Teacher's Pet (A Michael Jackson Fanfiction)

Teacher's Pet..40..

"Are you Miss Toussaint?" The man behind the counter asks as I walk into Michael's apartment building.

"Yes, sir." I nod as I walk to the counter. "I'm Jenna Toussaint."

"Mr. Jackson told me to give you these. Here you go." He smiles as he hands me a golden key. It's attached to a black leather loop keychain. "You can go right up."

"Thank you." I nod before stuffing the key into my purse. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

I walk away from the counter to the elevator and press the up arrow button.

I hope this goes well.

I tap my foot as I impatiently wait for the elevator.

When the elevator arrives, the doors slide open and I sigh before stepping inside.

"Excuse me." The woman getting off in a rush apologizes as she bumps into my shoulder.

"It's fi--" I look up from her buttoning her blouse to her face and gasp. "Tia?!"

"Hey, Jenna." She smiles nervously then waves as the elevator doors close between us.

What the hell is she doing here?! I ask myself as I push the button for Michael's floor.

Still pondering that thought, the elevator dings, snapping me from my thoughts, and I step onto Michael's floor.

What was Tia doing here?

Just as I round the corner a woman, who after a second I realize is Mrs. St. Paul, storms out of an apartment with a large suitcase.

"Hello." She smiles, walking past me, and I don't think she even recognizes me.

She seems to be on a mission.

"Susan!" Dean St. Paul yells after I'm down the hallway a few feet from them. He doesn't even notice me. "Susan, baby, it wasn't what it looked like!"

Tia? Mrs. St. Paul? Dean St. Paul?

My jaw drops as I realize Tia was probably running away from Susan after she caught her with the Dean.

I knew it'd happen sooner or later.

Poetic Justice.

Looks like I won't need that evidence after all.

You fucked yourself, Tia. Or was that Dean St. Paul you fucked?

I giggle as I place my palm on Michael's apartment door and lean a bit.

However, as I do this, the door swings open, I fall inside, and Michael catches me.

"Damn, woman, do you not have balance!?" He shouts, placing me on my feet inside his apartment. "Stand up!"

"Sorry," I apologize as I stand and adjust my clothes. "I was--then you opened--I was--I was just trying--"

Michael slams the door, cutting off my stammering, and I finally take a good look at him.

He's shirtless and he's holding a bottle--a bottle of dark liquor.

He takes a long swig and staggers backwards as I place my purse on the front bar.

Is he drunk?

I glance at his mini bar and, yes, there seems to be a bottle missing.

I'm thinking that's a yes to him being drunk.

I frown as I ask, "Michael, what is wrong with you?"

"Took you long enough to get here." He hiccups, evading my question. "Stop for a roll in the hay with Brad?"