Wait For You - 'Look After You' Sequel - A Michael Jackson Fanfiction

Prologue

Michael
-

Blood smells like copper and smoke.
I remember that first.

Then the silence. The kind that doesn't belong to the living.

My hands were slick, my vision tunneling in and out as I crawled across the gravel toward her.

The headlights had gone dim, the world shrinking to a single frame, her body on the pavement, motionless.

"Evelyn?"
My voice cracked, hoarse, half-choked on blood.

She didn't move.

I reached her knees first, then her hair, dark, tangled, soaked.

I pushed it back from her face, my fingers trembling, slippery. Her skin was cold.

Too cold.

"Ev."

No response. Just the quiet hum of a dying engine somewhere behind me.

I pressed my palm to her cheek, shaking, whispering her name again and again until it lost meaning.

I remember the taste of salt and iron when I kissed her forehead, the way her head lolled against my arm like she'd already gone.

Someone shouted in the distance, tires screeching, a door slamming, but I couldn't look away.

It didn't matter. None of it did.

The blood on my shirt wasn't just mine anymore.

It was ours.

"I'm sorry," I murmured against her hair. "I'm so sorry."

Her lashes fluttered once. Or maybe I imagined it.

Maybe I wanted to believe she was still in there somewhere, waiting for me to pull her back.

Then the sirens came.

I remember the flash of red and blue, the shouts, hands grabbing at me, pulling me off her, but I wouldn't let go.

I screamed at them to stop, to save her, but they didn't answer. They just zipped the bag over her face like it was nothing.

Like she was nothing.

That sound, the rasp of the zipper, I still hear it sometimes.

It follows me.

They said I lost too much blood that night. That I blacked out before they got me to the hospital.

But that's not true.

I remember every second.
The weight of her.
The way her body went still in my arms.
The way the world stopped moving when she did.

They told me she was gone.

And I believed them.

Because I saw her die.
I felt it.

————

Three years later

My club.
My empire.
My distraction.

The sign out front said The Velvet Room, but everyone in Los Angeles knew who really owned the night inside. "Jackson."

That's what they called me. No one said Michael anymore. That name died with her.

I sat in the back room overlooking the main floor, one leg crossed, a half-empty glass of bourbon in my hand.

Down below, laughter and music tangled with the sharp clink of ice in glasses, heels tapping against marble floors, men whispering promises they couldn't afford to keep.

The girls danced like ghosts, beautiful, dangerous, and completely untouchable.

Every move rehearsed, every smile paid for. I made sure of that.

Nothing in this place happened without my say-so.

But power has a sound.

It hums, quiet and constant, beneath everything.

And after three years, it's the only thing that drowns out the sound of that zipper.

A knock came at the door, short, deliberate.

My men knew better than to interrupt me unless it mattered.

"Come in," I said, voice calm, measured.

Ramon stepped inside. Young, built like a tank, but still twitched when my eyes met his. "We got a problem at the bar."

"There's always a problem at the bar," I muttered, finishing the bourbon. "What kind?"

He hesitated. "Guy from the Port Authority. Says his cut's short. He's getting loud about it."

I stood, smoothing the front of my black shirt. "Handle it."

Ramon nodded, but didn't move. "Boss, he asked for you by name."

That got my attention. "He says he won't talk to anyone else."

I took my time walking to the door, grabbed my jacket from the chair. "Then let's not keep him waiting."

Downstairs, the air was different, it was thicker. The music pounded harder, lights slicing across the room like blades.

The crowd parted as I walked through, like they could feel the shift in the atmosphere.

The man was easy to spot, nervous, sweating, talking too much for someone who was supposedly fearless.

When he saw me, his mouth went dry. "Mr. Jackson," he started, trying to straighten his posture. "Didn't mean any disrespect. I just—"

"Stop talking," I said quietly.

He did.

I glanced at Ramon. "You checked his numbers?"

"Twice. He's lying."

I looked back at the man. "You steal from me?"

"N-no, sir—"

"Then you're accusing me of lying."

He froze, realizing the trap.

I stepped closer, "I don't care about the money. I care about the insult."

The man's eyes darted toward the door, but there was nowhere to go. The guards flanked it already.

I leaned in, voice low enough for only him to hear. "You know what makes me different from the rest of the men who run this city?"

He shook his head quickly.

"I don't raise my voice. Ever. Because when I do..."
I smiled faintly. "It's already too late."

The color drained from his face.

I stepped back, motioned to Ramon. "Make sure he remembers who runs this place."

Ramon nodded, hauling the man out by his collar. The music swallowed his muffled protests.

I watched them disappear into the back corridor, exhaling slowly. Same routine. Different city.

When I turned toward the mirrored wall, for a moment, I saw her smile, brown eyes, soft mouth, that quiet defiance.

But when I blinked, it was gone.

I adjusted my cufflinks, schooling my face back into its usual calm.

The city feared me now. They should.

But they didn't know the truth.
They didn't know that every night, I still dreamed of her.
That every time I closed my eyes, I saw blood on my hands that wouldn't wash off.

They didn't know that the only thing more dangerous than the man I'd become,
was the man I used to be.