The Way She Wants It (Michael Jackson FanFiction)

..5..

"What did you just ask me?" I chuckle, not letting it reach my eyes.

"I asked if you're fucking him." he states boldly. I roll my eyes, holding my phone and standing up to him. 

"Listen, Adam," I start, stepping up to him, "I don't know who the fuck you think you're talking to, but I sure as hell suggest that you take back what you just said and apologize while you're at it." I point my index acrylic in his face.

"You fucked me and now you're fucking him. I have a right to be mad." he grits, stepping into my face.

"No you don't! We fucked once," I yell in a whisper, "We're done. You were a quick satisfaction for my needs and now we're done! Step out of my face before you get fired." I grit my teeth, glaring right into his eyes. He lingers where he stands for a few seconds before growling and storming away from me. 

I rub my forehead as I sit back down. I rest my elbows on my knees and rest my head in my hands as I close my eyes. I hear more footsteps approach me, except this time the person sits down beside me. 

It's Michael. I can feel it. Please be Michael. 

I look up from my resting position and see that it is in fact Michael. 

"Are you okay?" he asks sincerely, "I saw you in a little... disagreement with your dancer. I know that preparing for a tour can be hard. Is everything good?" I pause a moment before slouching in the seat. 

"Yeah," I sigh, letting out a big breath, "We just had a little conflict. I resolved it though." I smile, turning my head to look at him.

"Are you sure?" he asks softly, placing his hand his hand over mine causing electricity to course between us. Both of us look at our hands before I pull mine away quickly and stand up.

"Yeah, I'm sure." I smile tightly, adjusting my sports bra, "Do you want to go discuss the song?" I ask, looking around the arena as to where I put my sweatshirt.

"Uh, sure." Michael nods, standing from his seat. He walks up to me as I'm still looking around. Oh well there's one in my dressing room.

"Let's go in my dressing room. I have a desk in there and stuff," I clear my throat, "Is that okay?" I ask. He stares at me a moment more before nodding and following me up the stairs of the stage. We walk backstage and I'm still looking for my sweatsh-

Bingo! 

It's on a soundbox!

I grab my grey hoodie and shrug it over my head, letting my curls pop out as I pull it down over my body. As we approach my dressing room, I feel Michael's body very close behind mine and I can't stop thinking about the effect that this man is having on me. 

I open the door, and allow Michael to walk in before me. 

Thank God I cleaned the room yesterday before the press conference. 

Michael looks around as I sit behind my desk in the white leather chair on wheels. I cross my legs as Michael continues to look around my dressing room.

"This is nice," he says, admiring the massive space, "This is pretty big for a dressing room." he smiles, picking up a couple things on my vanity. 

"Well I had to have space to do everything I could possibly want to do while I'm in here," I speak as he looks to me, "Dancing, writing songs, meditiating, signing contracts, writing notes down," I list off before slowing down my speech to clear my throat, "And you know," I clear my throat again, deciding whether or not I should dare to utter these next words, "Sexual rendezvouses." His eyes widen as he sits down in the chair before my desk. 

"Really?" he asks, leaning back.

"Yep," I say shortly. He rubs his bottom lip as his eyes scan my body. 

"You just met me today, and you're telling me that you actively have sex in your dressing room," he smiles, "Interesting." 

"Not really," I sigh, placing my hands in my lap, "Just like my finances, I don't really care about discussing my sexual encounters. It's just sex. It's not like a intimate relationship." I mumble, lowering my eyes to look at him sexily. He licks his lips, continuing to stare me down.

"So you just go around telling people these things." he clears his throat. 

"No. Not at all. But if it comes up in a conversation, I have no problem telling anyone that I do... people in here." I sigh, trying to keep eye contact with him, "But I thought we came in here to discuss a song, not my sex life." 

"I didn't think I'd be finding out about your sex life today, Miss Westbrook. I was just simply stating that you had a big dressing room, and well," he sighs, leaning back in his chair, "here we are." he holds his hands out to his sides.

"Why do you want to collab with me?" I ask, changing the subject. 

"Because," he smiles, sitting up in his chair, "I think you're a great musician. Not to mention, you're very popular at the moment. Us doing a duet would be chart topping." 

"Is that all you're looking for? A chart topper?" I scoff.

"Well isn't that what every musician wants in this business?" 

"Not necessarily. I want happy fans. I want authentic music. If you use any of that auto tune shit, I'm out." I snap, looking down at my acrylic nails. 

"I don't use autotune," he scoffs, "Not that you'd know that though."

"What's your deal?" I snap, "Why are you so pissy all of a sudden?"

"I'm not." he states in a irritated manner.

"Yes you are! And if you're trying to get me to collab with you, this isn't exactly the tactic that is working!" I yell, leaning my arms on my desk.

"Most artist would jump at the chance to work with me!" he yells, standing from his chair. 

"Well I'm not most artists!" I stand, leaning my thighs against the desk to get closer to him. 

"You're right. You're not," he says taking a breath, and stepping away from the desk, "I'm sorry. I'm out of line," he apologizes, holding his hands up in surrender, "If you want me to leave, I completely understand." he mumbles, walking towards the door.

"No, it's fine, take a seat." I sigh sitting in my seat as he sits back where he was. That was fucking weird. 

"Where were we?" he asks as I lean back in my chair, completely and utterly confused.