You wake up from a gentle sniff in your ear. Michael lies on his stomach next to you, his mouth almost touching your cheek. He is still fast asleep with his arms wrapped around the pillow and his leg hooked firmly around one of yours. He is so close, you can feel his body heat on your skin. You take a moment to soak in the fact that you are still with him, in his bed where you spent last night making love, talking and finally falling asleep still so well aware of each other's presence. "I want to be here when you wake up tomorrow..." he said last night. And he actually is here, covered cozily with a warm duvet, his shoulders rising and falling as he breathes deeply in his sleep. His face serene, framed with a stack of black tousled hair, which contrasts greatly with the perfect whiteness of the pillow. A strong desire of running your fingers along his face overwhelms you. Carefully you lift your hand from under the duvet and glide the tips of your fingers over his cheek, down to his jaw. With no make-up left on his face, you can clearly see numerous tiny acne scars covering it, making the skin feel porous. Slowly you move your forefinger farther and run it down the cleft on his chin. It feels firm and prickly from the tiny bristles already making their way through the skin. Your touch doesn't seem to disturb him, and he remains asleep in the dimmed light of early morning.
Morning!!
Almost panicking, you turn to the nightstand and try to reach the alarm clock on it. Finally, you manage to turn it around. It's 8:15 a.m.!
Crap! Bert, Kirk, the contract! Oh, no!
You bite your lips and carefully peel Michael's leg off yours. He stirs but remains asleep. Thank God! If he wakes up, no contract signing on Erath will be able to drag you out of this very bed. You scramble out of it and start hastily moving around the bedroom in search of your clothes. Finding your jeans on the floor next to Michael's, you quickly drag them on. Grabbing your bra, you suddenly realize that you are still wearing Michael's 'Pluto' T-shirt. Oh, boy! Desperately you gaze around: your turtleneck has vanished. It must be lost somewhere in the bed linen... Double crap! You are running out of time! The meeting is scheduled for 9 a.m. and you still have to take a shower and make yourself look like a decent human being. Finally deciding that Pluto will be the faithful companion of your early morning escape, you grab your hair band from the nightstand and put it around your wrist. After hesitating for a short while, you pick up a pen from the same nightstand (bless the hotel management for their prudence!) and scribble your mobile phone number on a small notepad. Hesitantly you add one more line to the message, 'This is my mobile phone number. Just in case. ;) M.'
Throwing one last look at peacefully sleeping Michael, you tiptoe to the living room and out into the corridor, your shoes grasped firmly in your hand. You let a short sigh of relief finding the corridor empty, no square-looking bodyguards in sight. As the doors of the elevator finally shut, you take a breath and let your mind dwell on last night. You spent it with Michael again and now feel rested. And there was no sex (well, in the second part of it) only cuddling. He told you he was not used to sleeping with anyone in the same bed 'on regular basis' but judging from his deep sleep this morning, he is rapidly getting used to it. You grin at the thought and step out of the elevator, feeling more positive and optimistic than you have for the last couple of weeks. As you proceed with your daily routine, your mind keeps taking you back to the 18th floor and the Presidential Suite of Mr. Blacksmith.
*****
"That control-craving son of a bitch is completely smitten, girl, I can declare with whole responsibility!" Bert exclaims flashing one his widest smiles at you.
Kirk and Jeff have just left, taking away the icy ambiance and the signed contract locked safely in Kirk's briefcase.
"You made them amend almost every single point of that goddamned document, Mary! And what is even more shocking, they didn't hesitate to do so!" Bert shakes his head, his expression wicked.
"We have to benefit, right?" you lift your cup and take a small sip.
"Here we go!" Bert leans back with a short laugh, "I can tell you slept well last night."
You almost choke on your coffee, "Yes, very well."
"I bet you had some good wine, didn't you?"
"Oh, I did," a bottle of Michael Joseph Jackson 1958, excellent vintage!
