Detox

Chapter 04: Deja

I can't apologize for the way I feel
Cause I've always been honest with you
I've loved you the best I could
In the only way I knew

Los Angeles
23rd May 1985

Shoving the rest of the seasoned fries into her mouth (who has time for decorum when you’re in a rush), she dusts her hands together to get rid of the light grease and tries to focus her attention on the paperwork before her. It’s another glorious Los Angeles summer – not too hot and not too cool – and simply a perfect way to spend her lunch hour at the outdoor café. Pity it isn’t as relaxing as she would have liked for thanks to her bosses at Epic Records, she has the unenviable task of doing most of the grunt work, which includes cleaning up the mess left behind by some, rather, belligerent ‘artistes’.

She groans at the report; knowing she is in for another long, boring afternoon of listening to the big wigs argue over who has to foot the bill for the destruction of yet another hotel room or recording studio, or why a certain superstar suddenly couldn’t make it to their contractual concert appearances due to ‘circumstances’ beyond their control (translation: lying face down in their vomit in some sleazy hotel somewhere). Short of spanking the spoiled brats (in her humble opinion), she knows it will all come down to a slap on the wrist, some major PR damage control, including trips around several talk show circuits to ‘explain-just-what-went-wrong’.

In other words, just the same ol’ shit.

Absently, she hums along with the chorus of ‘We Are the World’ that filters from the unseen speakers as she clicks her trusty fountain pen to begin the routine of outlining the necessary tasks to complete. It’s no fun spending an hour on the phone with some of these ‘artistes’ personal assistants, desperately trying to explain just how important it is for them to convince their employers about ‘doing the right thing’. It’s one of the many reasons she’s sworn never to allow herself to become any entertainer’s PA.

One might assume it’s a glamorous job; after all you get to be at the entertainer’s side through thick and thin, but she’s seen the very unglamorous and dirty side of it all. She’s witnessed the nervous breakdowns, the irritated and rude phone calls, the bitter backbiting, and countless lawsuits from those who felt they had been treated unfairly. Personal assistants were simply gluttons for punishment, and there was absolutely no way in hell she’d allow herself to be pushed around by someone who thought he or she was better than anyone else. Just because you were rich didn’t give you the right to act like a first class asshole, did it?

In the grand scheme of things, she realizes she ought to consider herself lucky to be in this position. At just 23 years old, she is already working for such a prestigious company after graduating with honors in Communications from UCLA. Not many of her fellow classmates could brag about getting such quick work after graduation, but her decision to be a part of the music industry from a young age (her love for the guitar was unquestionable) had fueled the desire. Unfortunately, she had to give up her dream of becoming the next big star to settle for simply working behind the scenes (one can only deal with rejection and being jerked around for so long). In her late teens, she spent her summers as an extern for Columbia Records; moonlighting between getting her college degree and working long hours in the music studios and offices doing whatever was requested of her.

She was a quick learner and simply sitting quietly in a corner while the entertainers, producers, and technicians worked their magic, gave her a better appreciation of just how much was put into the simple act of recording a song much less an album. She could rattle off an impressive list of famous personalities that she’s crossed paths with over the years, and could swap tales about being invited for drinks at bars or dinners with some rather interesting individuals. However, after learning the protocol of ‘keeping your mouth shut’ (read as Confidentiality Agreements), one came to realize that simply being in the presence of greatness was not as cracked up as it was made to be.

Some of these ‘greats’ were really lonely people who sought attention any way they knew how. It was pretty damn sad when you thought about it.

A low whistle breaks through her concentration; quickly followed by a sonorous voice she does not recognize. “What’s a pretty fox like you doing out here all by yourself?”

She sighs at the shadow that falls over her, but refuses to look up. She hopes it will deter her new admirer, but apparently this guy doesn’t seem able to pick up the signals as he clears his throat and actually dares to pull out the other chair to sit without being invited.

What in the world…?

“Hey, babe,” he drawls; reaching out to place a (rather strong looking) hand over hers to still her writing motion. She has the time to admire how tanned his flesh is, before withdrawing with a forceful jerk. She finally looks up with a raised brow; trying to maintain a polite smile on her visage.

“Can I help you?”

He bears a faint resemblance to Ted Danson; with the height, chiseled good looks, and bronzed skin. She assumes he’s either a stunt double for the Hollywood star, or just some poor sap desperate to get himself noticed by someone.

He grins, revealing perfect white teeth. “You must be an actress, right? Your face looks awfully familiar.”

