Through the door Lola stepped—with the way Hal was imitating a buzz saw, any Tom, Dick, Harry or Dahmer could have accessed the building—and idled on the granite steps.
Already the sidewalk was crowded, as throngs of people, of all ages, races, and economic points rushed hither and to, Lola glanced at the digital face of her black Baby G watch, seeing the time as five minutes to eight.
At the same time, Lola became acutely aware of a change in the air around her.
Seconds before, people had been rushing.
Suddenly, in something of a wave, people were slowing, coming to a stop.
Staring, a few laughed, other cursed in their native tongues, a sense of surprise gripping all.
Rising up on tiptoe, Lola saw what all the hubbub was about.
Moving easily down the packed road, filled with every type of modern vehicle from slick H1 Hummers to battered clunkers that had seen their prime while Carter was still in office decades earlier, a true classic stood apart from the rest.
Shimmering incandescent white, a vintage limousine was was cutting across lanes, aiming for the curb.
The curb in front of Lola van der Stepp.
Getting closer, Lola could make out the interlinked double R of the Rolls Royce automakers and sunlight danced off the opaque glass of the hood ornament, depicting a bare-chested woman in flight.
Around her, necks were craning, eyes widening to stare at the unassuming woman in the purple velveteen sweatsuit, what little color left in her pale cheeks draining away.
The cigarette falling from her mouth.
No way...that chariot couldn't have been sent for her.
No way Michael Jackson sent a Rolls Royce!
And yet, as she glanced at the vanity plate mounted at the base of the polished, mirror-like grille, it read: JACKSON.
A second later, the driver's door opened, the ginger bodyguard circling the front.
Holding open the back door for her.
Awestruck, Lola didn't so much walk as she floated off into the vehicle, settling into the all white leather interior.
A Rolls Royce! Lola had never come closer to one those rolling status symbols than watching the opening credits to reruns of Miami Vice and now, here she was, sitting in one!
As the car slickly merged back into traffic, the guard spoke up,
“Please open the box near your feet, Miss van der Stepp.”
Lola had been so busy taking in the lead crystal decanter set, embossed with Michael's initials and the fine,aged liquors they held, built into the side of the limousine opposite her, how his initials were stitched into the seats with silver threading, embossed on the sunroof, she hadn't noticed the present by her right foot.
The box was the only thing in the limousine that didn't bear an MJJ.
It was about the size of a cereal box, wrapped in shiny black paper, topped off by a silver bow.
This was getting out of hand, her own shaking as she lifted the box and found the lid was easily removed.
Michael...he was spoiling her.
“Oh!” She gasped, finding a small mobile phone, of a make she didn't recognize, setting in the box along with a charging cord.
The phone, like all else associated with Michael Jackson was ostentatious for no reason; it was a pale coral covered in matching, twinkling crystals.
Outside of Paris Hilton, Lola had never seen a phone with so much 'bling' to it.
These weren't just any rhinestones...Lola knew by the weight and how well they twinkled the phone was encased in costly Swarovski crystals.
The crystals may have cost more than the device they were decorating.
“Mr. Jackson requests you keep that phone with you, on and charged at all times.”
The guard instructed, never looking from the road as he merged onto the highway, speed increasing.
“I...I already have a phone...at home.” Lola whimpered, those dark thoughts of uncertainty and her boss' true intentions creeping up on her.
Chasing her joy away.
“I don't need—”
“You work for Mr. Jackson now.” Came the dry, knowing reply. “You have to be available at any moment he needs you. A cell phone is a necessity.”
Taking a hand off the wheel, he felt about himself and came up with a matte silver flip phone.
“You're his bodyguard, he needs you more than me. I'm just his...his clothier!” She spat out at the absurdity of such a notion of having to be on-call indefinitely.
“You protect his body; I'm only dressing it— for one event!”
“It doesn't matter what your role is. Mr. Jackson likes to be able to get hold of any of his staff at his leisure. He doesn't like to wait. He was born two weeks early and hasn't had patience for anything since.”
Falling back into the cushions, Lola put a hand to her forehead.
A migraine was on the horizon, she could feel it.
Just what had she gotten herself into?
Working for a man who didn't seem to believe anyone on his payroll was entitled to their free time?
Lola was inseparable from Michael Jackson.
The affluent enclave of Loggins, New York was a two hour drive from the City, where skyscrapers melted into soaring pines, as the further out they got, the more rural the thoroughfare became.
Passing the sign welcoming them into the community, it seemed homes were few and far between, but it was quite evident to Lola that Loggins was one of those fabled landscapes where the rich clustered and were conspicuous together.
Each home, in the middle of lush, multi-acre plots were castles onto themselves, grand, red brick showplaces in styles touching on Victorian, Tudor, and Jacobean.
Luxury vehicles were displayed outside, rolling back and forth the further Lola and Red went.
(She discovered his name when his phone rang and he answered it as “This is Red.” It was Mr. Jackson inquiring to their whereabouts—who else could it have been?)
Hummers, Lamborghinis, Aston Martins, and pricey boy toys which Lola had no idea what they were, but mattered to those who could afford them.
Michael Jackson's estate, called Xanadu, as indicated by the twenty-one karat gold plated arch spreading over the gate comprised of wrought iron and more of that gold plate, a fact pointed out to her by Red, as the gate swung on their approach as operated by another grim faced guard in grey.
One different from Red and the other three she had seen the night previous.
“Red...”Lola started timidly, “...why does Mr. Jackson have so many body guards?”
A drowsy blue eye peeked back at her as he glanced over his shoulder.
“Wealthy people generally have them, as they make great moving targets to snatch up for a tidy ransom. Not two months ago, some dipshit tried to kidnap one of Mr. Jackson's sisters. Didn't make it a good three steps before he had seven guys on his ass, one tasering him so he lit up like Las Vegas at Christmas. Miss Jackson wasn't even hurt, beyond a bruise on her wrist. Fool's in lockup now. Facing a list of charges a mile long. They're going to throw the book at that idiot. They always do.”
They were cruising up a long, bricked lane, going past what appeared English gardens littered with delicate white lattice gazebos holding meringues of wicker furniture.
Lola's mind boggled; she doubted she wasn't worth more than maybe a grand if she were to be snatched and held until her parents could pay her freedom.
And it was the last thing Red had said—they always do—that indicated this wasn't a one time occurrence either.
“Just...how rich is Michael Jackson?”
“It's up there. His family is rolling in it. I'd say nine or ten figures. At least.”
Lola could feel her eyes expanding in her skull.
If Red was serious, and he didn't seem the type to joke around, then that meant Michael—or at least his family—were worth somewhere in the high millions or low billions.
No wonder he was able to make things disappear.
He could afford to perform magic that could make Harry Houdini and his entire generation jealous.
And she was going to work for this man.
And he seemed to have taken an immediate shine to her.
Stars appeared in Lola's eyes, with it finally coming to her what such a lofty association could do for her and her brand that was so fledgling, it was on life support with a priest administering Last Rites.
Michael Jackson was somebody.
A huge somebody in the New York jet set and probably worldwide.
He moved in different circles that she couldn't imagine and once her name came out of his mouth to more of the right people...
Lola hugged herself in rapture.
By this time next year, she could be preparing for her fashion week debut.
Perhaps she wouldn't start at New York Fashion week, but the granddaddy of them all: Paris Fashion Week!
Somewhere down the line, five or six generations back, someone had been French.
A many-times removed distant bastard cousin.
She could be the next Coco Cha--
Lola's thin brows rose in sudden questioning as the limo came to a dead stop in the middle of the stretch.
A man, looking very much like television zoologist, Steve Irwin, right down to the khaki shorts, was crossing the path on foot, but it wasn't the Australian lookalike that had Lola wondering if she'd lost her mind somewhere in the last half-mile.
It was the animal the trainer was leading by a thin silver chain.
A fully grown, female giraffe.
(Lola assumed it was female by the pink collar looping its long neck.)
Michael Jackson had a giraffe?
As a pet?
“I can tell by your face you're shocked.” Red snickered the obvious throwing the car back into drive. “Mr. Jackson sets a lot of store by animals, has since he was a little boy. In the rear of the property, he has a sanctuary for former circus animals. Rehabilitates the ones he can and if not cares for the others until ...the end. You'll see all sorts of animals being walked: giraffes, lions, tigers, bears...”
“Oh my!”
Lola was speechless.
And remained so as the main house came into view.
A mansion of red masonry and white veined marble in the Colonial style rambled up for three stories, and outwards, presenting a massive, beautifully symmetrical front to the world—that had been permitted beyond the front gate, that is.
In a small circular plot of land a bush had been painstaking trimmed into a script version of the letter M.
Coming to a halt outside the shut, leaded glass doors, Red was on his phone again.
“Mr. Jackson—Red. The Dove Has Landed.”
Lola's turned from the house running parallel to the Rolls and stared at the closeiy cropped locks on the back of the guard's head as he nodded to something being said.
He had to announce her arrival, in code?
Lola almost thought Michael paranoid, and had to remind herself that his own sister was almost been abducted.
He had every right to be paranoid.
Was she, herself, in danger?
Her blood pressure spiked.
“Yes Sir...and where do you—your office? Right away, Sir.”
Quickly, Lola was pulled from the backseat, a powerful hand on her wrist, swiftly being led to and through the front doors.
With Red closing and locking them immediately after her.
Again he was on his phone.
“Max, are you watching Mr. Jackson?”
Pivoting, Lola was taking in the small vestibule, another set of doors opposite the ones she'd just come through, all swathed in deep green, polished marble.
It was lovely, featuring thick veins of white throughout.
How much had been spent to import and erect such an entry?
“Oh, he's got you watching Foofy? Ted's got Mr. Jackson today?Well, where's Hiram? Oh...yeah...”
Lola squinted at him and turned to inquire as to what exactly in the flaming hell a Foofy was, when her attention was drawn up onto the wall behind Red.
A portrait of the master of the maison.
Michael Jackson reclined on a swatch of green crushed velvet.
Stark naked as the day he'd be been born.
The only thing keeping from showing all of his bits and pieces was the fact he held a black fedora, covered in twinkling jet bugle beads, over his groin, where, faintly above the brim and just below his belly button, a dark haze was noticeable against his impossibly white, flawless dermis.
The photograph was arresting and Lola's breath left her as she stared over his body, slender, yet toned.
Soft, yet strong.
Fragile, yet solid.
His dark eyes seemed to look into her soul from above.
Why did he look as though he knew all of her secrets?
“Come
on...”
Red was guiding her away, staggering.
She continued to stare back at the revealing portrait of her boss until it left her field of vision as she was led into the front foyer.
Taken swiftly, Lola was afforded mere glimpses of the sheer opulence around her..
Inlaid wood, imported marble, Louis XV furniture upholstered in fabrics Lola had only dreamt of laying hands on.
Paintings, displaying scenes of Versailles, mixed with more portraits of Michael Jackson and what appeared to be his family were strewn about.
Royalty seemed the theme and had been run rampant all over the house.
A music room boasted an ebony grand piano, an unlit silver candelabra on the top of it, a small card declaring I wish my brother, George were here.
Lola, a casual fan of late pianist Liberace, moreso for his flamboyant costuming and styling than the music he played, smiled understanding the joke of the card.
Yes, it made perfect sense that Michael Jackson would be a fan of Lib--
There was a photo of Michael Jackson posed with Liberace and Liberace's partner, all wearing full-length fur coats whilst riding in a horse drawn carriage.
Lola squinted, wondering.
Was...Was Michael--
No.
A very small framed photo showed Michael at the altar with a stunning brunette, a priest blessing them, himself in a white sequinned tuxedo, his bride in an even more elaborate lace and organza gown.
The marriage certificate showed his wedding date as May 9, 1992.
And beside it, larger, was a framed divorce decree, separating Michael from a woman named Oksana, was dated four years later.
Larger was a snap of Michael clearly celebrating the divorce, drinking directly from a magnum of champagne, standing atop a table, several beautiful women dancing around behind him.
Lola was led past a grand stair, of pinkish marble, and down a labyrinth of a hall, past more portraits of Michael, most consisting of him in the company of large game animals, likely his circus rescues.