"Told you it would help. Now, what's the plan? Our flight is this evening so we still have plenty of time."
"No plans, Bert. I'm dreaming of a hot bath, my head is still a bit dizzy from yesterday's... wine," you clear your throat wondering if Michael is already awake. Has he called your mobile? Will he?
"Sure, baby. Go. Relax. I'll see you in the lobby at 6." He gets up and offers you his hand. Twisting your arm around his elbow, Bert walks you to the elevator.
As the doors open, he puts a swift kiss on your cheek, "Well done. And it's only the beginning." You smile reassuringly, releasing your arm from his grip.
If you only knew how right he was.
********
You toss your mobile phone on the bed in disappointment. Not a word, not a call. Damn it! You pace the room, a swarm of thoughts buzzing in your head. It seems that Bert's precise definition is applicable not only to Kirk Stambulchian! Then you recall your last night's conversation and feel guilty. Michael certainly had a tough introduction to the adult relationship between men and women. Honestly speaking, he had a freaking tough introduction to life in general. His childhood probably holds the key to all the answers but you feel like this subject is yet another taboo. It must be a whole world of obscure pain. God, this is all so frustratingly complex! 'You have chosen it yourself, Mary,' your subconscious smirks at you once again. Well of course, it's your choice! But there is one small issue: you want Michael, not his whole baggage of mysteries hidden in his head as in the box of Pandora. Are you ready to embrace that? You are willing to try. But here he is leaving you in the dark this time around.
A quiet knock at the door cuts the flow of your thoughts. You cannot seize your heart beating rapidly against your ribs as you cross the room to open it. The familiar wardrobe-size man is standing in the doorway.
"Ms. Morgan," he nods.
"Hi."
"This is for you," he hands you a small package.
"Oh..." you accept it, blinking rapidly, "what's this?"
"This is from Mr. Jackson."
Duh! He is certainly not payed for being smart. Or talkative.
"Thank you," you smile at him dryly. The wardrobe-man nods shortly and in a second you are left alone, squeezing the package in one hand and the door handle in the other. You push the door shut and move to the bed, tearing the cellophane cover on your way. Your impatient fingers lift the lid of the carton to uncover a slick black device inside of it. A mobile phone. Seriously? Carefully you take it out and stare at the screen, puzzled. To your surprise, it lights up as you press one of the buttons. The phone is turned on and fully charged. OK, what's next? You press the 'call' button, immediately a set of figures appears in front of your amazed gaze. Michael's number. The door to his personal, self-created universe stands ajar now. He is finally willing to let you in. You cling to the phone as if it were a life buoy, your palms going sweaty.
Call him, don't be a coward!
You stare at the screen blindly, caressing the green button with your thumb. Then still hesitantly, you press it and abruptly stick the phone to your ear. Your mouth immediately goes dry as you hear the first beep. A dry click cuts the second one.
"Hello," a low male voice astounds you with its strictness.
You stare at the screen then blink in confusion. What the hell?
"Hel... Hello?"
"Who's speaking?" the voice questions sternly.
"It's Mary.... Morgan," you swallow.
"Hang on a second."
A slurred and inaudible conversation fills the line. Isn't this supposed to be his personal number?
"Mary?" Michael finally takes the phone.
"Hey."
"Hey, girl. How are you?" his voice is warm and smiley.
"I'm good I guess."
"Missed you this morning," he says matter-of-factly.
Wow! "Umm, yeah, sorry for leaving like that. And for taking Pluto with me," you smile and peek at Michael's T-shirt resting comfortably on the back of a chair.
He giggles, "I'm glad you weren't alone."
"You were still fast asleep and I had to be at a business breakfast with the team," you can't stop yourself from sounding apologetically.
"I see. Stambulchian and the company?" you can tell he is smirking.
"Yep. We finally signed some papers. So..."
"So, it's official now? When is the exhibition?"
"The opening is on 25th July."