Lame, her mind screams, but she bites back her retort and figures she might as well indulge the moron. Though a quick glance at her watch reveals that she has less than ten minutes to take the quick walk back to the office. Brian hates her being late, and considering they have a meeting with Gloria Estefan and her Sound Machine band mates in the next hour, she really has no time to waste.

“You think I’m an actress?” she asks, lips quirking up in a wry grin. She begins to pack up her notes to slip them into the black snakeskin briefcase. A thoughtful Christmas gift from her boss last year.

“Of course,” Mr. Clueless continues. He tries to lean closer; the oppressive stench of his cologne making her sneeze before she can control herself. “Such beautiful long brunette hair…”

Hair sprayed up the wazoo, she thinks, recalling how high she had wanted to get it this morning. It took almost a good thirty minutes to get it blown out and crimped just right, and she thought her multi-colored polka-dotted scarf was a nice touch. Heh. Cyndi ‘Girls-Just-Wanna-Have-Fun’ Lauper had nothing on her.

“…and your eyes…such a lovely sea-green hue. Like the waters of Saint Tropez in the hottest of summers.”

Wow. A poet too. My lucky day.

“Thank you,” she says aloud, while rising to her feet.

Seeming to realize that his flattery was getting nowhere, he stands up as well and tries to reach out for her hand again.

“At least tell me your name,” he pleads; his cocky attitude now grating on her nerves. “Mine is Jason McCoy by the way, and I hope you don’t mind if I give you this…”

Even before he can pull out the demo tape, she gives an inward sigh of disbelief. He must have noticed the logo on some of the documents. Go figure. A wannabe artist hoping to get a foot into the industry by using her as a means to achieve his goal. She would get angry, if it wasn’t for the fact that it wasn’t the first time such a thing had happened. Now the routine just made her tired.

“Sorry, can’t help you there,” she mutters and tries to walk away – not before leaving a generous tip for the waitress considering it’s her favorite restaurant. Let’s just hope Mr. Danson-Wannabe-Artiste didn’t steal the cash before Gloria could make it to the table.

“Come on,” Jason implores as he trots after her. “Just give it to one of your bosses and listen to it, eh? My sound is a mix of pop and rock n’ roll. Just the shot the industry needs today. Some people even say I sound like Springsteen.”

“I’m sure you do,” she replies absently, impatiently glaring at the traffic light and wishing it would change already so she could cross the street and lose this guy. She grips her handbag a little tighter against her left shoulder; the knuckles of her right hand turning white around the handle of the briefcase.

Hurryhurryhurryhurryhurry

“Will you at least listen to me sing a few lines from the song I wrote last night? I call this one…”

Yes! Finally!

The light changes and she takes off before he can begin embarrassing her. Luckily there’s quite a few people wanting to cross at the same time, so if she is quick enough, she can get herself lost in the throng…or not.

“Just a couple of lines,” Jason continues, still hot in pursuit, and reluctantly she has to admire his resilience. Some others would have given up by now, so maybe she ought to put this rejection as mildly as she can.

“All right,” she finally says as she comes to a stop once they’ve crossed the busy intersection. “Let me have it.”

She almost feels bad at the sincere look of gratitude that fills his visage while he places the cassette in her outstretched palm.

“And here’s my contact information,” he adds as he digs into his sports jacket to whip out a business card. “I eagerly await your call…letter…anything.”

She manages a small smile and tucks the demo and card into her handbag, before spinning on her heels to make her way toward her final destination. She almost braces herself to hear his footsteps, but gives an inward sigh of relief when it’s obvious she’s no longer being followed.

Once within the cool confines of the building, she barely manages to step foot out of the elevator on the fifth floor when her neurotic boss bellows at her from the door of his office. “Took you long enough, Deja! What the hell?!”

“Sorry, sorry,” she apologizes quickly, while tossing the tape and card to a flustered Jessie (the receptionist who seems to be doing her best to channel Madonna), who barely manages to catch it. “Got caught up in traffic,” she lies.

“Traffic?” Brian sneers and shakes his head; his mop of dirty blond hair falling over his steel gray eyes. “Yeah, right. Since when the fuck did walking get you involved in traffic? Anyway, change of plans.”

“What’s that?” she asks with a bemused frown as she steps into his office – which could be compared to typhoon-infested area. It was a miracle the man could work in such clutter, but he wasn’t one of the top music producers in the world for nothing. Having worked closely with the greats like Stevie Ray Vaughn, Bruce Springsteen, and David Bowie (to name a few), he had a no-shit-take-no-prisoners attitude that endeared him to the musicians.