He held pythons, anacondas, chimpanzees, orangutans, baby goats, bear cubs and...was that him cradling a white tiger cub accompanied by famed magicians Siegfried and Roy?
Lola felt drunk without having had a sip since the night before.
This man...his life...
Turning a corner, Michael's voice, muffled, reached her ears.
“...have you gotten your legal team together? Are they on this...Latoya...”
They were coming to pair of doors, one ajar, a gold plate to the side inscribed,
Michael Joseph Jackson, Esquire.
So that was what the extra J in his initials stood for.
Michael's voice, quite acidic, was plainer and easier to hear from right outside the doors.
“Are you kidding me?...let that damn fool try to sue you! He's got more nerve than a fox in a hen house trying to sue you cause he got tasered! Lucky his ass didn't get shot—my guards carry .357 magnums on them! Fully loaded and cocked at all times!That bastard picked you up to carry you away to do only God knows what to you—I don't care. You're my sister! Furthermore, you're a woman! That creep shouldn't have put his hands on you to start with! No judge in their right mind would award him shit! Need to be telling him to get the hell up out their courtroom, wasting taxpayer's dollars! The nerve! The absolute goddamn gall—YOU sue HIM!”
At the mention of the gun, Lola looked to Red, whom had leaned forward, face in the crack, watching his superior.
His open suit jacket revealing the holster on his hip, a blue steel pistol visible.
Her blood surged; he was strapped.
Hand moving up from her wrist to her bicep, Lola was again tugged.
And found herself on a small balcony, a curling staircase leading down into an office that seemed to have merged with a library and had a baby; all four of the walls were dedicated to shelves filled end to end with more tomes than Lola had seen in most bookstores.
Those nearest her bore titles in French, German and Portuguese, showing that Michael Jackson spoke, or at the very least understood, four different languages.
Perhaps more.
He seemed more myth than man at this point.
Polished hard wood gleamed from the shelves and the flooring.
Beneath her, Michael Jackson paced shortly, white crystal phone mashed through his hair to his ear.
She and Red paused at the last step, Michael continuing to wander about aimlessly over a Persian rug of muted floral design and past the sizable oak desk, overflowing with small knickknacks and what appeared a menagerie of Faberge eggs, sparkling with precious and semi-precious gems.
Randomly, marble, bronze and pewter statuettes had been placed, adding a laid back, albeit formal air to the room.
“...you have to be more careful, Latoya...”
He warned solemnly, hand falling to a gold egg seemingly studded with sapphires.
It was probably worth more than Lola's entire apartment block...and he it was, just a toy to admire in his long hand.
“Keep your security close. I know its a pain in the ass at times but...” He sighed loudly. “...this is our life. We have to protect ourselves. I want you safe, Sis...we all want you safe.”
Sensing he was no longer alone, Michael spun.
Sharp brows rose in surprise; dark eyes that had been hard and turbulent, softened and took on a pleasant glow at the sight of the figure in the purple sweats.
“Latoya, I have to go...my new designer just arrived. I'll see you Sunday at Mother's for dinner. I love you, more...”
The phone was flipped shut, tossed off onto the desk.
His new designer. Michael was calling her his designer.
So casually, so normally.
Was this real life?
Or was she dreaming?
No one dare pinch her.
“Lola...” He was coming forward with arms opened, any hint of his unsettling from the emerging legal nightmare surrounding his sibling covered by a saccharine grin. His voice, a polite falsetto.
“Welcome to Xanadu!”
He wore a cherry-red satin blazer over a white shirt, studded with lines of crystal and black trousers, cut as the ones the day before had, at the ankle showing white socks and red slippers with his initials embroidered in silk thread.
On the lapel, a crown brooch made of platinum and rubies shimmered.
His arms wrapped her diminutive form, drawing her against him tightly.
Possessively.
Mashing her portfolio betwixt them.
His cologne, a whisper on the skin at that Exposition, fairly shouted off him, a spicy, peppery scent, punctuated by the moist freshness of pear.
“You...you have a lovely home--”
Lola didn't get to finish her compliment as Michael's mouth found hers, pressing hard and hotly, warm and tasting of citrus.
Orange juice. He must have drank orange juice—or a mimosa—that morning.
Her portfolio fell to the floor and landed haphazardly on its side overlapping one of his slippers.
Stars danced before her eyes and chills were doing the mambo along her spine.
How...how he could kiss!
“My little designer...” He intoned speaking into her sagging mouth of shock, and trailed off, leaning back to gaze over her again, his pink mouth, once curling with delight was falling back into a grim line, almost evaporating from his face entirely.
Holding her at arm's length with her still loitering on the bottom step, doe-like eyes drifted over her.
“I...I don't like this...”
He announced, waving a hand over her.
Lola had been smiling back at him and her mouth formed a second pink line of apprehension.
“My....you don't like...” She stammered, unsure if she were hearing him correctly.
This was the man whom had cried tears at the sight of one of her creations and now, he was showing disdain for it's creator?
When he'd basically commandeered her from her daily life, her daily routine...
It didn't make sense.
“No, no I don't.”Michael was direct, shaking his head until his lush locks flew, bridge of his nose crinkling. “You don't look like a couture designer to me. In a plain, little violet sweatsuit with--”
Grabbing her shoulders, he turned her slightly, to peek behind her.
“--with Baby Phat written across your ass! I don't like this...this trend of showing off labels this way. Turning people into walking billboards with none of the benefits. You've paid to advertise for them. Not them paying you! Come here!”
Hand on the back of her neck, Michael led a still blathering Lola van der Stepp after him, with the young woman looking back to Red, still on the stairs, staring off into the distance with a studiedly blank expression.
Paying no mind to the scene unfolding.
Onside of his desk, Michael pressed at one of the wooden panels flanking either side of it, and it spun on a mechanism, revealing a hidden mirror that ran from floor to ceiling.
“Tell me Lola...is this your personal style?” He inquired and without waiting a reply spoke to her reflection.
“You have so much potential. You strike me as some kind of ethereal nymph, with your pale skin, warm brown eyes, the thick, platinum hair. Even your freckles. No makeup, but you don't really need it. It'd just be gilding the lily...A bit of eyeliner, maybe a touch of gloss...”
A cool fingertip grazed her cheek,
“You're quite tall, almost built like a model yourself. Very slim, no breasts--”
“Hey!” Lola cried, offended, as she was proud of the solid B-Cup God had seen, in his infinite wisdom to dole out to her, staring daggers at Michael in return.
None of her previous beaus had complained.
Was Michael her beau? Her boss?
So blurred was the line, she no longer had any idea.
“You don't look like a designer.” Michael repeated, quipping, “The girl I met last night looked like a designer. In a diaphanous blue dress, her hair in that elegant twist, not hanging about like wilted straw--”
“The girl you met last night saved up for two months by eating nothing but Top Ramen, apples and crushed ice to afford the fabric to make that dress and go to a salon to be made up just right for Le Exposition de Nouveau Talents .” Lola's grip on her temper, which had been flaring, was turning into an inferno and her jaw came unhinged,
“I understand you're rich and want for nothing and likely haven't since you were born with a silver spoon jammed down your throat, but I have to work, Mr. Jackson. Work and scrimp and save for things. Yes, creating costumes for stage plays affords me my home and schooling but not much else. It'd be one thing if I were outfitting the big-name Broadway shows like Cats or Annie or Fiddler on the Roof, but I'm not! I'm doing off-Broadway productions, and some so far off you have to leave town completely just to find them! I work them anyway because it's money in my pocket and that means I can pay my bills and tuition and if there's anything left, I buy food. I came here to work, Mr. Jackson! You want an outfit for your hospital dedication; I'm here. And regardless of if I'm wearing a tracksuit or a ballgown, it doesn't affect my talent or capabilities!”
Her hands went up towards the quiet, milky-complexioned man listening to her intently.
Something of a bemused smirk on his angular face.
How she wanted to slap him until he twirled.
“These
hands are the same ones that brought a tear out your eye over The
Masque of the Red Death, and they'll make you an ensemble—no
matter what I look like!”
Chest heaving, and clenched fists
rattling at her sides, Lola van der Stepp hung her head, raw all over
and bracing for Michael Jackson to commence a screaming fit, fire her
and have her drop kicked from the property for daring speak to him in
such a disrespectful manner.
It was him that had to wear the clothes, not her; how she dressed to work shouldn't have mattered.
She needed him; he didn't need her and she'd probably talked herself out of the greatest gig of her natural life.
She'd just leap off the top of the Empire State Building in the morning...
Or stand there, and weep like a fool as she overlooked the City with no true intent to splatter herself onto some poor passerby on the sidewalk below, then drag herself home and wait for the next hole-in-the-wall production with wannabe, no-name actors to come calling.
She had done it so many times before.
Michael Jackson never screamed, never shouted, never ranted.
Only caressed her shoulders through her hoodie for a moment longer, his hands slowly slipping away.
“If...if you could afford to dress as you like...with no restraints what would you wear? What are you influences?”
His hands lifted and dropped Lola shrugging, meeting his gaze in the reflection,
“I...I don't know. I've always kind of liked the hippie, bohemian style. Flowy dresses, things of that sort. Maybe with a bit of the hair like Brigitte Bardot.”
“You did give off that aura a bit last night...it would go well with your artistic talent and occupation...” Michael agreed, giving her shoulders a final squeeze.
Lola was quiet, holding her breath as Michael retreated to his desk, opening a top drawer.
He returned, an ledger bound in eel skin in one hand, a solid gold fountain pen in the other, both extended to her.
“Please...” He begged. “...detail all of your expenses here. Your rent, tuition, bills, everything...for me.”
Something in the way his voice strained, the way his eyes seemed so on the verge of those tears, although they didn't fall, forced Lola into submission.
Forged obedience from her.
The only sound in the room was of the pen, scratching across the unlined page that had been opened to her.
Reluctantly Lola returned the items to Michael, his lashes fluttering as he perused her list.
“...is that all?” He murmured more to himself than to trembling guest, employee.
The sheet with ripped loose with him calling,
“Red?”
The guard, whom had begun to lean against the curling banister, snapped to attention and was making haste.
“Yes, Sir?”
Passing the paper to him, Michael's mouth opened.
And what he said caused Lola to sink to the rug, hands to her mouth.
“Have my accountant make this go away. And stop him before he mails out the first check for Miss van der Stepp. Tell him to send me cash. I want it by the time she has to go back home this evening.”
“Anything you say, Mr. Jackson.”
“Thank you.”
Red was a ginger blur and gone, jogging away up the stairs.
Lola sat on the floor, in utter disbelief.
Go away....he'd made all her debts, her bills, go away.
That quickly. Had she blinked, she'd have missed it.
The high-backed chair, cushioned in a dark gold damask was pulled back, Michael seating himself, as a king upon a gilt throne.
“Lola.”
He was pointing out one of the two quilted chairs opposite his desk for her.
Climbing to her feet, Lola made her way to the chair but stood behind it, hands clutching the back of it.
Staring saucer-eyed at Michael.
Trying her best to understand him.
His ways...his intentions...
“In a few months I'll be attending the dedication of the Neonatal....”
Seeing she continued to stand, he gave a single flick of his finger, ordering,
“Sit!”
Instantly she was in the chair, hands wringing in her lap.
“...I'm
in desperate need of an outfit for the gala being thrown and I only
hope I've given you enough time to construct something for me on such
short notice...”
Half a year was short notice to him?
“I have a few basic colors I like to stay within: red, black, white, gold, and silver. I do like other colors, but those are the ones I feel look the best on me. I've gravitated towards them since I was a teen in bellbottoms--”
“Am I supposed to be your girlfriend?”
The question had flown out of Lola's mouth before she could stop herself or was even conscious of the fact she was making noise in the first place.
Her lips pressed together far too late.
And across the desk, the unmistakable look of aggravation crossed his face.
Rouged cheeks reddened further, lined eyes blinked once and fixated on her, flames showing in them.
His pinky mouth was held open, revealing the bottom row of his white teeth, sneering
Voice losing a good three octaves, his brows flexed as he advised through his teeth.