"Uh-huh. In 'The Gallery?'"
"Yes." Is he actually interested?
"Good. How many weeks have you agreed on?" Michael the business man has emerged to the surface.
"Three."
"You should have asked for a longer period of time," he says after a short pause. His voice is dry and professional. "Consider revising this point."
Oh! What's this all about?
"We thought it was more than enough."
"Obviously, it's not. Your works are worthy of more attention," no change of intonation.
You rub your forehead, puzzled. Michael patronizing you! Gee!
"Thank you. I'll see what I can do about it."
"You are welcome. Can I see the works you plan to exhibit? Any time soon?"
Your jaw drops open. Seriously?
"Sure. Whenever you find the time." You feel your heart just skipped a beat.
"Great. When are you flying back to LA?"
"Tonight. You?"
"I'm on the way to the airport. I left once the package was delivered to you," he replies softly.
Your heart stops for a second. He really did come just to see you, to clarify the status of your relationship. Oh, boy!
"Speaking of the package. This phone..." you murmur.
"Yeah? Is the fact bothering you somehow?" he questions patiently.
"Not bothering. Confusing. Was it so necessary?"
"Yes it was. I want to be able to reach you any time. You can do the same. Whenever you want to. It's a matter of convenience really."
Convenience? How about excessive secrecy?
You drag your feet on the bed, not bothering to take your shoes off.
"You are doing a great job at covering up all the traces, aren't you?" you can't help sounding sarcastic.
"I've learned it is of vital importance, Mary."
"Oh, you certainly had the best teachers," you blaze out before you can stop yourself.
"I did," he says, his tone surprisingly soft.
The thought depresses you. Once again. But you can hardly stop yourself from scanning last night's conversation in your head time and again. That woman... She taught him how to handle his personal relationships, how to keep them under a thick veil of secrecy, she probably was the first to show him what sex felt like. She was his first in so many ways! Damn! But the burning question is: did she completely ruin him by doing all that? Or he would have inevitably become the way he is now under the burden of his own controdictions and doubts, the excessive love and admiration the world was showing him.
He has a childlike, playful side to his nature, which he is trying so zealously to preserve. You think of your first visit to his ranch and cannot help smiling at the memory. Michael being dragged away by a group of children, looking completely happy as if nothing on the planet could be more desired, more necessary.
And then there is Diana with her dark seductive beauty a rare man can resist. With her engrossing talent and charisma. Did she really have the best of him? Did she really see him that young, vulnerable and open to her vampire desires and demands? The thought makes you realize that you hate her. The feeling that has always been alien to you is suddenly so real. And alongside it there appears jealousy –unreasonable and unwanted, yet unsparing in its intensity.
"Stop that," Michael's whisper cuts the silence of the telephone line.
"Stop what?" you frown and bite your finger nervously.
"Stop overthinking. I know you are still doing it, at this very moment. You really need to stop."
You sigh but remain silent. Meanwhile, Michael continues:
"I had a wonderful night. Not only because you are so passionate and sensual but also because you have this calming effect on me. I don't remember when I had a full night's sleep last time. You soothe me. Thank you for that."
You flush at the memory of him sleeping tightly by your side. Isn't there anyone with him in the car at this moment? Oh, boy! He is so revealing sometimes, it gets confusing.
"I wonder what you are silent about," he breathes.
"I want to see you again," you bite on your bottom lip until blood fills your mouth with the taste of salt and iron.
"You will. I'll be around. I'll always be around."
