Author's Note: Mike and Charlene didn't meet yet at the time of this flashback chapter. By the way, I chose actress Tika Sumpter to play my favorite girl. Isn't she amazing? Enjoy more fictional tea!
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1983 – California
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MICHAEL
Let's dance. Put on your red shoes and dance the blues. Let's dance. To the song they're playin' on the radio. Let's sway. While color lights up your face. Let's sway. Sway through the crowd to an emptyspace...
"Hello, stranger." David Bowie crooned over an upbeat rhythm. We hadn't met. At least not yet. On the other hand, a certain someone draped her arms over my shoulders. I turned around in the chair and blushed noticing Brenda. After standing, I offered a seemingly overdue embrace. I couldn't even remember the last time she didn't rule headlines with Prince. Shortly after gracing that "Rolling Stone" cover with Vanity, Prince "dispelled rumors" by taking a rightful picture with his true "Queen." I couldn't escape their fixed stares toward the camera.
At the time, Brenda almost ruled "Soul Train" week after week. Rumors even swirled that this woman planned to record an album. Last year, Prince revealed that he offered B the chance to lead Vanity 6. Of course, Baby Girl declined, and the rest was history. Either way, "Nasty Girl" burned up parties now. In one way or another, I felt glad that Brenda refused. Brenda Michelle had been too good for such a racy group anyway. Her "Soul Train" status would've crumbled by joining as well.
My make-up artist had walked away for the rest room. A photographer planned to summon me minutes from now, but I didn't even care. Right now, I only cared for the beautiful person. who visited me. No Prince. No schedule excuses. In the moments between this photoshoot and her exit, I could pretend that this woman had been mine. I could marvel without removing her clothes and prompt a wonderful conversation. Prince had been a dog the whole time otherwise.
Brenda folded both arms and clicked back one of her boots while stepping backwards. Just when I planned to question her visit for a moment. Speaking of the devil, "Nasty Girl" began playing. I rolled my eyes. Brenda tossed back her curly mane. Even sincere laughter resounded on set.
I observed with nervous chuckles as Brenda danced alone across from me. Her usually grooving hips swayed along with that otherwise funky and warbling rhythm. Not even moments later, the lyrics kicked in and I nearly dropped my jaw. This woman remembered every suggestive word. It didn't help that a suddenly smoky voice almost turned me on. Still, I knew better for obvious reasons. Prince would've reprimanded for the millionth time.
That's right, pleased to meet you. I still won't tell you my name. Don't you believe in mystery? Don't you wanna play my game? I'm lookin' for a man to love me. Like I never been loved before. I'm lookin' for a man that'll do it anywhere. Even on a limousine floor!
"You're a mess." I laughed at Brenda when Karen returned to the make-up counter. Her blonde hair shook down and I quickly sat right back down. Brenda stayed until lunch or so and walked out. I pouted for obvious reasons. Once again, I'd find myself returning to an empty bedroom. After these events, I'd always face terrible cases of insomnia. No one to hold. No one to kiss at night.
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The Penthouse, California
BRENDA
"Don't touch me!" I yelled at Prince as soon as the living room elevator chimed open. This man cheated for the millionth time and walked around my home as if nothing happened. Lately, I'd visited Michael as a reprieve. There was no other choice for the sake of my own sanity.
"Mo..." Prince trailed off his voice. A variation of my nickname rolled off his tongue. I rolled my eyes of course and slammed the bedroom to hide. Shrouded in darkness, I slid down the wooden frame. At one point, he genuinely cared. I didn't know what to think anymore.
After opening the back up and creaking a few windows, a Newport rested between my fingers. In that moment, Prince immediately smelled the smoke and panicked. I didn't even care for once my lips burned this down. An ashtray positioned on my nightstand. To the left, I'd set up a frame of Prince and myself.
In the picture, my hand placed on his chest as we both faced the camera with tired grins. Another brilliant "First Avenue" show wore us out earlier. Regardless of our happy pose, I'd picked out tightest ripped leggings and teased his eyes throughout the concert with a bustier. A then trademark curly mane still swooped over my forehead. Sweat dotted Prince own brow and the ruffle shirt he wore exposed chest hair I'd always touch.
Right now, the cigarette still fumed in my hand until I put out the poison. I'd given up for the night and I prepared to almost sleep alone. On the other hand, Prince wouldn't falter. We faced one another before long and he smelled the cigarettes once more. His noses wrinkled for obvious reasons. Again, I didn't care.
Awkward silence fell between us, even though Prince crawled onto the bed alongside me. I turned away any kisses to avoid grossing him out. The anger still coursed through me as well. I was never good enough. At least not in the eyes of Prince Rogers Nelson.