“Do NOT interrupt me.”
“...I'm sorry...” Lola felt actual shame, and didn't quite know why.
There were ten mild pops as Michael cracked each knuckle on his hands,
“No,
you are not my girlfriend, Lola.”
Taken aback, hand to
her flat bosom she gasped,
“But...but, Mr. Jackson! You just sent Red to make my debts 'go away'! You paid for everything! You....you brought me here in a Rolls Royce! And then the cell phone...”
Michael was up, circling his desk to her.
Slippered feet spread apart so that he stood over her knees, leaning over her.
Breaths rustling her white hair as he spoke into the top of her head.
“Yes?”
His voice lifted, indicating the word was spoken as a question, not a statement.
A glance upwards found those eyes burning into her and she shifted uncomfortably, realizing she could not escape him, lest she knock him over physically.
While wiry, he was still a man and could overpower her easily.
“Do...do I have to have sex with you?”
Nerves kept her mouth flapping when she preferred to keep it shut, airing her worries.
Rich, older men didn't just take on younger women—and their debts—without expecting some type of reparations in return.
She wasn't an idiot.
Lola was unaware of it, but she had commenced trembling all over.
Voice squeaking as a mouse being stepped on.
Michael Jackson's breathing intensified, her hair swaying as he leaned further over her.
Every hair on her stood when he spoke off into her ear, luridly,
“If I recall correctly, I found you at a fashion show, and not standing on a street corner in one of the seedier parts of New York City...”
He was squeezing her shoulder to the point she winced.
“...so no, I do not expect to be fucked for my money.”
Michael loosened his hand a bit but continued to physically assert his dominance without letting go.
“I eliminated your financial woes so that your mind would be uncluttered and you could fully devote yourself to creating for me. I see the promise in you, Lola. Saw it when I saw your Red Death costume. You have real, true talent, and I want to cultivate it. Make use of it--”
He was clutching her face, smothering her with another kiss.
Wiggling as a fish out of water, she grabbed his wrists, wrenching his hands away,
nearly shouting,
“Why do you keep doing that?”
If he had no interest in her whatsoever, then why did he continue to kiss her like they were on a sinking ship?
Shrugging, Michael Jackson winked at her boyishly, and with the back of his hand he tapped her left breast through her jacket.
“You have very beautiful lips. They remind me of this silent film star, Mae Murray...The Girl with the Bee-Stung Lips...Perfect little pout on you.”
Seemingly,a switch flipped in Michael Jackson, and as he settled back into his chair, he picked up his soliloquy where he'd left off.
“...I'd like a leather jacket, perhaps a leather suit, with some of that intricate beadwork or crystals. You seem very skilled at beading. I'm wanting it in black or a dark grey, like pewter, maybe metallic. You don't have to worry about fabric. I have access to any type of fabric you'd want or need. And if it can't be found, I'll have it made. This is why I had to dismiss my previous designer. He insisted on sourcing fabric himself and I allowed him. I wanted a satin suit to wear to a New Year's party one of my brothers were holding. We decided on a shade of gold and I gave him the money to buy the fabric. Fabric arrives and I look at it, it's not satin. Wasn't even sateen. I don't know what the hell it was supposed to be, but tens of thousands had been spent on a cheap ass imitation fabric that wasn't fit for my animals to take a dump on, much less for me to wear. Clearly, he'd taken me for a ride, so I rode him, with my fists and feet. It took three of my guards to get me off him, I was so pissed...Yes, I have money and don't mind spending it—but it burns me up something awful, if it's wasted.”
Another drawer was opened and following a bit of rifling without locating what it was he sought, he groaned to himself, “Damn.”
On the littered desktop, a small box with a speaker was placed; Michael pressing a button, spoke.
And outside the room, through the house, his amplified voice reverberated,
“TJ! Go into my suite and get the folder off the nightstand for me, please! I'm in my office!”
Head turning he trained his gaze on the door, Lola pointed out her portfolio where it laid on the floor.
“I have more examples of my work...I can show you...”
There was that sneer again with him talking through his pearly whites at her, still watching the door.
“I
want you to see MY style.”
That shut her up.
A few moments passed without a word and growing impatient, Michael slapped the box.
“TJ? TJ! My folder! NOW!”
Overhead the doors opened, a man coming onto the balcony, scowling down.
Lola van der Stepp did a double take, lids flapping.
The man lingering, was the first she'd seen who wasn't dressed like a member of the Jackson Secret Service.
Instead of a standard issue grey suit, he wore goldenrod silk dress shirt tucked into deep grey trousers.
Coming down the stairs, Lola saw a snakeskin belt cinched his waist, matching the oxfords on his feed.
He actually stepped over her fallen portfolio crossing to Michael.
“Is this it?” The man asked, in a voice similar to Michael's, soft, but a touch deeper.
Lola found herself staring at him, leaning over Michael's shoulder, the two conversing in whispers to one another.
“...it says Portfolio doesn't it? You knucklehead...”
“...your bedroom is a cluttered trash heap...”
“...shut up, yours is a goddamned landfill, the poor maids...”
Lola frowned, confused.
The man, close in age to herself, resembled Michael to the point it was startling.
Were...were they related?
TJ...that was his name, right....was of a deeper, mocha complexion, nose a trifle wider, the same with his lips, but she could see Michael in his face.
The taut features, high cheekbones, sharp chin, long neck.
His eyebrows were arched but heavier, broader across his smooth forehead.
TJ was also slim but muscles were easily seen on him. He was no stranger to a gym, that was assured.
“... I can read! Thank God it's not written in those hieroglyphics you call handwriting...”
“...you keep on I'm going to kick your ass so hard, sparks will fly from my kneecaps...”
No...they weren't communicating with the formality, Lola had witnessed between Michael Jackson and his staff.
There was a laxity, a familiarity between the two.
Was...was TJ...Michael Jackson's son?
No...Lola studied TJ further, one hand down on the portfolio, the other scratching at his hair, a wild coiled mass springing from his crown.
His complexion was far too rich for Oksana to have been his mother...also he was much older than the ten or eleven years old he'd have been if he were born during the marriage.
If he were indeed near her age, he had to have been born sometime around the end of the 1970s.
Had he been born from a different union? Illegitimate?
Michael's features were too obvious to ignore--
“...you know you're to come as soon as I call you, TJ...”
“...I wasn't in the house Uncle Michael, I was out back in the habitat looking at the baby goats...”
“...Why...?”
“...cause I want one as a pet...”
“Nonsense, you already have a dog...”
“...I can have a baby goat too...”
“...No--”
“...You have over fifty animals here at any given time--”
“...this is MY house. When you have your own place, you can build your OWN animal sanctuary...”
“...you know full well why I'm here; cause of what happened to Auntie Toy...”
Uncle Michael? Her other brow joined the first having a powwow at her hairline.
So, TJ was Michael's nephew, not his son.
The kid was not his son.
“...I
wasn't about to leave you at NYU, and with your father and stepmother
out the country, it was only natural I bring you here...”
“...I
could have stayed with Taj...”
“...you're not staying in that
harem your brother has! Living with five women... are you silly...”
“...those are Taj's girlfriends—he won't share!”
“...Still...”
It was then Michael Jackson seemed to realize that Lola was still there.
“Oh...forgive me.” He chuckled lightly, then stated the obvious a moment too late.
“Lola, I'd like you to meet my nephew, TJ.”
TJ, that strapping figure in yellow was suddenly in front of her, leaning against the front of the desk nonchalantly, taking her hand.
In exactly the same manner Michael had the night before, he held her hand in his own warm palm a moment, bringing the back of it to his mouth.
Tender lips brushed the top of it, with him speaking into her skin,
“TJ Jackson, a pleasure.”
Lola was dumbstruck.
So close to him, she saw a small beauty mark graced his cheek, and as he looked up at her through his lashes, she found his eyes weren't completely brown, but bore a tinge of bronze, brought out by his shirt, and, as his other hand came up to pat at her wrist, light danced over the black opal face of a Piaget watch set in more of that costly yellow metal.
Diamond-rimmed bezel twinkling.
He
was so wondrously handsome, staring on at her a long quiet moment.
Awaiting her reply.
“Lola van der Stepp...” Came her labored response. “Nice to meet you--”
“Come
look, Lola...”
Michael called to her and she slowly rose to
her feet.
TJ kept hold of her hand, gazing into her eyes with such ferocity, Lola's mouth went dry.
It was then a lightning bolt hit her.
Michael was saying something about a silk jacket he'd worn to some actress' wedding when he was Best Man, but Lola was concerned with TJ.
More specifically, his mouth, which he was absently licking.
“Do...”Lola hesitated, “Do I kiss you, too?”
He smiled, mouth curling like the Joker from Batman,
“You don't have to, but can...if you want to...”
Her
hand was released, and TJ slithered away towards the staircase.
POP!
Lola's attention came back with crashing clarity, her ears ringing as Michael had snapped his fingers at her, a sound that had never come so loudly half scaring her.
Instantly, she was at Michael's side, faced with a binder full of photographs in sheet protectors, highlighting all of the extravagant, bespoke outfits he'd worn to major events.
“...Elizabeth Taylor's AIDS Charity Gala...my sister Janet's thirtieth birthday...my brother Jermaine's divorce party...there he is also proposing to his fourth wife...”
Flipping through photos, Lola saw that Michael seemed to favor jackets with more of a military style to them, broad shoulders, epaulets, braiding.
Grandiose, covered with beads, sequins, gems...
“You...want...a leather, military jacket?” Lola questioned, her mind starting to formulate.
“Yes--”
“Wait!”
TJ Jackson, whom Lola had thought left the room, was instead sitting on the steps leading to the little balcony HER portfolio spread open on his lap.
He'd been perusing her work?
“Uncle Michael...” He was rushing back to the desk, “...I think you should look at more of what Lola's made. I think...I think it's even better than what Marco made for you.”
Without a care, the first binder was flung where Lola had once sat and TJ was putting hers down in its place.
“I like some of the jackets I've seen here. It's too frou-frou for me, but its right up your alley. It's a different silhouette. Closer to the body, not as boxy as the other jackets. I think you need a new look...”
Golden brown eyes fluttered at the whitening face of amazement of the woman between them.
“...it's not fair to waste her skill having her make knockoffs of Marco's work. Lola is a whole new designer. I'm sure she has her own vision and ideas for you.”
Dark eyes came up, Michael stroking after the cleft in his chin thoughtfully.
Glancing at his relative, Michael Jackson asked of her, meekly,
“Lola, can you come up with some sketches? Some rough ideas for me by tomorrow?”
“Y-yes Sir...”
Lola heard herself, her soul floating somewhere above her body.
What just happened?
In only a few words the chains that had been weighing her down into a certain box of creation had been loosed.
She was free to let her mind wander as it pleased.
Draw what she visualized and use Michael as a sounding board as she had wanted in the first place.
TJ bent and was in his uncle's ear.
Lips moving rapidly, but soundlessly.
Michael's eyes fell to his lap briefly, then shot back up to Lola.
“Day after tomorrow.” He corrected himself, TJ looking smug.
“Tomorrow, you go shopping and buy some of those bohemian style clothes you like. Whatever you need...”
He trailed off, the door opening, Red reentering, a bright pink envelope in his meaty hands.
“Miss van der Stepp.”
The envelope was extended to her.
“I hope that's enough to suffice for your work, Lola. It's the same as what I paid Marco. Your weekly wage.”
“I'm...I'm sure it is...”Lola answered automatically, knowing full well they'd never discussed what she was to be paid.
He'd already done so much, and he was still going to pay her?
The envelope felt rather heavy.
It was then Michael Jackson asked a question, innocently,
“Is
ten thousand a week enough?”
“Is what enough?”
Lola shrieked, wondering if her hearing had failed her because she
knew he couldn't have given her that sum, for the week.
She hadn't done anything yet!
Ten thousand dollars.
And that was just for THAT week!
“Ten—oh shit! Uncle Michael!” TJ Jackson cried as the warm brown eyes rolled and long legs gave way, the blonde being caught in strong arms as she collapsed.
Out cold.