His stature wasn’t exactly intimidating, after all she towered over him by at least a foot, still his presence was powerful enough to elicit respect. His eyes could blaze with fury one minute and exude passionate enthusiasm the next. He preferred coming to work in polo shirts and black pants, was prone to biting his nails when agitated and seemed to consider tanning beds a bane of society. This would explain why he looked as pale as death most of the time. It made his temper tantrums all the more impressive as his features would turn so bright red, you wondered if he would end up bursting a blood vessel or have a serious heart attack.

And yet for all his fussy tendencies, she loved him to pieces.

During her externship days, she had been the one brave enough to work for the meticulous bastard, and it was that loyalty that he was quick to bring up when she returned after graduation. He hired her on the spot and has not looked back since. Sure he could be a pain in the ass, but he had a heart of gold and did treat her like a daughter…on his good days.

“Need you to head over to A&M for me,” he’s mumbling as he plants himself behind his desk and rummages around his paper-filled table for something. “Quincy’s there, and I need you to send these in to him.”

Quincy = Quincy Jones
A&M = A&M Recording Studios

So used to the routine now, she barely flinches as he rattles off his instructions. Apparently, she’s to deliver some tapes to the mega-producer, who was working on some finishing touches to ‘We are the World’, though the song has already been released and was considered a great success so far. This version was to be re-released as a special VHS-Cassette-CD combo. Still, there were some mixes the man wanted to get through and Deja was smart enough to know that even if the sound was ‘perfect’ to the rest of the world, producers and technicians (and even some artistes) would still see some flaw that needed to be worked on.

Talk about perfectionists.

Despite A&M being a ‘rival’ record label to Epic – hell their roster of artistes was enough to make your head spin – Deja knew that because of one particular entertainer on Epic’s Label, they had nothing to worry about for now (or in the years to come). Smiling softly to herself as the radio station in her car immediately begins playing ‘Thriller’; she is more than aware that the man behind the music was worth at least fifty of whatever artistes A&M could produce. Hell, hadn’t he just been handed a 53 million-dollar check just for the sales of his album over the past year? The honchos should be licking his boots for all he’s done for them (in her humble opinion).

Speaking of the man behind the music, though she has worked for Columbia/Epic for over five years, she can count the number of times – on one hand – that she’s actually seen the elusive superstar in person. He rarely came to the CBS offices, and when he did, he was almost always surrounded by an entourage that did all the talking for him…well most of the time. She always got the sense that he’d rather be anywhere but there; content to hide behind large sunglasses, dressed like he was a member of the military or the police force, in shiny black loafers and white socks (at least he kept the sequined white glove at home), while fidgeting quietly in the background.

During one particular meeting, she was sure he had been studying her, but she had looked up to see him doing nothing but eyeing his fingernails while they dissected his successful album and spoke of plans of him going on tour, doing promotions, being their bitch basically. She turned back to her notes, and again…barely five minutes later, she felt the prickle of awareness again; of being studied intensely, and when she looked up…nothing. He was now looking away; his profile rather fascinating to study until she noticed the barely noticeable twitch of his lips, as if trying to hide a smile.

So he had been watching her after all! The sneaky devil.

She chuckled softly and shook her head, not sure if she ought to be flattered that such a famous star would give her the time of day, but then again, she had received quite a few passes from male celebrities before, so it was nothing new. She guessed she ought to have jumped for joy at the notion that he might be interested, but from all she had read (and seen), Michael seemed more content hanging around other high profile women – though she was sure most were publicity stunts. Still there was an aura of shyness that seemed to cloak him whenever he was in the midst of others. An odd combination; that despite his stardom, he seemed to shrink and want to fade into nothing in the presence of others.

It made him all the more intriguing.

As she pulls into the Charlie Chaplin lot, she secretly hopes this meeting with Quincy ends fast. Don’t get her wrong, he’s a wonderful man and she’s enjoyed the few conversations they’ve had, but she really does have a lot to finish up today and the faster this goes, the better. The last thing she wants to do is spend an afternoon locked up in the studio, being mesmerized by his artistry and…

“Heya, Miss. Deja!”

“Howdy, Tim!” she greets with a smile as she steps out of the vehicle to toss her keys to him. There wasn’t actually valet parking around here, but it was a running joke between her and the old geezer who could regale you with stories dating back to the 50s if you’d let him. He was a dear ol’ thing.

“Quincy around?” she asks as she shoulders the large bag, now wishing she had worn flats instead of these damn heels.

“Studio M,” Tim replies with a nod toward the building. “You look mighty pretty today, Miss. Deja.”

She blushes and waves a hand as if to dismiss the compliment. “Ah, you’re just saying that, Tim. Don’t make me fall in love with you now.”

