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

Chapter 2

Michael
-

Friday nights in Los Angeles never changed.

Money talked, sin listened, and I owned every whisper that passed through this building.

The crowd downstairs wasn't here for pleasure, they were here for permission. Permission to be the worst version of themselves, and for a few hours, I gave it to them.

The Velvet Room. My name wasn't on the sign, but it didn't need to be.

Everyone who mattered knew who ran it.

I'd built this place like I'd built myself, quiet, untouchable, and dangerous when provoked.

No chaos. No mistakes. Not anymore.

Ramon's knock was soft but deliberate before he stepped into my office.

He moved like a man who knew where he was and what that meant.

"There's someone downstairs asking for you," he said. "Tourist, maybe. Says he's from Chicago."

I looked up from the ledger, my pen freezing mid-stroke.

"What else?"

"He said he wanted to see the man who built this place. He seemed harmless and curious."

I leaned back in my chair, the leather sighing under me. "Curiosity doesn't live long in here, Ramon."

He gave a small nod. "You want me to send him off?"

"No," I said, after a pause that stretched too long. "Bring him up."

When Ramon left, I poured another drink, letting the ice settle before I lifted it.

Chicago.

The word still burned.

I hadn't heard it out loud since the night I buried that part of myself.

The door opened again a few minutes later. The man who stepped in didn't belong here.

He wasn't nervous, but he wasn't comfortable either, just standing there like he'd walked into the wrong dream and didn't know it yet.

"Mr. Jackson," he said, extending a hand. His accent was Midwest, clean, the vowels sharp like he was trying too hard to sound polite.

I didn't shake it. "That's what they call me."

He smiled, lowering his hand. "Beautiful place you've got here. I've been to a lot of clubs in Vegas, New York, Miami, but this one... this one's something else."

"That right?"

He nodded, eyes flicking around the room. "Yeah. Reminds me of a spot I used to go to back home. Chicago. You ever been?"

"Once," I lied easily. "Didn't stay long."

He grinned. "There was a place there, Club 30s. You ever hear of it?"

The name hit like a blade, right under the ribs. I didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Just took a slow sip from my glass.

"Can't say I have," I said.

He laughed softly, oblivious. "Man, you'd love it. Old-school joint. Smoke, whiskey, the whole deal. The kind of place that had stories soaked into the floorboards. They say it used to be run by some guy... real legend, back in the day. He was the dangerous type, but people respected him."

"Sounds like an interesting rumor," I said.

"Still open, believe it or not," He went on. "There's a new owner, though. Some woman. She runs it cleaner now, but still has that same edge. It's got this... energy. Like it's haunted, you know?"

I let out a quiet laugh, low and humorless. "Places like that usually are."

He smiled, tilting his head. "Guess you'd know."

That earned him a look. One he didn't notice right away, but when he did, he swallowed, the grin fading.

I stood slowly, adjusting my cuffs. "Ramon."

He appeared in the doorway again, silent, waiting.

"Make sure our guest has a drink on the house before he leaves," I said. "And make sure he leaves quietly."

The man's face twitched. "Hey, I didn't mean anything by it, I just—"

"You've already said enough," I interrupted softly.

Ramon's hand landed on his shoulder, guiding him out the door.

The sound of their footsteps faded down the hall.

I stared at the space where he'd stood, the echo of his words replaying in my head like static.

Still open.

A woman runs it now.

The air in the room shifted. I crossed to the window, looking down at the floor below.

The red lights, the strippers, the hum of bodies moving in time to a song they'd never remember. Everything looked alive, and yet none of it meant a thing.

I set the glass down, the sound of it sharp in the silence.

My reflection stared back at me in the window, faint under the neon glow.

She used to say I never looked at things for what they were, only for how I could control them.

Maybe she was right.

But this wasn't control.

This was something else. Something crawling back from the grave, whispering a name I'd spent three years trying to forget.

I drew in a long breath and turned back toward my desk. "Ramon," I called when I heard the door open again.

"Yeah, boss?"

"Find out who that man was. Name, hotel, everything. I want it done tonight."

He hesitated. "You think he's trouble?"

"I think he talked too much about places he shouldn't know," I said quietly. "That's reason enough."

He nodded once. "Understood."

When the door shut again, I sank back into the leather chair.

Club 30s. Still standing.

Whoever ran the place, whoever she was, she could have it.

The ghosts could keep Chicago. I had no interest in resurrecting the dead.

I picked up the glass beside me, swirled the scotch. The ice had melted. It tasted like nothing.

The reflection in the window caught my attention. My eyes, dull and heavy under the red light.

Three years ago, those eyes burned. Now they just watched..

I took out my phone. "Ramon," I said when he answered. "Erase everything that ties me to that city. Every name, every record, every memory. Burn it."

A pause, then a quiet, "Yes, boss."

I ended the call, dropped the phone onto the desk, and lit another cigarette.

The smoke curled upward, twisting around the red light.

People said ghosts haunted places.
They were wrong.

Ghosts haunt people.

And some of them, no matter how deep you bury them, they learn how to crawl back.