Cash still in hand.
By the time Lola van der Stepp came to, she found herself tucked into the backseat of the Rolls, fur blanket wrapped around her—a real mink blanket—her envelope tucked in with her, speeding through the rural nothingness headed back to the City.
Stirring, something bright caught her eye as it tumbled to the floor.
A single, red rose.
And so began Lola van der Stepp's strange arrangement with Michael Jackson.
Working as his clothier, his designer.
On paper, that was how it seemed.
In real life, it was more nuanced.
Clandestine, secretive.
More implied than ever said.
As she had been told, Lola, armed with some of that ten grand, walked past near-death Hal with the intent of supplementing her wardrobe for the firs time in ages.
She was quite surprised to come sauntering out the building to find that white Rolls idling on the curb, Red rushing to open the door for her.
So, she wasn't destined to schlep about the City on foot, from one urine drenched subway train to the next—fearing being mugged or worse, along the way.
Instead, all the day, she was had Red as her personal chauffeur, the Rolls her personal transport.
Thusly she spent the day rolling around Soho, going from one vintage clothing boutique to the next, freely picking and choosing all her bohemian little heart desired, regardless of fit—that could be fixed with a needle and thread herself.
By the day's end, Lola was surrounded by bags filled with dresses, blouses, trousers, skirts and shorts, all made in the 1960s, and all the accessories and accouterments to make each garment, each ensemble sing.
Enough to thoroughly express herself and about five other women.
She'd only spent half of her wages for...
A kiss and a consult?
Sketches. Michael Jackson wanted sketches.
A visual representation of her ideas for him.
Though he had never specified the exact number, Lola wanted to present Michael with at least ten, and was up all night brainstorming.
No sleep was had as Lola took care to ensure each sketch rendered was shown on a reed-thin, milky-complexioned interpretation of her boss.
Bleary-eyed, she'd staggered into that red manse, behind the red-haired guard, her handiwork in tow.
Michael was once more found in his office.
This time in head to toe royal blue satin trimmed in velvet, he had again been coaching/advising Latoya on how to run her case against her would-be abductor.
Seeing Lola, his eyes lit, the call ending abruptly.
Another kiss was placed upon her, so deeply and completely, that the strip of spearmint gum on which Michael had been recklessly chomping was transferred to her.
She was examined, sharp brows raising, taking in the fact she'd troubled to wear makeup and style her hair—albeit in a low ponytail.
Eyes danced as they took in the loud, abstract pattern of her pink silk pantsuit.
“Pucci?” He guessed correctly, with her nodding and he went to smooch her hand, looking very pleased with himself. She was pleased to have gotten such a high end piece for so low second-hand.
There was that judgmental frown.
“I
don't like the look of French tip nails.”
Lush hair swished as
he threw his head back shouting for Red.
Somehow, the sketches found their way into Michael's pale hands.
To his ginger lackey he instructed,
“Take Lola to Sinclair's Fifth Avenue for a mani-pedi. By the time she returns I will have selected an outfit.”
It wasn't a suggestion; it was a command.
Ushered back to the front door, Lola had the unshakable, odd feeling she was being watched.
While Red paused to alert another grey-covered guard of the change in his whereabouts for the afternoon, Lola looked around the grand hall.
Taking in the painting in the broad gold frames, the marble statues depicting nude women and animals, the frescoes on the vaulted ceiling two stories above.
That's when she spotted him.
TJ Jackson.
He was above her, on one of the long verandas of the second floor, resting on his elbows on the marble banister.
While his uncle had been dressed up in a fancy satin suit, TJ was laid-back in black satin pajamas, a crystal goblet in his hand, half filled with a deep colored liquid.
(Wine? At eleven in the morning?)
Their eyes met, with him manipulating the glass so that the mystery liquid swirled.
Lola felt small and a trifle nervous and wanted to look away.
Yet she didn't.
She couldn't.
He was attractive, so stunning with those chiseled features, he soundlessly begged to be looked upon, gawked at, admired.
Holding her attention, he leaned further, tilting the glass to his lips.
Those heavy, arched, broad brows wiggling at her.
Teasing her--
“Come along, Miss van der Stepp.”
Red's hand was on her bicep, pulling at her, guiding her from the house, out towards that white car.
Tearing her eyes from that mysterious young man.
The man whom had helped give her a chance.
Four hours later Lola returned, French tips but a memory, her nails now painted a reflective, silvery-white. The shape of her nails has also been changed—all at Michael's explicit insistence, from squoval to a more natural, almond shaped tip.
Apparently, he disliked sqoval and square tipped nails, deeming them as ugly as Red had let slip in low, confidential tones, as they drove back to the City, to the point he'd have any female guest, including his sisters and own mother taken to the salon for a repaint if they dared enter Xanadu with their talons in the 'wrong' shape.
Everything had been “Mr. Jackson's idea” as explained to her from the moment she hit the door of the exclusive salon where she was tended to in a private room, away from the general public.
He'd chosen the color, shape, which also repeated on the tips of her toes, even the drink which had been offered for her to enjoy—sparkling peach cider.
All Lola had to do was sit and listen to the three young, Vietnamese women tending her, chattering back and forth in their native language, whilst massaging her hands and feet with a luxe, lavender scented oil, soft classical music being piped through speakers.
As promised, on her return, Lola saw Michael Jackson had indeed selected an outfit from the sketches offered up and it had been left on his desk. (The others were conspicuously left under a bronze paperweight in the shape of a cobra.)
He'd chosen a leather suit intended to feature silver studs and fringe made of dangling crystals and a fringe belt.
Also, a yellow sticky note had been attached, and written in what did look to be chicken scratch Michael had scribbled,
“Your workroom will be set up tomorrow.”
Lola was taken aback.
She was to work...on site? Not in her dim little apartment?
She...she didn't understand. And Michael was nowhere to be seen, to inquire about anything.
Fabrics, stones, his measurements--
“Lola.”
The poor woman nearly leapt out of her shoes at her name being whispered into her ear.
Whirling, she found Michael standing, slim figure draped in a sumptuous red robe of tone on tone striped silk, staring at her.
In one hand he held a measuring tape, the other a small notepad and pencil.
“I need you take my measurements, I've lost about five pounds, since the ordeal with my sister happened.” He explained calmly, handing the tools to her and advancing around to the front of his desk.
“I understand...it's very trying...” Lola's mouth went dry as back to her, Michael allowed the robe to drop.
For a moment she thought he was fully nude, as all she was his pristine, luminescent dermis, but limping around the desk to the other side, she saw Michael wore—barely—a pair of cherry red silk bikini underwear.
He did have an alarmingly toned physique to say he was so slim, defined muscles showing plainly and flexing as he shifted from one foot to the other.
Michael Jackson did possess a nice physique, almost like that of a dancer.
Timidly, Lola approached him, and with her better judgment, took the bulk of his measurements while standing behind him.
But out of habit, to measure his inseam, Lola knelt in front of Michael Jackson.
Taking care to look everywhere but at the obvious bulge outlined by the thin fabric.
To say he was so small he was also quite large.
Michael Jackson didn't have a strand of superfluous hair to be found, as his legs, chest and even the top of his pubic area as revealed by the poor excuse for an undergarment.
Setting the tape aside, she went to jot down the numbers.
And made the mistake of looking from her charge.
A large hand was on her cheek, patting it delicately, the protrusion in crimson coming closer to her face.
Too close for comfort.
“What the hell are you doing?” She cried in alarm, falling over onto the carpet, escaping being hit in the nose the bulge by centimeters.
“Do NOT swear at me.” Michael warned, his voice strangely calm, and he knelt alongside her.
“I...just thought you looked pretty...down there...looking up at me.”
“Mr. Jackson--” Lola was panting unsure of what emotions were emerging and tumbling about.
Was he trying to make her suck--
“You have such lovely eyes. I love how you used your liner...reminds me of Twiggy.” His face bobbed closer to hers and instinctively, Lola turned away. Refusing him a kiss for the first time.
If
there were any boundaries left to be found, he was hurdling over them
like an
Olympian.
Eyes widened in a mix of horror, shock and speechlessness at his lips pressed her neck.
Then he was gone, leaving Lola van der Stepp in a wave of confusion.
Holding on to her throat, she turned and glimpsed him as the doors to his office shut.
She sat for a stunned few moments wondering what she was doing.
Was it worth the trouble? Was this man going to get her into trouble?
Ten grand a week was indeed enticing, but her body wasn't for sale.
She was there to sew and once the project was complete, she planned to get the hell out of there.
Never wanted to see Xanadu again.
Michael Jackson seemed the type of man not to respond to hearing NO very well.
She didn't want to stick around to see what would happen when she had to vocalize her refusal.
Turning back to collect herself and get up off the floor, Lola halted.
Across the room, where three sets of French doors stood shut but with curtains opened to allow natural light in, Lola saw him.
TJ Jackson, stood in the middle window staring at her.
He appeared to have come from a tennis lesson as he wore a white sweater, polo and shorts.
A silver racket held over his left shoulder, a purple tennis ball in his right hand, matching the stripes trimming his pullover.
In a blink he was gone, replaced by Red lumbering through the doors and towards her, telling her it was time she go home.
Like a ghost, Lola obeyed the command but felt nothing as she walked out to the Rolls Royce, finding another single red rose.
The following weeks and months were something of a blur, like a whiff of smoke from a funny cigarette. The routine had been set.
Coming and going in that Rolls, being greeted with too familiar kisses by a man she knew next to nothing about.
It was a month before Lola even learned how Michael Jackson came to be so wealthy—he gambled in the stock market as a freelance broker and was making millions hand over fist.
There was no clear idea what TJ did. He was supposed to be attending NYU Business School, perhaps to follow in the family business, but Lola noticed every time she arrived and left, he was there.
She never witnessed him coming or going to school, never saw him with textbooks or rushing to complete essays and assignments.
He was always occupied with leisurely pursuits, playing tennis, bothering his uncle to adopt one or more of the animal rescues—he went from wanting a goat to wanting an elephant, then an albino liger (lion/tiger hybrid).
He was swimming in a pool somewhere as he'd be wrapped in a hunter green terrycloth robe, dripping wet, leaving puddles as he walked around, Michael screaming he was ruining antique rugs and the imported flooring.
TJ Jackson was always there.
As she came in, he was on the second floor, in some variant of pajamas in a luxurious fabric, drinking wine, orange juice, or water from that goblet, or chewing on a croissant, bagel or strip of bacon.
Eyeing her from his perch.
He would also be somewhere nearby when she made her exit in the evenings.
On the stairs, in the little vestibule near the front door, out by the car.
Lola's work room was a tremendous suite also on the second floor, but in a far corner that overlooked the back, rolling acres of Xanadu, where Michael Jackson's habitat for former circus animals was on full display.
It wasn't unusual to see a giraffe go trotting by or hear terrified wails as one of the Russian Dancing Bears went on an impromptu walk.
Lola had access to fabrics, and supplies her schoolmates could have only dreamt of.
Yards and yards of buttery Italian leather was there for her use, along with what seemed any and every type of stud and rhinestone imaginable.
Though it would go unseen, there was maroon satin to line the inside of the suit.
Ropes and ropes of Swarovski crystals to be used for the fringe alone sat in velvet lined boxes, around a stuffed mannequin tailored to Michael Jackson's specific measurements.
The more Lola van der Stepp crossed the threshold of that Georgian mansion, the more and more she seemed to be getting sucked off into Michael's world.
Yes, Xanadu was a world onto itself.
Work on the outfit was tedious, as nearly every day Michael found his way into the room, with something he'd written or crudely drawn on a piece of paper, adjustments and other embellishments he wanted on his outfit.
Lola wanted for nothing.
She was allowed virtually anything to eat or drink—except alcohol as she was working—all it took was a quick request to Red, who seemed to have become her personal guardian, that was run down to the kitchen and whipped up by Michael's small team of world-class chefs.
She had never eaten so well in all her life, steaks, lobster, quail, squab, duck, foods she'd only read about in magazines were presented on steaming silver salvers.
Always with a green salad to start and a dessert—cakes, pies, eclairs.