He cracks up and shakes his head. “Well, you know me. I’m just your regular ol’ LadyKiller.”

Giggling at the image that conjures up in her mind, she trots for the safety of the studio; already wondering how the temperature suddenly increased with no warning whatsoever. She hates feeling sweaty and flushed especially when about to enter a testosterone-filled environment. She feels it seems to send off pheromones of some sort; a scent that made the men want to make even bolder passes at her for some reason.

Giving quick smiles and exchanging pleasantries with a few familiar faces, she pauses at the door; though a quick peek through the landscape window into the control room reveals that Quincy is indeed there with Michael Omartian and David Paich and…

She blinks to make sure she’s not seeing things.

…Michael Jackson?

What the hell is he doing here?! Last she had heard, he was in England causing mayhem (well, not exactly – there was something about having his wax figurine being unveiled at Madame Tussaud’s Museum).

But sure enough, and sitting on a swivel stool that he keeps moving back and forth slowly, is the celebrity extraordinaire in the flesh. However, unlike his usual military garb, he’s in a pair of blue jeans that seems to mold his skinny hips, thighs, and legs like a second skin. A long-sleeved plaid shirt is covered with a red sleeveless sweater with some logo or brand etched on it (why anyone would wear a sweater in summer was a puzzle, but it was cool in the studio so…), and those darn sunglasses (where the fuck is the sun in here? Unless the studio lights bother him) are stuck on his face as always. She’s not sure if his curly black hair has grown a little longer since the last time she saw him; kinda hard to tell from here, still she has always liked the way he allows a few curls to dust his forehead (as if trying to channel Superman or something). He kicks out a leg absently, and she notices he’s wearing his trademark black loafers and white socks.

Man doesn’t like shoe shopping, does he?

Although he gives off the impression that he’s not paying much attention to what’s happening around him, Deja realizes that he is actually focused on the conversation amongst the other three men in the room. Every now and then Quincy would ask for his opinion on something and Michael would pause his swiveling long enough to give an answer.

He is the first to finally notice her, when he swivels in her direction, and his brows shoot up behind the glasses in surprise. She immediately lifts a hand in a friendly wave, and for a second, she’s sure he stiffens – as if not sure if the motion was reserved for him or not. He even glances behind him to be sure she’s not waving at someone else, but when he realizes the other men are still occupied, he finally lifts a hand to wave back shyly.

“I’m coming in,” she mouths, and he nods; rising to his feet to make his way to the door to let her in.

“Hi,” she greets with a big smile, wondering why it seems like he’s blushing (or maybe it’s just the lights playing tricks on her).

“Hello,” he barely mutters, clutching the door handle like a lifeline while his other hand sinks into the pocket of his jeans. His lips quirk into a small smile, and she kicks herself for feeling her heart rate quicken in response. Geez. She thought she had managed to build immunity to men who came on to her, though she has to admit that there is something about this shy man-child that gets to her. If he is making a pass, then he isn’t really good at it, because all he does is take a step back and nod toward Quincy and the others as if saying ‘they are the people you really want to see, not me. Please don’t look at me.”

“And there’s my lifesaver,” Quincy hails in greeting as he gets up to plant warm kisses on her cheeks. “You got them?”

”Right here,” she replies with a chuckle, while handing the bag over and accepting hugs from Omartian and Paich. “How’s it going?”

“Better now that you are here, Deja,” Quincy replies as they begin to shuffle through the tapes looking for the right comp tracks to begin the mix. “Have a seat, will you, my dear?”

She wants to say ‘no’, that she’s really got a lot of work to catch up with at the office, but she notices Michael has been watching (studying) her silently all this time, and for some inexplicable reason, her choice of a simple Vivienne Westwood chemise blouse and Calvin Klein skirt that stops just above her knees, makes her feel incredibly cheap. Considering she left her apartment this morning thinking she looked professional enough, in his presence, she feels…well…naked. And it is not the kind of unpleasant, creepy naked feeling one got from leery old bastards or perverts. This is the kind of ‘naked’ that actually makes you feel like your body isn’t so bad and that you are all woman. If that makes sense.

Oh wow.

Her knees tremble a little.

I have to sit down, she thinks with mild panic, hoping her emotional rollercoaster isn’t evident on her features. It definitely isn’t a good idea to let him know just how much he’s affecting her without even saying a damn word.

Damn it! Why didn’t I bring my jacket with me too? Short of crossing her arms over her chest to hide the fact that her nipples are now painfully erect, she knows damn well she cannot blame it on the cooling system either.

Plunking herself on the couch at the corner of the room, she tries to maintain an air of nonchalance; congratulating herself (and giving a huge sigh of relief) when he finally looks away to listen to the tracks as they’re played.