And he really is. Contrary to the picture of a relationship created in your mind, it turns out to be as close to normal as possible when you date someone like Michael. Despite his extremely busy schedule, he tries his best to be available even if it's for a short while. With Neverland being ridiculously far and your house too exposed to Bert's sudden visits, you meet on a neutral territory, an apartment carefully chosen and rented by Michael. Occasionally you spend nights together leaving separately in different directions in the mornings. Mostly your meetings there consist of several hours of making love, watching movies and... talking. Michael appears to be surprisingly talkative in a more private, intimate ambiance. During your revealing conversations that last for hours, you acquire the role of a listener rather than of an interlocutor. You don't mind it at all, just the opposite. You are more than grateful for being washed with his candor, which finally grants you the opportunity of embracing his complicated and controversial personality. At least to the extend acceptable for him. Deep down in the corners of your mind you cannot ignore the fact that he is way too intricate a character to be construed easily within months, even years.
***
Michael doesn't fail to astound you with his unfathomable qualities. One of them being his imperative and unjustified generosity. Once after an enduring and heated discussion of his idea about him buying you a ridiculously expensive piece of property, he ended up replacing it with another almost equally expensive item.
"But why not, Mary?" he questions with a crooked smile of disappointment.
"Because it's just too much, Michael," you swallow nervously, "when I said that a house was an absurd idea, I didn't think you would come up with this eventually!"
He shuts the green velvet box, which contains a jewelry set worth a fortune and tosses it carelessly on the maroon leather sofa. It lands with a slam looking absolutely unwanted and out of place.
"I want you to have it. End of the story. As my woman, you would just accept what I buy you because that's what I want you to do. Beacuse it pleases me to do so."
Holy, Mother of God! Why would he be so insistent, irritated and offended? Is it because 'no' is actually not an answer for him?
"Your woman? The one that remains a secret, hiding in this... this place," you wave your hand around the room, "a ghost of a woman, actually," you whisper.
"Right... But you've agreed, Maryam," his eyes pierce you then turn away.
You sigh but remain silent. What are you supposed to say? That is exactly what you have done. You have agreed and accepted his terms. This argument was lost before it even started. In silence, you sit on the sofa and pick up the velvet box, weighing it in your hand.
"Go ahead. Open it," he raises his brows waving in the direction of the box. "And stop thinking too much."
But how is it possible? Not to think! You've never been used to accepting gifts from people, especially this expensive ones and without any occasion. You can't help wondering if you are just another possession of his. Like those ridiculously huge cars, numerous animals and priceless pieces of art? This llama needs a new collar... Oh, for God's sake!
You position the box on your lap finally opening it. And there they are, diamonds, flashing their cold light upon your face, perfect and breathtakingly beautiful. You can't take your eyes off the set.
Soundlessly Michael approaches and stands in front of you. His intense gaze is almost tangible but you do not dare to look up and face him. Your subconscious raises a brow, 'Artistic prosti--' Stop!!!!
"Get used to it, I'm gonna buy you lot of things, Mary," his tone is low.
"Why?" you mumble, still examining the content of the green velvet box.
"Why does the dos wag its tail? Because it can," he throws himself on the sofa next to you, "Please. Don't you want to please me?" his voice sounds softer now.
"I do. But..."
"But...?"
"It's kind of wrong. It makes me feel--"
"Cheap?" he reaches out and puts his hand under your chin, tilting your head up, "Tell me, is that it?"
Oh! He certainly remembers the conversation you had in New York.
"If so," he continues, still holding your chin up and burning your gaze with his, "then you couldn't be more wrong, Mary. Don't waste your time and energy on this kind of ridiculous thoughts. It's really not worth it. I bought you this as a sign of appreciation. And gratitude. I thought that would mean something to you. I want to see you swarmed with luxury. That would please me. I want you to need to please me."
He releases you chin, and you frown, trying to digest his words.
"Mary, remember once and for all: there is nothing cheap about you, nothing cheap about our relationship and nothing cheap about you accepting gifts from me," he plants a swift kiss on your lips, "I don't do cheap, girl."
As contradictory as it is, Michael doesn't seem to be generous to the members of his family whatsoever, especially his brothers. Once right in the middle of dinner he receives a call. Apparently, it is his mother. After a brief conversation, he rises and heads to the bathroom, undoing his robe and tossing its belt away in a sharp almost hysterical movement.