Whatever Michael Jackson had had a taste for, a slice would also come to her.
Her lunch was taken in her work room, and during that break was when Michael would waft in, poke around, be nosy, kiss her a few times, and be gone as quickly as he had come.
Then there were her varied and uneven interactions with TJ Jackson.
If one could call it that.
Lola couldn't recall TJ saying much of anything for her, but more times than she could count, she'd get the creepy crawling feeling she was being watched only look up and find TJ peering queerly at her.
If he didn't have his curly head jammed in a crack in the door—getting stuck by his ears a few times as he tried to pull away from sight too quickly—he was in the shadows of the balcony, leering at her through the French doors.
Always staring...almost as if he'd never laid eyes on a woman before.
TJ was quite strange but in a way that was slowly gaining him favor with Lola.
Had it not been for the professional edge to their 'relationship', Lola would have flirted back.
At least that's what she assumed TJ was trying to do, that or imitating an alarmingly opaque apparition.
TJ Jackson wasn't hard to look at; on the contrary, he was incredibly attractive.
And, over time in the months of working for his uncle, Lola came to seek his observation.
Revel in it.
Lola had been conditioned to dress for her job, but more and more she was dressing up, still with her 60s Bardot twist, to be pleasing to TJ's golden brown eye.`
Her makeup became heavier, her hair larger, hemlines rising.
Even as temperatures started to drop, her trousers became hot pants with tights, floor-brushing peasant skirts became minis.
At one point Michael noticed and remarked she vaguely reminded him of a “more-blonde Sharon Tate”.
(His preoccupation with old actresses added another layer of eccentric to her employer)
More and more, TJ was hanging around, silently, watching.
Never interrupting her work.
His face, expression slowly changed.
At first it was curiosity mixed with cool contempt.
The way Lola assumed all boys to the country club set born looked upon those not in the same gold-rimmed bracket as themselves.
With time the look intensified.
TJ would look away or move from the room when noticed, but now he would remain, meeting her eyes, brows raising as if to challenge her.
Interactions with his Uncle Michael became a bit excruciating, as, without fail any time Michael would kiss her or touch her in some urbane way that had nothing to do with her occupation, TJ would fall out the clear blue sky.
He seemed to possess a sixth sense for whenever another man's lips were on her.
Many nights were left sleepless, Lola replaying TJ's words from when they first met.
How he'd teased her, saying she could kiss him if she wanted to.
Yes, Lola did want to kiss him.
Every time she saw him.
She dreamed of it constantly. Craved it, yearned for it.
Yet, she knew it was a line she couldn't cross with TJ, no matter how many times Michael used her to rub his lip balm off .
He was the nephew of her boss.
By mid-October, the leather ensemble for Michael Jackson was nearly complete.
In addition to the highly decorated suit, Michael had further commissioned a black silk shirt, and a pair of black gloves.
All pieces which Lola fashioned with little effort but an extra pink envelop appeared with a surplus five thousand anyway.
She'd made so money from this one project, she was set for the next few years at least.
Standing so long, reflecting over the last few months, Lola finally brought her cigarette to her mouth, only to find that it had long since burned down directly to the filter. With a sigh, she flicked it into a nearby ashtray.
The clock beside it showed as half-past five.
Time to start getting ready for work.
If one could call it that. With the outfit for the Neonatal Opening Gala so near completion, Lola was really nothing but eye candy at this point.
Just another decoration in the room like the marble busts or gilt-framed portraits, or needlessly frou-frou gem-laden eggs of precious metal.
An autonomous trophy she was.
To be kissed and pawed after by her boss; to wish it were his nephew laying hands on her instead.
After a hot bath, during which time the large rollers entwined in her white locks had time to impart volume and cool off, Lola stood before her dresser in a rust colored velvet robe, applying her makeup.
In the open closet, apart from the other garments, her outfit for the day hung.
A low-cut sweater minidress of winter white cashmere to be worn with knee high boots covered in a variety of brightly colored rhinestones on a silver leather upper.
Her look was sprightly, featuring silver glitter along the lids and cheekbones, cheeks and lips and delicate, peachy pink.
Her eyes were the focus, as usual with strong black liner, fluffy, dramatic lashes and “Twiggies” black and white vertical stripes drawn along the lower lid to imitate longer bottom lashes.
Hair was teased and pulled into a voluminous half-ponytail atop her head, a few tendrils left framing her face for added effect.
On the outfit went with several wide silver bangles stacked along her wrist and hoops dangling out her ears.
Over the dress she pulled a vintage coat of black wool, trimmed in ermine.
Lola van der Stepp looked more model than designer as she disembarked from her building, right as that white Rolls Royce pulled up to the curb for her.
Drawing the requisite stares she'd had grown accustomed to over time.
A couple of hours later, she walked into the main house of the Xanadu estate, and surprisingly, for the first time, TJ Jackson was not at his usual watching perch on the second floor.
Lola barely made it five steps before she heard Michael Jackson shrieking somewhere in the rear of the first floor,
“--I don't care if you go swimming in the heated pool, TJ, but GODDAMN IT, dry off when you get out! This is the third time I've had to get someone in here to pull up the rug in the cinema room! I paid seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars for that rug and it's a good thirty thousand to get it dried out and cleaned cause of the chlorinated water! You mess it up again, you're paying for it, do you understand me? You're not ignorant, stop using my house as a playground!”
Pausing on the marble stair, Red three down from her, Lola heard TJ speak up, shouting for the first time.
“I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm still getting used to being here! No one at school cared, if I walked around after a swim, but you dragged me out of there kicking and screaming Uncle Michael--”
“You know damn well why you were pulled out of school TJ! You weren't safe! Your Aunt Latoya was almost kidnapped! You know everyone had to go under until this blows over. Once the trial is over and that clown goes to jail, you can go back to school!”
“Trial! That's not for months still! I could have gone to be with Dad and Vivienne in Marseilles!”
“TJ, there is no way you'd be allowed to leave this country to go to France! Not with everything going on! You have to stay put!”
“I'm being held like a fucking prisoner! I haven't done anything! Let me go to Delaware to Taj's house or Maine to Taryll's--”
“You're not going to your brothers! You're staying put Tito Joe Jackson, and that is FINAL! I have to look out for you. You're here because this was the closest house to come to. You're my nephew, almost like a son to me, and I refuse to let harm come to you! Now go!”
“I am twenty-five years old--”
“I don't care if you're five hundred years old, you obey me! Go!”
“I'm
going! Shit!”
In the distance a door
slammed and a moment later, TJ Jackson came storming down the hall
towards the staircase.
As his uncle had so eloquently screamed, TJ was still soaking wet, post-swim, his body draped in that green robe, bare feet slapping the floors, heading towards the staircase where a silent audience of two stood frozen.
His face set with a grim anger that seemed to radiate from him.
He began mounting the steps, leaving small puddles in his wake, and came to a halt on the step above Lola.
Flashes of toned, brown thigh visible along with the thin, leopard-print band of his European cut swimsuit, barely clinging to his hip. And the faint tan line above it.
Staring at her with such ferocity through water-logged curls draping his face,she began to shrink back, almost feeling as though she were at fault for the argument.
A few tense seconds passed.
Droplets falling from him, glittering on the marble of the stairs.
When he spoke, he addressed Red, but never turned his head,
“Have someone bring me croissants, honey butter and bacon. And I want a bottle Sauvignon Blanc. The whole bottle. I'll be in my room.”
Then, without warming, his warm, damp hand was on her cheek.
TJ's eyes met hers a split second, and he was off heading up to the second floor.
Lola watched him go, face going red from his touch, and she struggled to catch her breath, hand to her heaving bosom.
“Someone come mop up this water! Now! Now please! Quit tracking water all over the place TJ! Someone drain the goddamn pool so that knucklehead can't swim anymore! Sick of this shit!Jesus Christmas!”
In the middle of the hallway, Michael Jackson stood yelling and automatically about five maids with rags and buckets came running, dropping to their knees and commenced cleaning up the pool water.
Stepping around the fallen women, Michael was striding towards the staircase.
He was dressed simply in a black silk tee with black pajama bottoms, monogrammed slippers on his long feet.
Climbing the steps he hovered over Lola.
“Is my suit ready to try on?”He implored, without any hint he had been shouting the house off its foundation a short time before.
“Y-yes, Sir...” Lola nodded staring downwards.
“I'll be there in a minute.”He told her producing his jeweled phone, punching at it and mashing it to his ear as he jumped up the steps, three at a time.
“Tito? Michael. I want to talk to you about that spoiled rotten fruit of your loins...”
An Hour Later
“...this looks really good. Even better than I thought it would. Kind of cool, like a rock star...beautiful...”
Michael Jackson remarked just above a whisper, standing before the large mirror taking up part of the wall in Lola's Sewing Room.
Moving from side to side, Michael preened, soft smile on his pink lips as he took in the fine leather hugging his frame, light dancing off the studs and the fringe glittering as it swayed.
Lola stood off to the side, smiling smugly, exceedingly proud of herself and her creation.
Michael did look so very dapper and debonair in his suit.
“This is fabulous, absolutely perfect --” Michael had been toying with the asymmetrical fringe falling from his belt, when he suddenly stopped, staring at his hands, encased in black silk.
Like he'd never noticed he possesed them before.
“Lola...” He started, turning to her, eyes huge with wonderment. “Do you think you can put my initials on top of the gloves in crystals? An M on one hand and a J on the other? Or would that overdoing it?”
“No, Sir...” Lola was , flipping his hand over and undoing the small rhinestone button cinching it closed at the wrist.
Removing it.
“You're not overdoing it. The more bling, the better. I can do it. It'll take me maybe an hour or so.”
Lola started away and found Michael's hand circling her wrist.
Pulling her back.
“Wonderful! Thank you!” Michael drew her against him, hugging tightly.
His mouth found hers and he kissed her, dipping her back slightly, holding her in a way where she couldn't wriggle from his grasp.
Kissing her for much longer than he had in the past.
Much longer.
Uncomfortably longer.
“Mmm! Mmm!” Lola whimpered, flailing, clutching the glove, until finally, Michael released her.
Taking off his other glove and handing it to her as she staggered about, he informed her coolly,
“I'll be back to see my gloves. I'm going to my room to slip out of this suit. I'll have Max run it back to you.”
The top of her head was petted, and Michael exited, leaving the two inlaid oak and ebony doors open after him.
“Oh, Lola...” His head poked back in.
Unable to fully breathe, Lola just watched him with saucer-like eyes, huge in her face.
It was the most adequate expression for what he said next,
“I've decided, I'd like for you to make all my clothing from now on. Shirts trousers, jackets, everything. I really adore your work. And you do what you're going to say without giving me a bunch of run around about it. You're professional and I like that. I didn't have that with Marco. He argued me every step of the way on each project. I'll see to it that you have what you need to make sketches and things and we can brainstorm about it at a later date.”
The head receded and he was gone.
Lola stood, overwhelmed.
Michael Jackson wanted her to be....his personal designer?
Create all his clothing? From then on?
And at the pay grade she was getting, Lola wondered if she would ever have to return to MFI to complete her studies.
Her tuition had already been made to “go away”.
All of her bills.
The pink envelopes kept rolling in weekly and Lola for the first time in all her life had financial security.
She was even considering moving from her current apartment to more upscale digs as she could finally afford to do so.
(She would miss Hal's lazy sleeping ass by the front door, though)
She probably could launch her own brand, funded solely on Michael Jackson's dime.
So, so many dimes.
Tossing her hair, Lola retreated to her slanted-top desk, spreading the gloves out, preparing to add the gem work to them.
Having a seat on the soft, tufted rolling stool.
So what if Michael did kiss and squeeze her?
She could look the other way as she did gain so many privileges from so little.
Lola wasn't ugly and Michael Jackson was a man.
He wasn't blind.
Neither was Lola, and Michael wasn't too hard on her eyes either.
Digging in a drawer, Lola found the small bottle of fabric adhesive and long tweezers needed for precision Swarovski crystal application. Especially to Michael Jackson's exacting standards.