For the next twenty to thirty minutes, she watches them work; every now and then engaging in light conversation with Quincy, Michael (the other one), or David. The singer hardly says anything to her, if at all. In fact, she actually begins to get a little pissed off he doesn’t seem to acknowledge her presence.

Guess I’m not ‘old’ enough for him, she thinks bitterly, and then promptly kicks herself for thinking that way. It isn’t as if he is completely ignoring her. If his brief glances her way (and it sucks that she can’t really tell what he is thinking because of those damn sunglasses) or the shy smiles given are any indication, then she assumes that he’s just not sure of what to say to her. After all, they aren’t friends and all she knows of him is purely on a business level. Besides, she is already happy in her relationship with Miles Bryce – a young, up and coming actor (read as ‘struggling’) – who is currently on some remote island shooting his next movie. He didn’t exactly have the lead role, but it was work and it kept him happy. Hell, he might not be as famous as Michael Jackson, but she still misses him, and swears that once she gets home she’s going to give him a call to find out –

“What do you think, Deja?”

She is jarred out of her thoughts as she blinks and stares at the quartet now looking at her with varying degrees of amusement. Blushing at being caught daydreaming, she shrugs and tries to get back to the present.

“What do I think of what?”

“Smelly here needs a new assistant,” Quincy states with a smirk as Michael fidgets a little, scratches the bridge of his nose, and shrugs.

“Not re…” he begins softly, but he’s interrupted by Quincy’s much louder voice.

“Sure you do. Someone to keep you on your toes and make sure you don’t forget the little things, or we would have finished this thing by now.”

Ouch. A roundabout way of saying Michael was either a forgetful moron or just needed help with organizing himself.

“I’m sure he can find an assistant anywhere,” Deja replies with a smile as if hoping to soothe the mild blow. “He doesn’t need me -”

“He specifically asked about you,” comes the relentless response that has Michael definitely blushing now and standing up to try to ‘shush’ Quincy. Deja figures he’s probably dying of embarrassment, though it’s flattering as hell that Michael had gone out of his way to ask about her.

“I work for Epic…” she begins, but Quincy waves a hand to silence her protest.

“So what? I brought up the idea to Brian and he says if it’s okay with you, why not?”

Huh? How come Brian never mentioned this to her? And besides, how dare they decide who she can and cannot work for anyway?

“Listen,” she begins again, trying to get a word in to make them see that she would not be a fit for a man of Michael Jackson’s star power. Just the workload alone (she can’t even believe she’s thinking this far ahead) is enough to give her a headache. “I can’t -”

“He’ll pay you ten times more than what they pay you at that damn place,” Omartian chimes in with a laugh. “If I would, I’d take the job. You get to travel all over the place.”

So what? she wants to scream. I’ve traveled enough already, and believe me, it’s not as exciting as you make it seem.

What’s more troubling is the fact that Michael doesn’t seem to want to get into the conversation. It’s as if he’s simply content to watch them haggle over her decision to work for him. Does he not even give a damn at all? Or is he just waiting to see if she’ll jump at the opportunity like any other classless bimbo?

You’re a different breed, Deja, Brian’s voice suddenly crawls into her mind. You’re someone who isn’t afraid to take a challenge, and I like that about you. Don’t settle for the same ol’ routine, young lady. When an opportunity comes a-knocking you go for it!

Is this an opportunity then, Brian? She muses as she dares to study her (possible?) future employer. Will I regret taking this job? What if I can’t handle the pressure? What if I fail at it? Working for a man like this could get me in some serious trouble and…

“Well?” Quincy drawls. “Come on, Michael. Why don’t you try to convince her to work with you?”

“I can’t force her to do something she doesn’t want to,” comes the quiet reply; though his gaze is trained on her (at least she thinks so). “If she wanted to work for me she would have said yes right away.”

“Am I at least allowed to think about it?” she finally asks.

“Sure,” he replies with a smile warm enough to send her heart fluttering in response. Damn. Not good. She can already feel her lips forming the word ‘yes’, but she steels herself against the temptation and decides that some soul-searching is necessary before coming to a decision.

“But could you think fast though?” he suddenly asks, which has her blinking at the request. “It’s just that I have to leave the country in a few days, and I really need the help before then.”

A few days?! Is he fucking kidding?!

He tries to look sheepish. “Sorry, but…if I don’t hear from you by the end of the week, I will have to find someone else.”

