Smile (a Michael Jackson Fanfiction)

(3)

Emma's POV

My eyes flutter open, as the sun splays across my stomach. I lie on the couch with my eyes half shut, thinking about Michael Jackson. Ugh I would never meet him, I convince myself as I swing my legs out of the bed. I walk over to the window sill and turn the dial for the radio to tell me the news this morning. 

The clock reads 1:00 pm and I decide that I should probably eat some breakfast. I can't find a day job, so I spend my day sleeping and eating what food there actually is in my apartment.

"For all of those Michael Jackson fans out there, listen up," the static radio blares, causing me to wince, "Michael Jackson is taking a vacation. It isn't somewhere, but everywhere!" the announcer exclaims as I walk over to it to turn it the hell down, "He will be staying in different cities all over the world. Watch out for him, even if you don't think you have a chance of meeting him, it could be you who ends up meeting the King Of Pop!" she continues to screech... or maybe it's just the radio.

I walk back over to the counter and take another bite of my bland, off-brand cereal. I guess it would be cool to meet Michael Jackson. But it wouldn't happen, especially because of the sketchy ass part of town I live nd work in.

Once I've finished my disgusting breakfast that is more like a lunch, I walk back over to the couch and fall asleep, my mind still on Michael Jackson. Why would he even go on vacation around the world at the risk of him getting attacked by literally every human being who doesn't live under a rock.

4:45 comes around and I decide that it is time to get up and ready for work. I shower, dress, apply the little makeup I have, and shrug on my jacket. As I walk into the bar, Mr.Brutally smacks my ass and calls me a whore, you know the usual, and I get my ass to work. After an hour of me wiping down the counter multiple times and sneaking  beer or two, I realize that only two people have come in so for. I guess it's going to be a quiet night.

After a few hours, everyone has rolled out and the only person still dumb enough to be in this bar is sitting in the back corner, sipping a water that I got him an hour ago. I have a sneaking suspission as to who it is, but I didn't want to confront him in front of everyone. Usually you come to a bar to drink, but I guess he just came to get hydrated.

"Can I get you anything else..... Michael?" I smile, placing my hand on my hip.

"How'd you know?!" he shouts a whisper, leaning forward.

"Well your everyday look are sunglasses and a baseball cap, not that hard to figure it out." I sigh, leaning against the side of the sticky booth.

"Oh.... I'm surprised you haven't freaked out yet." he smirks, sipping his water.

"Well someone is full of themselves." I tease.

"No, I didn't mean it like that," he frowns, "I just meant-"

"I know," I interrupt, "I get it, I was just joking." I smile, trying to comfort him.

"Oh.... okay," he says slouching down a bit.

"So is there anything else I can get you?" I ask, pulling out my paper pad, "Food, drink, ice cream?" I smirk. He shakes his head, resting his elbows on the polished wood.

"No, I'm okay. I could use some conversation though," he says, removing his sunglasses, making me realize how beautiful he is, "Please, take a seat." he gestures. I look back towards the boss's office, and shake my head.

"I can't do that," I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose, "My boss would get mad if he saw. Plus, I need to attend to the others who come in here, not just you." I mumble.

"No, it's okay. Just get up if someone else comes in, and if your boss sees, I'll cover for you and tell him it's just good customer service." he smiles, slowly convincing me. I smile, rolling my eyes.

"I'm guessing you usually get people to do what you ask." I sigh, placing the pad in my apron.

"Only pretty girls," he flashes a smile. I roll my eyes, feeling myself getting irritated.

"So you have experience with pretty girls? How many?" I smirk sarcastically.

"Wait, that's not what I meant," he says, putting a hand up.

"Please, I bet you just want another girl to fan over you and become another notch in your belt." I roll my eyes starting to walk away.

"Wait, Emma," he says, standing immediately to grab my wrist from behind, sending a shock through my body. I whip around and rip my wrist from his hand.

"How do you know my name?" I grit.

"Nametag," he says looking down, the illusion that he is looking at my breasts crosses me.

"Smartass..." I mumble, walking back behind the bar.

"I'm sorry I hurt your feelings," he apologizes, sitting on a leather-padded stool, "I was just trying to compliment you." he explains. I sigh, leaning against the bar.

"Okay." I say, trying to accept his apology.

"Do you forgive me?" he asks softly, taking my hand in his. Our eyes connect and I feel this spark that has never ignited in me before.

"Y-yes." I stutter, pulling my hand from his. He frowns, not fully convinced, but I stray from the subject anyways, "So why did you come into this shitty bar?" I ask, walking away to get him another glass of water.

"Well.... I just wanted to get away from the crowd. I kept having to put my head down because people were giving me looks of acknowledgment. I knew they were starting to figure it out. Hey, I sat in the back of this bar, all slouched and everything, but you still saw right through the disguise." he sighs, standing to follow me to the bar.

"Just a tip," I smirk, as he sits on the barstool, "Your everyday look doesn't turn to a disguise when you slouch in your seat."

"No really." he deadpans. I giggle, sliding him the glass, "Thanks." he smiles.

"It's my job." I respond, rolling my eyes.

"Why are you working here if you hate it so much?" he asks, sipping the beaded glass.

"It's the only job I could find. New York was already occupied when I got here." I smirk, not letting it reach my eyes.

"You seem so much better than this rundown building." he says, looking around.

"Well, tell that to God, because he put me in this situation." I sigh, resting my elbows on the wooden bar.

"What do you mean?" he asks, folding his hands in front of mine.

"I was a straight A student, top in all my classes. I am artistically talented, musically talented, but God obviously didn't want me to pursue that because of the living conditions he put me in." I sigh, not wanting to talk about it anymore.

"What were your living conditions like?" he asks, trying to get deeper information.

"Never mind, Michael. You may be famous, but I'm not about to spill to you." I feel myself getting snippy with him.

"I see," he murmurs before we sit in a thick, awkward silence, making me think back to this morning when I thought I would never meet this worldwide sensation. Clearly it's not what I thought it would be because I can definitely believe this is happening right now.