Don't Walk Away (A Michael Jackson Love Story)

April 1982:

I sauntered easily into the club without being seen. Moving past people, I made a beeline for the bar.

The bartender wiped the surface in front of me with a cloth. He had sandy hair and green or blue eyes. I could never tell in the dim light.

"Welcome to Studio 54!" he exclaimed kindly.

I removed my sunglasses. He blinked in recognition. "Miss Davis. The usual?"

I rolled my eyes. "Johnny, how many times do I have to tell you? Call me Lily. I'm not Diana Ross. And yes, the usual."

Johnny disappeared farther down the bar and returned with my drink. It looked like something for a lightweight drinker with its little paper umbrella, but I knew it was a hard-hitter.

I downed the entire glass. My vision got a little blurry and my head swam.

"So, what brings you back to New York?" Johnny asked. "Got a new gig?"

I scoffed. He was referring to my job as a back-up dancer. But I hadn't had a gig in a few months now. "No. Just wanted to visit the city. I remember when I was planning on living here with--" I managed to stop myself. The fire I felt from the alcohol was starting to die down. "Get me another drink, will ya, Johnny?"

He slipped away again, and came back with another fruity-looking beverage. I nearly chugged the thing.

Johnny's concerned eyes met mine. He of all people knew I only drank this much when I was stressed.

"Johnny, another shot of tequila, please," another voice slurred from beside me. When I turned my head, my vision swirled again. The man on the stool nearest to me looked as drunk as I did.

"Sir, you should go back to your room now. You don't seem ready for another shot," Johnny protested gently.

The strange man stood up. He swayed a little as he stared at me. He got really close and pressed his mouth to my ear. "You're really pretty. Come up to my room," he whispered.

Something in the back of my head screamed at me for being so stupid, but I agreed.

I barely survived the elevator ride. He pulled me by the hand into his room.

I had no time to even look around, because he smashed his lips against mine. I closed my eyes and kissed back. This guy was obviously not as good at drunk sex as I was.

I jumped up and wrapped my legs around his waist. He stumbled, and we luckily fell on the bed. His hands ran down my body, pulling clothes off. I did the same to him.

The lights seemed to get darker. I smiled at the warm feeling the alcohol was giving me.

He entered me slowly, trying to be gentle all of a sudden. I was brought back to two years prior, when I was making love at least once a day.

I didn't want to feel emotions right now. They were always getting in the way. I just focused on him grinding his hips.

I moaned. He slowed down and backed off of me. His eyes closed. I looked over at him, annoyed.

He had passed out. Looking at him, a wave of exhaustion and nausea swept over me. I couldn't even imagine moving anywhere.

I closed my eyes and fell asleep, naked and with a stranger.