She’s this close to retorting ‘fine then! Go find someone else!’ but there is something about the curl of his lips that tells her otherwise. It’s as if he’s enjoying this ultimatum he’s suddenly thrust upon her; daring her to back out now that he has her in a corner. She grips her hands tightly on her lap, knowing full well he has – in just a few words – managed to snag her into his trap without even trying hard. Not only is she now intrigued enough to want to give it a try, but she now realizes that she wants to know more about this man; to try to understand just what makes him such an enigma to millions (nah billions) around the world.

Smart bastard.

“All right,” she says slowly as if weighing her words. “I’ll just need a few days to get my affairs in order and then I can meet you for an official interview or…”

He shrugs lightly and reveals his pearly whites. “No need for anything too official. I’ll have Frank contact you with information about my office and where we can talk.”

“Frank…?”

“DiLeo. He’s my manager.”

“Ah.” Great. It’s already starting, she thinks with a sigh. She knows of DiLeo’s reputation as a tough pain-in-the-ass, but she realizes that if she’s about to step into the world of THE Michael Jackson, there are some sacrifices (nutjobs and psychos) she’ll have to deal with.

“So how does Thursday sound?”

“Thursday? That’s just three days from now!” She was thinking at least a week from today.

“Too soon?” Michael asks with a raised brow. “I am leaving on Saturday, so…”

“Fine, fine, Thursday,” she groans, barely hiding the ‘Jesus fucking Christ’ beneath her breath. This, though, seems to amuse Michael greatly because he bursts into helpless giggles before slapping a hand over his mouth to control himself.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, looking anything but.

“Smooth as silk, ain’t he?” Quincy laughs. “One minute you knew you were definitely planning on saying ‘no’ to the son-of-a-bitch, and the next you’re wondering how he managed to talk you into sitting in a studio ‘til four in the goddamn morning still working on scratches.”

“It’s a fucking gift,” David agrees.

“Shall we shake on it?” Michael actually invites as he holds out his hand. As if he couldn’t surprise her anymore, he finally raises the sunglasses; but only to push them to the top of his head – and for the second time (or was it third? She’s lost count), the air is sucked out of her lungs as she stares into a pair of brown eyes so soulful it literally hurts.

And this guy is still single? Incredible.

Shaking her head, she forces herself to her feet and reaches for his hand…and immediately wishes she hadn’t. Despite his ‘shy’ demeanor, the calloused, strong (and quite large) hand that engulfs hers screams ‘all man’ and after dealing with so many handshakes over the years, she’s come to realize that she can tell of a person’s character with just this simple act.

She knows without a doubt that Michael Jackson isn’t all he appears to be. In that handshake, she can tell of a man who is determined, stubborn, stronger than he lets on, likely to be an even tougher boss than Brian, and yet unable to mask an underlying sense of kindness and understanding that’s lacking in others of his stature.

“See you on Thursday then?” he asks; yanking her back to reality. He hasn’t even released her yet, and she gets the feeling she’s being scrutinized as well.

“Thursday it is,” she agrees and gives him another smile that causes his lips to quirk in response.

She has no idea what awaits her from here on out, but hell, it was all about taking the ride, wasn’t it?

She just prays she can survive through it with her dignity still intact.

__

And I'm not even sure that I would
Somedays it was bad and somedays good
But I've loved you the best I could

What does one wear to an interview with Michael Jackson?

For one thing, she doesn’t dare wear something as flimsy as her chemise blouse again, but considering how hot it is outside, she can’t afford to overdress and swelter away in winter clothes just to look proper for the guy.

She is aghast to find herself spending almost two freakin’ hours trying to find the right ensemble, and finally she settles for an Anne Klein navy two-button pant suit and a pair of comfortable flats. She debates on having her hair done up with her usual colorful accessories, but decides it would be too tacky. She doesn’t want to give Michael the impression that she’s going to be like all those Madonna or Cyndi Lauper wannabes (although her inner girl screams for her to at least spruce up a little with color), hence gone are the crimps and hair spray. It takes her another thirty minutes to straighten out her hair, and with the application of light makeup, she sighs at the reflection in the mirror with a pout.

Yep. If Michael was looking for the most boring woman on the planet as his future personal assistant, then she would fit the bill to a tee. Hell, maybe if she was lucky he’d decide against hiring her just for looking this uninteresting, then she can go back to working for Brian and forget this whole thing even happened.

Speaking of Brian, she recalls the very ‘enlightening’ conversation she had with him when she returned to the office the other day. Apparently, Quincy hadn’t been lying when he stated that Michael had been asking about her. Seems like Michael was doing his homework behind the scenes and had actually called up Brian almost a month ago.

A month ago!