"Mother is coming over to Neverland. I have to be there when she arrives," he explains from the bathroom.
Wow! Why the irritation?
You remain seated at the table silently, sensing this is the subject you should not express any excessive curiosity about. Adjusting the belt on his pants, Michael comes out and approaches to kiss the tip of your nose softly.
"I know she will be trying to convince me to be on that ridiculous 'Jackson Family Tour' with my brothers again, " he answers your silent question, 'In Korea this time.'
"And you don't want to do that," you prompt carefully.
"Of course not!" you are taken aback with the harshness in his voice, "Working my butt off for a bunch of spoiled and irresponsible rascals who appear to be my brothers! Never again! Let them learn how to moderate their appetite and live according to their means." Instantly you see him transforming into a complete stranger, with a cold and arrogant mask instead of his face. A mask that you will be encountering so frequently in the future.
Obviously, the Jackson family with its diverse problems and dark secrets is yet another brick in Michael's impenetrable Wall of Tears. As your relationship develops, it begins resembling a ride on the most complex and terrifying roller-coaster. It is impossible to keep up with Michael's almost instant changes of mood and behavior, and your attempts to do so leave you completely exhausted both physically and emotionally.
***
"He is dying, Mary," Michael's husky whisper cuts the veil of your drowsiness as you struggle to keep the headset at your ear.
"Michael? Wait... Who...? What happened?" you peek at the clock on your nightstand: it's 2 a.m.
"I saw it so clearly today... He is dying..." you hear a series of quiet sobs accompanied by the static noise of the telephone line.
Good Lord!
"Who's dying, Michael? You are scaring me to death!" you sit in the bed trying to shake the sleep off yourself, your heart stopping for a second then resuming its beating with a doubled frequency.
"Ryan..."
You close your eyes and swallow convulsively. Ryan... The subject of Michael's endless furious monologues and overwhelming compassion. The subject of numerous debates and arguments on television and in newspapers. Ryan White, the boy with AIDS.
"Michael?" you whisper. Nothing but short heart wrenching sobs. "Is Ryan there? With you at the ranch?"
He sniffs, "Uh-huh... Came over this morning," sniffs again.
You take a glass of water from the nightstand and drain it. Ryan is visiting Michael... That is the reason of his dead silence during the last couple of days. You have been trying to reach him but in vain. Your calls were never attended. And now, he calls you in the middle of the night, searching for emotional support and a shoulder to cry on. How Michael-ish of him!
"And... is it that bad?" you mutter, trying to suppress resentment and bitterness in your voice.
"Horrible... Poor kid, he can hardly talk... I think he has suffered from pneumonia or something recently. He has to use one of those things... what do you call them? Inhalers?"
"Oh... Michael, where is he now?"
"Asleep. In the guest room," Michael sniffs once again, "How is it possible, Mary? Huh? Why would this poor soul suffer that much?"
What on Earth can you tell him?
"Michael, why do you put yourself through this? You can hardly help Ryan... Why do you need to see him gradually decline? Why would you torture yourself?" Now you can feel hot, burning tears forming in the corners of your eyes.
"Because I have to be there for him. Don't you understand, Mary? Don't you see? He needs me. And if I can do something to brighten his existence even for a day, for a single hour, it is my duty to do so," his voice is quiet but stern, full of determination.
Suddenly you feel shallow and mean. Jesus Christ! What are your concerns compared to the struggles of that boy?
Hot tears run slowly down your cheeks but you don't bother to wipe them away. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Yes... Just be there for me... Soothe me... That's all I ask for."
Hello there, my lovelies!! Thank you for being here again! I know it took me too long to update but the newest chapter is here for you to enjoy! I hope you will. Don't hesitate to COMMENT and VOTE if you feel like it. It means so much! Any guesses about further development of the story? Feel free to express yourselves!
Love you all loads,
KillerQueen