Another drawer, filled with crystals of every shape and color imaginable, Lola reached for the clear stones, plucking shapes—marquis, princess,star and emerald cut—reflecting those used on his suit with the intention of asking him which he preferred to have on his gloves.
(Lest she have to craft a new pair from scratch if she used the wrong stones without his input.)
“Red, could you go fetch Mr. Jackson for me, please?” She called casually over one shoulder towards the opened door, using her free hand to lay out the black silk appendage coverings.
Surprisingly, there was no response, and confused, as she usually wore Red better than her own underwear, Lola turned.
The doors stood open to the upstairs hall but there was no sign of that brick-haired, mountain of a man.
“Red?” She called as she spun, slipping from the stool and ambling to the door.
Peeking out and both ways down the cavernous hall, filled with ostentatious, well-appointed antiques, the walls bearing embroidered velvet tapestries, she saw no one.
Gems in hand, she took a few steps then halted.
Though she had worked for Michael for half a year, Lola had never once been granted accesses to his room.
She only knew his suite took up the majority of the third level of house and was his indoor retreat when he wanted to be away from prying eyes—even those of his guards.
Lola didn't even know how to access the stairs that led up there in the first place.
Wouldn't know where to find them if her very life depended on it.
Deciding her best option would be to get her little coral cell phone and for the first time since owning it, use it to call Michael Jackson back in an attempt to reach him.
(Thus far the phone has been Michael's gateway to her, with him calling whenever the mood hit him to nag about his suit only receiving calls, but not making them.)
Turning on her heel, she stopped abruptly, a voice calling out, nearby, yet simultaneously under her.
“Mr.
Jackson?”
Red. That was definitely Red.. She could tell his
heavy, New Jersey accent anywhere.
“Is it here? It's been delivered?”
That wasn't Michael Jackson's voice.
Soft and music though it was, it wasn't her boss' voice.
It was his nephew.
Drawn out to the banister, Lola leaned against the cold marble, free hand on her bangles, to keep them from clacking and giving away her position.
Below her on the steps, TJ Jackson had his back to her, facing Red, who was holding out what appeared to be a set of keys.
The second in command, was dressed similarly as his uncle had, in a white silk tee, with plaid pajama bottoms and slippers.
A goblet of what appeared white wine in hand.
“Yes, Sir, It's been parked in--”
“Is it the exact color I want? I already sent it back once for being too light, You did see it--”
Blue eyes darted upwards for a milisecond at Lola.
But the brown eyes weren't on him, they were on the younger Mr. Jackson.
Intently.
Looking back to the suddenly jittery, fit man running a hand through his tendrils, he nodded.
“It's as you wished, Mr. Jackson. I held the paint sample up to the fender, it matches exactly.”
“Good....good...”
So he'd bought a new car.
Of course he had.
Lola shifted and something attracted her attention.
A stone.
One of the crystals had fallen out of her hand and was midair.
A hundred dollar, single stone was tumbling, far from grasp.
“....let me organize my thoughts...”
She could only stare, horrified, as with a tinny plink, the stone landed square in the glass of wine.
TJ's attention was instantly draw to the glass and the gem twinkling in it.
He was facing her, staring up at her, bronze eyes unblinking.
The pair shared the glance a long while, Lola's heart skipping beats here and there in her small bosom.
TJ was moving, coming up the steps two at a time.
Lola had no time to run, scream, move.
He was there.
Looming over her, but not looking at her.
Instead he was swirling the glass, the gem in it twirling.
Lola was certain he was going to sack her out for not only eavesdropping, but ruining what was likely the most expensive glass of grape juice she'd ever been near.
In a mansion like that, even the most ordinary things cost exponentially more than the usual counterparts.
She braced for the yelling to commence.
It never came, instead,TJ, still swirling the wine stated coyly,
“I want to show you something, Lola...”
Despite the Swarovski Crystal in the glass, he took a sip, gulping audibly, before setting it down on the railing.
She wasn't allowed an answer, a strong hand being placed on the back of her neck, guiding her back towards the stairs.
She babbled anyway.
“I'm...I'm supposed to be putting crystals on your...on Mr. Jackson's gloves! He'll be back in less than hour...” She extended her hand, showing him the few other stones.
On purpose, TJ hit the underside of her hand sending it upwards and along with it, the stones flying only God knew where, plunking as some landed on the steps and some bounced from sight on the first floor.
“Mr. Jackson!” She cried horrified thousands had been flung to the wind for no true reason.
“My uncle monopolizes you as it is...” TJ remarked darkly, further pushing her down the steps to the first level. “He can survive without you for a few minutes, damn it. You're his employee, not his slave!”
In surprise, Lola stared at TJ, in profile as he continued leading her.
His sharp jaw with muscles clenching, bronzy eyes flickering here and to, his wild curls bouncing recklessly with each step.
On the first floor, with TJ's hand slipping from her neck to the small of her back, Lola was propelled through the what seemed an endless labyrinth of corridors, with more framed photographs of the Jackson family than she could count.
It was almost a never-ending shrine to this wealthier-than-most clan.
Eventually the pair came out to what appeared to a be a set of burnished silver doors, a beefy Asian man whom Lola had never seen sitting in a chair, reading a Manga.
He was, of course a guard, as given away by his grey suit and wingtips.
Seeing TJ, he was quickly on his feet, punching the down button.
It was an elevator.
Of course the house had an elevator, why not?
“Mr. Jackson.” He nodded and TJ returned the gesture, replying
“Kenji.”
The ride down into some bowels of the building Lola was unaware of existing just minutes earlier was brief and marked by silence, with her barely able to hear above the beating of her own heart.
Twice she tried to move from him and like a dance, TJ side-stepped to keep less than six inches between them.
Nerves swept over Lola.
Where was this man taking her? What were his intentions?
What nefarious things would he plan to do...so far from his uncle and safety?
Was this why he stared at her so? Just to get her alone to--
Byoom!
A digital bell chimed and the doors slid open to what had to be the largest garage Lola van der Stepp had set eyes on, that wasn't part of a high-rise building in the City.
While the majority of Xanadu was old world, heavily influenced by Victorian and Edwardian tastes, the garage was modern, build of steel beams and exposed brick work.
A good thirty or so cars, all of expensive and/or foreign makes, in all colors.
Aston Martin, Lamborghini, Bugatti, Rolls Royce; both modern and vintage status symbols on wheels were represented.
Red, blue, black, yellow...
There was even the white limo that brought her each day.
Letting go of Lola for the first time, TJ was walking ahead of her, hand in the air, fingers wiggling, indicating she follow him.
Lola lagged behind him, as she didn't know if she'd ever see such vehicles outside of a dealership ever again.
Also, she was still clueless as to what he wanted with her down there in the first place.
A rich boy showing off his rich boy toys.
A world Lola knew nothing of but hung on the fringes just the same.
Hoping some of the glitter would sprinkle
Near the far wall, TJ had stopped and was idly twirling the key ring on his finger.
Reaching him, Lola saw he had the Joker-esque smile he'd worn the day they met.
With a toss of his wildly-curled head, he indicated what all the fuss was about.
At the end of the row was a spank, brand new, iridescent salmon pink Rolls coupe.
It was such a strange, uncommon car and Lola was taken by it instantly.
“Wow...” The word escaped her and she came forward, gingerly running her fingers over the chrome grille, where a custom ornament, in the shape of an intertwined heart, made of frosted art glass accentuated the hood.
“This...this is so beautiful. I've gotten kind of spoiled riding in Mr. Jackson's car. I...I wish I could have a car like this... the color is crazy...” She admitted, with a touch of envy, wondering if anyone as pampered as TJ Jackson had ever wanted for anything in his life.
Or had it simply appeared for him with no wait?
“You really like it? Think it's nice?” TJ receded to slightly behind her, as Lola continued to play with ornament, surely costing more than anything she'd own, in her lifetime.
“Yes, it's lovely, Mr. Jackson...the color is so pretty—”
“Call me TJ...may I call you Lola?” His voice was barely audible to her as she noticed her own reflection, the car was so highly polished.
“You may...”
She was so entranced by that overpriced hunk of metal, TJ could have called her anything but a child of God and she'd have let him.
Circling it dreamily, she was fondling the cold metal, admiring it from all angles.
Imagining what it was like to collect cars like others collected coins or stamps or Barbie dolls...
To have the excess funds to provide for such a needless hobby.
“...what are your initials?”
“LvdS...” Lola had stepped back to admire the front of the car again.
Was that chrome, silver-plate or white gold?
Perhaps platinum.
As she spoke, her eyes drifted down to the license plate, rimmed by a crystal studded frame.
And widened, her jaw also loosening to sag.
LvdS...LvdS...LvdS...
Her initials!
It was her initials on the vanity plate of that car.
Did that mean...it couldn't possibly mean....it was too good to be true!
This had to be a hallucination—she refused to believe it!
How could she? How could HE?
Astonished Lola, hand pressing a hole into her flat chest, blurted.
“Michael Jackson bought me a Rolls Royce!”
A Rolls Royce...it...it was hers.
Lola sank to the cool cement floor, room spinning, blood throbbing merrily through her poor little head.
This lavish hunk of luxury had been bought for her, had her initials emblazoned...
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The sudden, rhythmic metallic dissonance drew Lola from her dream of grandeur and she spun on her bottom.
Several feet away, TJ was bracing against a lime green Bugatti, fervently kicking one of it's matte black hubcaps.
Mumbling something repetitiously and it grew louder and more plain to the ear with each drawing back of his foot in the monogrammed slipper.
“...Michael....Michael....Michael....MICHAEL!”
Head going back TJ wrapped slim, defined arms around himself and yelled his uncle's name bitterly to the exposed beams overhead.
“MICHAEL!”
His
head whipped to the side and wild, crazed, malicious eyes focused on
Lola.
“You think my Uncle Michael bought you that car?” He demanded, voice going into a ridiculously shrill register and would have been comical if it were not for the murderous look taking his chiseled features and contorting them like Chinese acrobat.
Lola, still seated on the floor of the garage, her legs effectively failing her, could only dumbly nod.
TJ Jackson's entire body went erect and much like his relative, he threw his shoulders back, and stiffly moved towards her.
Stepped over her, in fact.
Over to the Rolls, where he laid a hand on the heart-shaped hood ornament.
“Lola...” Her named rolled out of his mouth like distant thunder. “...I refuse to believe a woman like you—intelligent, talented—could be so blind to everything...everything I've done for you!”
Met only with a saucer-eyed stare he continued, free hand poking himself in the chest.
“I'm the reason you're here in the first place! I'm the reason you're my uncle's clothier this very moment!”
“How?” Lola heard the word spoken but was unconscious of it coming from her own lips.
Again, TJ Jackson roared with bitter, dry laughter and the whole tale began to unfurl.
“My cousin, Austin, has always been something of a theatre nerd, and would rope any and everybody he could get his hands on to come see plays. Before the whole gambling debt thing with my Aunt, he dragged me all the way out to Jersey to see Phantom of the Opera. He was banging the chick playing the female lead. I couldn't have cared less honestly. Then I saw the costumes. They....they were exquisite. Far beyond some hokey community players productions—your costumes.”
His gaze was downcast on the heart, continuing to finger it, his tone becoming less abrasive, more dreamy.
“You came out at the curtain call at the end of play, credited for the costumes. You...Lola, I couldn't look away from you. Austin was throwing roses at his girlfriend, I was staring at you. I'm sure you didn't see me; but I attended every performance, every night until the show closed—just to see you for a few minutes taking a bow. I'm a shy man, Lola, so it...it was impossible for me to work up the nerve to go backstage, find you. The show closed, Austin broke up with his girlfriend and I thought I'd lost you. You don't know how I hurt following that.”
His head dipped further.
“I got shipped here for my safety. It was probably for the best. I was so despondent over you I probably would have leapt from the top of my dorms at NYU. I wasn't eating, didn't want to get out of bed...Uncle Michael had to come in and drag me out to get me to come to the table for meals I wouldn't eat. Then one morning, while I was pushing around oatmeal, I saw your Masque of the Red Death costume in the paper while Uncle Michael was reading it. Damn near scared him to death cause for the first time in a month I spoke. I knew he had that hospital opening and needed clothes for it and had just fallen out with Marco. Well, actually he beat the hell out of Marco over his money for that gold satin that was shit. I begged, pleaded, cried for him to go see you. Hire you. I'd have come to the Expo myself, but Uncle Michael insisted I stay here.”