Good grief. She didn’t know whether to be flattered or freaked out that Michael had been scouting her all this time without her knowledge. She wonders what he must have seen in her. He could have his pick of any one on the planet to work for him, so why her? Or maybe he was just hoping to score with her ‘behind-the-scenes’? No…that was too preposterous. He wouldn’t dare…or would he?

“Ah, snap out of it!” she chides herself and slaps her cheeks gently. No time to stand around wondering what could and couldn’t happen between her and Michael. She can’t forget that she is in a stable, loving relationship with a man she’s hoping will finally put a goddamn ring on her finger, but until then …

“Let’s get this show on the road.”

Her meeting with Frank had ended up being nothing more than a phone conversation, and though he had sounded polite and helpful enough, she couldn’t help thinking that he was still wary of the whole situation. He didn’t reveal much, but simply stated that ‘Mr. Michael Jackson is a very private man, so this address given to you should be guarded with the most utmost secrecy’. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly what Frank had said, but she was good at reading between the lines.

Funny enough, the address isn’t exactly in some hidden location, and she is quite surprised to find that his office is actually within a set of condos in the downtown area. Hell, hundreds of people pass there everyday and no one would think twice about the unassuming set of buildings as being the home office of the most famous man in the world.

The irony is so sweet she can taste it.

As expected, Frank is waiting to welcome her as she steps out of her car. Though she has seen him a few times before, there is still something rather ‘worrisome’ about the portly man with the short ponytail currently dressed in a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal beefy arms that could crush a lesser man. In his mouth is his trademark cigar, which he takes the time to remove before introducing himself and pumping her hand in a firm shake.

Once in the building, and as he makes the introductions to about five other men lounging around, she tries to reconcile the ‘plain’ surroundings to what her overactive imagination had conjured up. She’s not exactly sure of what she was expecting, but the walls are definitely not adorned with anything to give one the impression that they are in a recording artiste’s office let alone a mega-successful one. There are no plaques of his achievements, no pictures of him with famous people, no awards to fill the shelves. Instead some rather interesting artwork take up the space and a few other designer knick knacks she can’t quite place (though she’s sure they must have cost a small fortune).

“In here,” Frank is saying as he holds open a door to a room she first assumes to be storage (and a part of her mind screams that maybe he’s trying to lock her up in here or something), but she finally realizes that this tiny (probably no more than 12x12 space) is actually an office. Michael’s office to be exact.

Yikes. Was the man really that scared of wide, open spaces?

Just like the exterior, there are no awards or accolades to give one an idea of who owns the place. Instead, more artwork line the walls and the clutter…good grief. She can barely walk in here! There are towers of books pushed against the walls and a collection of rare or unique decorations amidst the mounds of paper upon his desk and littered on the floor. The desk itself is of dark oak, and behind it a black leather chair that’s currently empty. Behind that is the lone window with a view of the blistering L.A. streets and skyline, and as she sits on one of the extra chairs (having to push aside a few papers in the process), she clutches her handbag and portfolio with a death grip before flashing a quick smile at Frank in reassurance.

“He’ll be with you in a minute,” the man says with a nod. “Forgive the mess. No time to make it all pretty for you.”

“It’s fine,” she replies with a light wave of her hand; though she sincerely hopes he doesn’t close the door. The feeling of claustrophobia is creeping up ever so slowly by the second. Unfortunately, he doesn’t heed her silent prayer and he does shut the door behind him, effectively trapping her inside.

Ah fuck it all, she groans inwardly and settles in to await Michael’s arrival.

Should she sound professional or casual? The setting didn’t exactly give one the opportunity to act too stuck up, considering she is staring at a Mickey and Minnie Mouse bookend for crying out loud. Guy must have spent a couple of days at Disney World because there are a few other little prizes/toys kids would love to have in their arsenal around here.

Keep it simple, she tells herself and looks through her meticulous portfolio. She can’t really see anything that might embarrass her, so she’s fine….she hopes.

A minute turns into five…then ten…then thirty long agonizing minutes. By now, she’s this close to stomping out of there in frustration, but she tells herself she’s been in worse situations. There were some celebrities who could make you wait for hours, and they’d never show up. You had to have a lot of patience in this business. A looooot of patience.

At the one hour mark, she decides to stand up to stretch her legs. She tries to pace around the room, hoping she doesn’t disturb any important document; though from what she can tell so far, most of the papers contain either hastily written words (probably song lyrics), memos to do something, movie scripts, sketches (did he draw them himself?), or lots and lots of contracts.

