[MJFAs 2019 Winner - Best Short Story]
The fourth day of the week.
The day before Friday.
Just any other day.
But to Valerie, it's everything. It's the one day that she belongs to Michael Jackson.
Sex, drugs, and alcohol are his life. He doesn't d...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
~TWO DAYS LATER, SANTA MONICA~
They staggered down the velvet-carpeted hallway, half walking, half embracing, their laughter a disturbance to the rest of the hotel. Michael fumbled in his pockets for his key card and inserted it into the slot of the door to their suite. The little light flashed red. He frowned, mumbled a what the fuck. Valerie laughed and took the card from his in between fingers, swapped it around, and tried again. The light turned green and a whirring noise preceded a click. She assessed his reaction with a smug expression and he playfully rolled his eyes. They stumbled inside the room and he kicked the door shut. He impulsively cupped her face, glowing red from her intoxication, and covered her mouth with his own as though he had every right to do so, breathing heavily while she giggled through the kiss. After a few seconds, he pulled away for air.
"I've been waitin' all night to do that," he said with a smirk.
She raised a brow. "Have you now?"
He smiled and claimed her lips again. Although Michael didn't use words often, Valerie could see his feelings in the way that he touched her and looked at her.
"You tired?" he asked, leaned against the seafoam green wall as he kicked off his loafers.
To his surprise, she shook her head, "not really." She then paused as confusion flickered across her expression. "Wait. Where's Marlon?"
"Marvin," he corrected as he tossed the key card like a frisbee onto the oak TV cabinet. "And he's gone to his own room. Why? Want me to call him for a sleepover?"
"Not," she hiccuped once, "even. Not ever! That jackass has been calling me a 'snow bunny' all night..."
"Probably 'cause you kept calling him the 'big black guy'."
"But he so is!"
He chuckled, "shut up, Val," and removed his white paper wristband, leaving it atop the wooden surface.
That reminded her—she tugged at her own wristband but seemed to have trouble with it. Michael noticed and approached her.
"Here," he offered, taking her arm. He yanked at it, bemused that it wouldn't budge. "This thing is on fuckin' tight, ain't it?"
That evening, her laughs were never-ending. "Totally—but don't sweat it."
He shook his head, grit his teeth, and pulled harder. "It's comin' off one way or another."