Lola was speechless.
“He...he found you. Hired you. Brought you here. You see...how he torments me...”
Turning from her, TJ walked to the wall behind the car, speaking at it.
“He knew I had a crush on you, liked you. That's why he hugged you, kissed you all the time, to piss me off. Uncle Michael was teasing me because he knew how badly I wanted you, just...I couldn't bring myself to it. That's why I was probably mean and rude every time you saw me. Why you barely saw me. I'd watch you come and go. Sent gifts.
The phone—oh how I wanted to call you Lola. Talk to you, hear your voice. I got pulled off the balcony a couple of times cause I couldn't handle it. I left you a rose in the car before you went home--”
“That was you?” Shakily, Lola climbed to her feet.
Her entire perception of TJ Jackson transforming.
Maybe he wasn't the spoiled, indulged brat she thought him to be.
“Yes...”
He was leaning against the wall, eyes golden in their sockets.
“I...I didn't know. Everything given to me, Red said it was from Mr. Jackson. I... I just assumed...”
“...that it was from my uncle.” TJ finished for her.
“Well...yes.”
She mumbled his glare penetrating. “How could I not. This is the
most you've spoken to me since we've met...”
Flustered, she
trailed off as he walked back to her, standing over her, continuing
to stare.
“I...don't like to talk so much...” He whispered, face coming towards hers.
Pursed lips met air, as at the last moment, Lola pulled back.
Her nerves were too raw and rattled; she was overwhelmed by this information.
All this newly discovered information.
“Do you want my Uncle...instead of me?” TJ asked pointedly, long hand wrapping her wrist.
“No—don't...” She whimpered as he tugged, drawing her to him.
“I
can make you love me...”
The last half of the sentence went
down her throat, TJ forcing his mouth onto hers.
Damp, warm, soft lips colliding with hers.
Instantly, Lola had her hands on his chest, trying to push him away, stop him.
But he was far too strong and as his arms circled her, hugging her tightly to his solid form, Lola was helpless.
She sagged against him, gasping when he finally decided to come up for air.
Warm breaths puffing in her ear as he pleaded,
“Don't deny me...don't reject me...”
“I can't....” Lola was muffled as she rested her head against his broad strong shoulder.
“You can....you will....” His hand warm and clammy was on the back of her neck, and he was he was kissing her all over again.
“Stop!” Wriggling wildly, Lola freed herself and nearly fell as she stumbled back and away from him.
“I...I can't just switch gears like that! From Michael...to....to you! I don't know you, TJ. And then you buy me a car—we haven't spoken two words to each other!”
This was too fast, too sudden, and Lola unaccustomed to being sought after so completely, was revealing her fears plainly.
“I'm...” She bumped into and then around a yellow Lamborghini,
“I'm not for sale...I...I won't fuck you for your money!”
With her words seeming to go into one ear and out the other, TJ was advancing and frantically Lola looked about herself for a means of making swift exit.
To get away from him.
The elevator would take too long and how would she keep him from boarding with her?
That's when she saw it, just beyond the Bugatti TJ had been kicking.
A short staircase leading to a ground level door that surely opened up somewhere outside the house.
She glimpsed at TJ for a split second.
“No!
No! No! No!” Rather than yelling, she heard him speaking at a
monotone as she sidestepped him, sprinting as best she could in
four-inch heels.
About fifteen steps stood between her and
freedom.
She would scream for Red, for Michael, for President Bush if she had to.
A small white hand clutched the lever knob of the door.
“I said, NO goddamn it!”
Arms wrapped her waist and easily, TJ had torn her from the door.
Her only hope of escape.
“You can't leave me...not now....” He spoke calmly, matter-of-factly, as she flailed against him.
Fruitlessly.
“Put me down! Let me go TJ! Help! Help me! Help!” Lola cried hoarsely TJ managing to bump the Up button on the elevator with his elbow as she continued to wriggle and kick.
The door opened automatically and she was unceremoniously dumped onto the floor.
By the time she got her bearings, the elevator had been stopped between floors, TJ resting against the shut doors.
Staring down at her.
The pale creature with the reddened cheeks, wild eyes and mussed hair.
“Lola...” Her named seeped from between his clenched teeth.
“Get up.”
A hand was under her arm and she was hoisted wearily to her feet.
“Quit playing--”He started and shut his eyes, small hand whipping at his sienna cheek.
“Let me out! Let me out!” Lola had the front of his silk shirt balled in tiny fists.
“LET ME--”
In one liquid movement, she'd been shoved into a corner of the elevator, the front of the shirt tearing, hanging open, revealing TJ's taut, toned chest and abdomen.
“QUIT PLAYING GAMES WITH ME LOLA!”
The entire elevator shook with his deep bellow.
TJ stood with both arms up on the walls, blocking her from moving.
“We're beyond playing 'hard to get'. Beyond flirting, beyond all of that. You can't tell me you don't want me. You can't tell me you're not attracted to me!”
“I'm
not--”
Her mouth was eclipsed by his hand.
“Stop looking me in the eyes and lying to me!” TJ hissed.
“You show off for me, each and every day you set foot in this house. I'm the reason all your debts up and disappeared. I paid for all that—not my uncle. My father called long distance from France to curse me out about the money I was spending but I tuned it out.
I didn't care. All I thought about was you. I didn't want anything to hamper you, Lola. Stifle your creativity. Worry you. Told you to go shopping, dress how you like. Don't think I didn't notice after a while you'd look for me up on the second floor when you came through the front hall. Look up to see me when you arrived and as you left. You looked for me.”
So...he had noticed.
He kept a hold on her mouth while setting the elevator back into motion.
“I saw how you changed...evolved. Little shorts, little skirts, teased hair, heavier makeup. You never looked at my uncle the way you looked at me. I could see it. Raw, bare...the want...the need...”
Byoom!
The doors to the elevator slid open, revealing the hulking Asian, his expression at first set with seriousness, then slanted eyes widened in curiosity at the spectacle inside that hanging cubicle.
“Mr. Jackson...” He started in wonder and TJ released Lola's lips.
A stern glare kept a civil tongue in her head as TJ questioned,
“Where is my uncle?”
“Out...in
the animal sanctuary. A bear from the Ukraine was just
delivered--”
“Good.” Gripping her cool hand in his own, TJ
was pulling Lola along.
“I want you, Red, Max, everyone keep my uncle occupied. And if he comes looking for her...”
Lola was indicated with a flick of the head,
“Tell him she's helping me with something. Do. You. Understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Jackson...”
TJ Jackson was cutting a speedy path back through the first floor when Lola stopped so abruptly he was tugged back violently.
“Lola!” TJ wore his exasperation like his messy curls.
“What...what are you planning to do with me?” The young woman demanded, trying to pry his fingers from hers.
His forehead pressed hers, brows flexing attractively,
“Something where the only thing you'll have on are those pretty little boots, hopefully propped on my shoulders...” He remarked, devilish grin curling his lips.
“You keep playing with me, Lola van der Stepp. Stop being a tease. If you truly didn't want this you'd have scratched me, bitten me, kicked me in the nuts, screamed at Kenji for help...something... and yet, you didn't.”
He went to pull her back in step and she resisted, yanking the other way.
“Lola!”
“Tito Joe!” She mimicked his aggravated, shrill tone and witnessed a plucked brow raise.
Flaxen locks tossed and she eyed him ruefully,
“Aside from you bringing folders to Michael, I've never seen you do anything that even resembled work...”
Lola tugged a second time, her employer's nephew stumbling forward.
“...have you ever worked for anything in your life or was it only handed to you for the asking...”
The other plucked brow met the first at his hairline.
Pearly teeth were shown to him eager jest.
“I just wanted to see if you were willing to work....for me.”
Bronze eyes danced in their sockets, broad brows flexing, TJ spoke through clenched white teeth,
“I've been working for you...since before I even met you! Shamone!”
All of the winding halls seemed to blur together, Lola, giggly with her heart all a-twitter, struggling to keep pace with TJ as he was making a beeline back for the grand staircase.
“...I'd like to have the roast duck, with fried eggplant, thinly sliced and the new potatoes with the parsley butter. For dessert, peach pie ala mode...”
The newly minted pair came to a halt at the first step, both gazing up in confusion and astonishment.
Michael Jackson may have been out in the animal sanctuary earlier, but now he was ambling towards the same stairs, clad in a black leather trench coat, fresh snowflakes glistening in his hair.
The small, rotund chef scrambling after his charge, scribbling Michael's decision for dinner that night into a small notepad.
“....and....and to drink, Mr. Jackson?”
There was silence, Michael cutting large brown eyes coolly at his nephew and clothier.
His own groomed brows raised in a seemingly A-ha moment, during which Lola felt TJ wind his arm around her waist, pulling her possessively back against him.
Curls brushing her face as he made a direct show of kissing the curve where her neck and shoulder met.
TJ meeting his uncle's gaze boldly.
“...Mr. Jackson...?”
Never looking away, Michael finally replied,
“The Musigny Burgundy—1991.”
“Yes, Sir! And to start?”
“White asparagus with hollandaise, please.”
Head turning, Michael looked down at the sweating, beet- faced fat man at his side, questioning meekly,
“Could I have a small salad now? Nothing extravagant, just some greens and a light dressing. I don't believe I can wait until this evening to eat.”
“Of course, Sir...!”
And just like that, Michael Jackson and his chef waltzed past the pair, and down a hall, destined for the kitchen.
And Lola was being yanked up the stairs, her feet never touching them, as TJ Jackson practically carried her.
* * *
The interior of the massive suite which sufficed as the bedroom for one TJ Jackson had been thrown into a semi-gloom, heavy velvet curtains drawn closed on their valances, the crystal chandelier overhead , dormant and dark.
The room was warm; almost too warm.
Lola van der Stepp should have been cold.
Or at least a slight chill.
For all she wore at that moment, as she was apprehensively pressing herself against the smooth, polished wood of the shut doors were her pretty, bejeweled boots.
The rest of her clothing, the cashmere dress, and scant panties worn beneath had all but dissolved the moment she crossed the threshold of that room.
All around the perimeter of the room, candles, blood red, a sharp contrast to the shades of beige, cream and fawn, accented with bronze and brass for good measure, flickers and danced.
Like the rest of the mansion, save the garage, the bedchamber was decorated in an overblown, courtly manner.
Lola, fully nude, stared down at her shoes, glittering up at her, trying desperately to avoid his gaze lest she ignite and take the entire house with her.
She could feel his eyes on her; they had been on her since they'd entered to the room.
She dared a peek at him.
TJ stood a few feet away, half hidden by the sloping back of the gold brocade chaise lounge.
He had been standing there, watching her conspicuously, hands gripping the divan.
Clearly the wheels in his mind were spinning; trying to decide what exactly it was he wanted to do with her.
Eyes gliding up and down her pale form, over the small, pert breasts, down her smooth abdomen...
At the bare pink triangle presented to him so plainly.
His bottom lip was sucked in, TJ wiggling ever so slightly.
Had he caught a chill?--No.
Suddenly, he stepped from around the couch...wearing only the tattered white tee.
Unconsciously, brown eyes fell, first to his legs, shining with cocoa butter, mildly hairy and heavy with muscles—he did swim and play tennis almost daily—such strong, powerful legs.
For such a strong, powerful man.
Eventually her eyes became fixed on his pubis.
Where hair, mirroring that on his head, was wild and curly, was concentrated between his thighs.
And it was from this triangular thatch of hair...
Lola's breaths slowed and stopped with her effectively holding it, her eyes widening in a mix of surprise, shock and awe.
The beast, exposed, stood erect, fully engorged, saluting her in all of its salacious glory.
He...he was so large.
Easily a foot if not more.
It wagged with each step he took, his scrotum, fuzzy bobbed underneath as he came up to her.
Lola's flat bosom hardly moving, lest she were to wake from what surely was a dream.
