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.
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