This couldn't be true.
This couldn't be real.
Blink as she may, the visual before her never wavered.
He was hovering dangerously closer, lashes fluttered as he looked down over her body.
The secret was out in open air.
Accepted.
His cologne, briny and oceanic, tickled her nostrils, TJ placing strong hands upon trim shoulders, his gaze being clearly felt, peering at the bowed blonde head.
“Do...” His meek words hung over her head. “...do you think you could be happy with me Lola?”
False lashes flittered, Lola taking in the face so keenly attuned to her own.
“Do you think you could love me?”
Dark eyes met gold ones with her whispering, voice shaking
“I already do...”
Briefly his lips, soft, most, delicious pressed hers.
Like the flames dancing around the room, Lola was on fire.
Pure adrenaline fueled her as she all but flung herself against the spoiled young man whom had so covertly yet so obviously spoiled her.
Hugging tightly to him, Lola buried her face in his smooth, toned chest.
“Please...please...” She begged hoarsely into his throat. “TJ...”
Lips met once more and Lola saw a galaxy's worth of stars.
So many things happened at once, Lola was scarcely able to keep track of it all.
His hands...his hands were roving all over her.
Rubbing at, pulling on, mashing after her pale silken dermis.
“I...I need you badly...” He confessed. “I've waited so long...you don't know how hard...”
A large hand traced her jaw lovingly.
TJ touched at her lips, so sweet, so plump.
Pushing his index and middle finger past those lips, Lola allowed him to put his fingers into his mouth.
Watching what looked to be enchantment take his features as she began to suck on the digits.
His brows going up, a pure softness coming to his eyes.
Continuing to suckle his fingers, Lola reached and clasped his wrist.
Slowly, slowly, she pulled his fingers from her lips, and cradling his hand in hers, kissed at several times over.
“Oh Lola!” The words seeped from his mouth as it assaulted hers again, arms wrapping each other, becoming entangled.
“TJ!” She whimpered into his cheek, tongue swabbing at his beauty mark, as his slightly rough fingertips began bumping around her forbidden triangle.
“Shhh! Shhh! Shhh!” He was all but blowing in her ear, watching excitedly as fresh color rushed her cheeks, that pretty face squinching with wanton, fingers slipping into her warm pinky folds.
“Ugh!” Arms wrapping his long neck, she pulled him closer to her, as he forced his fingers up the knuckles inside of her.
“I know Baby...oh girl....” He intoned, “...so tight....so perfect....for me...”
His hands were holding her face, staring into her eyes with a seriousness she'd never seen.
“Tell me you want me...” Golden eyes widened and those thick brows flexed.
“Tell me you want me...”
Soft, delicate lips quivered a moment.
Were those tears in her eyes; it felt like it.
“I...I want you...”
* * *
“...oh God!...oh...Aaaaah! Ah! Ah! God! Ah!....”
Lola whimpered, her teeth so grit it was a wonder her pearly whites weren't turning to a fine powder in her mouth.
“Oh! Oh! Christ! Oh! Damn it! Oh—AH!”
For a split second, eyes which had been clamped in rapture manged to open, taking in everything , too much, all at once.
The flames dancing, the draped cream velvet of the canopy of the bed overhead, rhythmically swaying in tandem with such a salacious act taking place atop the matching silk satin bedding, and TJ...
Somewhere between the divan and the huge bed, the last scrap of clothing, the ripped white tee had come off, leaving him naked as the day he'd drawn his first breath.
She'd been carried and all but thrown onto the bed.
TJ repeating himself about wanting her in only the boots.
Needing her, craving her.
He'd devolved in crazed manner, his speaking, switching from English, to perfect, fluent Spanish. Not a single word of which Lola understood, but felt the passion behind each foreign syllable.
Then TJ Jackson was on her.
There had been no true foreplay.
That was an unknown, unneeded concept.
It wasn't needed; it was far too late.
Six months had already been wasted.
Brown eyes fluttered shut a moment and were compelled to be opened.
Staring up at the young man.
His lovely dark body, so taut, so defined, glowing with a thin veneer of perspiration.
Large hands gripping her small tits, bed continuing to shake as he thrust after her, his manly bush rubbing against her bare little slit.
The girth of him just barely fitting in her—he was quite literally the largest man she'd ever experienced.
“Ah! Ah! Ugh—Shit! Teej—Ah!”
He squeezed on her bosom harder, looking at her, but had his head flung back, lips sucked in, sculpted nostrils flaring.
Flinging his hips at her without restraint.
A small white hand rubbed across his solid abs.
“No! Ah! TJ! TJ! TJ! AH!” She keened, the feeling between her legs, a nagging pleasurable soreness starting to get the best of her.
The curly head fell, and TJ eyes still closed, sighed one, longing word.
“Fuck...”
As her eyes failed to remain open, his did the opposite.
His eyes washed over the slight figure, writhing beneath him.
Her pretty little face, mouth open as she slurred his name blissfully, flaxen locks fanning out over the pillows.
Slim legs up, candlelight bouncing off the stones of her boots with each powerful thrust.
How warm she was, so tight...how she stretched and clutched him with all that made her a woman with each pass of that quivering, rod of masculinity.
How sweetly she smelled. A mix of cotton candy and vanilla.
Almost too sweet, yet...perfect.
How else should a creature, so pale, so fair smell?
In an instant, TJ was completely on Lola, allowing her to wrap her arms and legs around him, the two of them meeting rapidly in the most intimate places.
One smoldering cheek pressed to the other.
“You like that....you like that....Ugh....Hell....Girl....”
He was taunting, teasing hotly.
“...f...fuck me...fuck me....fuck me....” She begged, her hands on running through his hair.
Much to her chagrin and confusion, TJ's wild gyrations came to a halt and he lifted off her slightly.
Brown eyes met bronze and he gave her that Joker-like smile.
“What do you think I'm doing, Sweetheart, knitting a sweater?” He questioned breathlessly.
Did he have to be so sexy? So handsome? So...so...so everything?
“Damn you...”She half-giggled, TJ sliding down her body a bit.
Lips pressing at her peachy areola.
Tongue coming out, it flicked against the bud, already erect from him having grasped on it for so long.
Hand bouncing the other tit gingerly, he continued to suck a moment on the right one.
Amused, Lola twirled a black curl in her fingers, inquiring, her heart speeding with his every touch.
“Do you like them?”
“Your breasts?” His eyes came up for a split second, with him speaking off into her bosom. “Yes--”
“Michael said I was flat chested--”
“He's not the one screwing you right now; don't think about him.” TJ spoke over Lola flatly and using her for leverage, was again upright.
His big hands ran over her softly toned thighs, and he was pushing her legs open wider.
“Wait--”Lola started to caution. “TJ--”
“I like your tits...” Eyes were darting over her flesh, every exposed orifice greedily.
“I like everything about you... I told you that, Lola....”
His eyes burned with sheer intensity, his warm hard body settling onto hers, his mouth tracing her neck, her jaw and melding with her own.
And she moaned off down his throat as the began plowing into her once more.
“YES! YES! YES! OH GOD! OH MY GOD! AH! AH! OH!”
Lola cried up at the exposed beams of the ceiling, hands gripping the smooth polished wood of one of the found posters of the bed, her fingers tangled into the light colored velvet threatening to tear it from the rods.
She didn't know how she ended up out of the bed, standing on shaking, trembling, jellified legs, grasping that pole for dear life.
AH! AH! TJ! TJ! DAMN YOU! DAMN—TJ! TJ! TJ!”
But there she was, entire body reverberating with each and every determined ram from the young, perspiring man behind her.
TJ, hands placed firmly on thin hips, was focused on the lewd task at hand.
Bottom lip sucked in with earnest concentration, entire body glossy with a sheen of sweat, hair bouncing here and yonder.
Eyes on the slim white buttocks rippling each time his crotch met them, flinging the impressive length and girth of himself deeper and deeper into her.
Taking pleasure in every little sound she made.
The groans, the moans, even the swears.
“Ugh! Ugh! UGH! UGH! UGH!”
It went unnoticed but the silvery nails were beginning to go through the precious fabric, leaving small tears, as the young woman, in the throws of such remarkable lust incarnate.
The things being done to her.
The things she was allowing to be done.
The heat she felt, the way her body responded and anticipated his every move.
It seemed she and he were made for each other.
How had Lola lived without TJ; how had TJ lived without Lola?
Had the pair been born for this moment—where the two became one?
Yes, it would appear so.
“Stop! Stop! TJ--” She squealed and began to claw at the bed dressings frantically, frenzied.
Growing hotter than she'd ever felt before; her body, the mere wanton flesh she was, began to surrender to this.
To him.
“I'm gonna come! TJ—stop! Stop please!” She screamed, pulling from him suddenly, and with seemingly no other place to go started to crawl across the mussed bed.
TJ's manhood slipping from her little battered slit.
She had to get away, run.
She was frightened by her own body.
Her own senses.
Lola no longer even knew herself.
Lola was almost off the opposite end of the bed, fleeing, when she felt it.
The strong hand gripping her leg.
Pulling her back.
“I told you....” TJ snarled though his teeth as he flipped her onto her back, hands on her wrists, over her head, to minimize her wriggling against him,
“...you're mine....you can't go....I've waited...too long....”
That slick, toned, solid brown body was all over her, holding her close driving himself into her all over again.
“MY GOD! AH!!!!! TJ! TJ! Aaaaaaah!”
A fresh look of greedy determination darkening his handsome features, lips pursed slightly showing on his two front teeth.
The red brown eyes rolled unwillingly and managed to focus on him.
Was he her lover, her boyfriend?
More, less?
TJ was staring at her.
Watching her every reaction to him.
Yes...yes he was smiling at her.
“Oh....” For the first time, he made a sound, hips flexing harder, more erratically, his body beginning to tremble.
“Here....here....here it comes....oh shit!” He gasped, falling against her hugging tightly.
More tightly than she had ever been held.
“Lola....oh....ah....ugh, damn....:
His breaths were so hot on her face as he sucked at her mouth, a warm, wonderful wetness springing forth.
And those sweet, treasured words fell out of his mouth.
“I...I love you Lola.”
There TJ Jackson's body grew still, arms still wrapped around Lola van der Stepp, the pair of them both smiling as they drifted off into dream land.
But it wasn't a dream...it was something of a fantasy.
A fantasy that had come true.
A Few Weeks Later
St. Ignatius Children's Hospital
Brooklyn, New York
“Mr. Jackson! Over here—Michael! Mr. Jackson, this way please, Sir! Yoo-hoo, Michael!”
Michael Jackson, an oversized pair of chrome plated scissors in his gloved hands smiled brightly into the onslaught of flashing bulbs as with one quick swick of the blades, the decorative red ribbon marking the doors of the brand-new neonatal unit bearing his name.
He was resplendent in his crystal adorned suit, hair fluffed around his shoulders as a trustee, in bright green doctor's scrubs came forward, a tiny infant in his arms wrapped in a blue blanket and yowling, the first baby to be taken care of in the unit.
Nearby the proud parents looked on as Michael took hold of the child, putting the shears aside and kissed the little bundle of screaming ugly, bringing a serene silence to the child.
A few feet away, glass of punch in hand, Lola beamed proudly.
The suit had turned out even better than expected.
If Michael Jackson had wanted to look like a rock star, he certainly embodied it that night.
And inconspicuously eavesdropping as other members of the glitterati wafted by, Lola was hearing more comments about his ensemble than the new addition to the hospital.
“You're a hit...”
A warm voice whispered into her ear, playfully tugging on the diamond bauble glinting in it.
Turning, Lola saw that TJ, in a simple black tux had sidled up beside her, a crudite in one hand, a warm smile and fond light in his eyes.
“You think so, huh?” She mused, his free arm slipping around her waist and pulling her close.
“I know so.” Her cheek was pecked. “I've already heard three different people wanting to have you design for them—you're on your way, Baby!”
“Lola!” Michael was waving at her. “I have some people I need you to meet!”
On her way. Lola van der Stepp was on her.
And hugged to TJ she smiled walking towards his uncle and the new chapter of life opening up to her.