He really does need an assistant, she muses as she picks up one of the many books to browse through the pages absently. Her organizational skills were already kicking in, and she realizes she’s mentally shelving and rearranging things that would make it more effective for him. In fact, she’s sure if given a chance she can whip this room into tip top shape and –

“So you like Rudyard Kipling?”

Her breathless gasp of surprise at the sudden question, let alone the sound of another human voice after almost an hour of silence, has her jumping and spinning around quickly with a hand on her chest to control the thudding of her heart.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she pants before she can control her mouth. “When the hell did you get in?”

“Just now,” comes the amused reply as he leans against the doorway with hands in his pockets while giving a small nod of acknowledgement. “I apologize for keeping you waiting. I had some other business to attend to.”

Oh, well excuse me for not being important enough to keep me waiting here for almost a fucking hour, she wants to retort, but knowing her role in this situation, she remains silent.

Unlike the other day when he looked a bit more casual, today he’s back in his military-like garb; this time an all black ensemble with gold cuffs, buttons, and embellishments. She’s also surprised to find he’s not in his usual loafers, instead a pair of rather expensive-looking black boots adorn his feet. So much for not shopping for shoes.

The sunglasses are – as always - in position, but unlike the cool studio and the somewhat dim lights back there, the light in this office reveals the slight flush of his features. It’s not as if he’s breathing hard or there’s any evidence of him having run to get here, but she can notice the faint rashes on his cheeks - somewhat red, but not quite – that dust his brown flesh. It’s a clear sign he’s not covered beneath layers of makeup today, and perhaps he must have realized she’s noticed it because he lifts a hand to rub his cheek and jaw lightly before shrugging and pushing himself away from the doorway to step into the office.

“Forgive the state of my office,” he begins. “I’m always meaning to get it arranged someday-”

“Ah...no worries-”

“Still...you didn’t answer my question,” he states as he maneuvers his way like a gazelle around the clutter to settle into the leather seat. He reaches for a blue stress ball to squeeze it gently as he leans back to smile at her. “Well? Do you like Kipling?” He nods toward the book she’s unaware she’s been gripping tightly all this time.

“Uum…” She blushes in embarrassment and stares at the pages of the book. She hadn’t even paid attention to who the hell the author was. “He wrote Jungle Book, right?”

“Yes, he did,” Michael replies with a raised brow; clear amusement in his tone. “But that’s not Jungle Book you’re holding.”

“It’s…not?” Duh, her mind screams, as she stares at the words From Sea to Sea and Other Sketches, Letters of Travel written in faded gold cursive on the leather bound book.

“That’s one of his rarer works,” Michael explains as she puts it back in place. “Do you know I’m in the process of getting the very first edition of Jungle Book?”

“Oh…really?” Man, she sounds so dumb with her monosyllabic responses, but then again, this is not exactly the direction she had hoped the interview would take. None of her former employees had asked her about her choice in Rudyard Kipling literature. “Why?”

“Why what?”

She sits back on her seat and shrugs lightly. “Why do you want the first edition of the Jungle Book?”

He pauses for a moment as if considering this very earth-shattering question, and finally he replies with a light smirk. “Why not?”

Well, guess that answers that. He was loaded, so of course he could get whatever the fuck he wanted. Typical, rich, spoiled –

“What’s that?” he asks interrupting her thought processes which had steadily been going downhill.

She looks down at what he’s nodding at. “My portfolio,” she replies and is about to hand it to him, but he shakes his head and points toward the bracelet on her right wrist.

“That. It’s very unique and beautiful. Did you buy it yourself?”

She blinks in surprise, but masks it quickly as she stares at one of the lasting mementos her mother had given her before her untimely death. It’s nothing really fancy, just a vintage charm bracelet that was supposedly passed down from her great-grandmother. It was a delicate thing and she wore it only on special occasions, although she has no idea why she considered having an interview with Michael worthy of wearing it again.

“No,” she finally replies softly as she fiddles with one of the charms in the shape of a heart. “It belonged to my mother…passed down from her mother and so on and so forth.” She swallows the sudden lump that fills her throat and shakes her head lightly to gain control of herself. She can’t believe just speaking about her mother would get her this choked up. She thought she was over it by now.

“Your mother…” Michael begins quietly.

“Is dead,” Deja interrupts tightly; forcing a smile on her visage and hoping her body language would tell him that she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. However, instead of seeing some kind of nosey expression on his visage, there is nothing more than a genuine sadness and understanding that makes the lump harder to swallow.

Goddamnit! Just what she doesn’t need. A cause to bawl her eyes out in front of her boss (possibly).

“How did she die?”

God, he just doesn’t let up, does he? And yet before she can control herself, she finds herself opening up the floodgates she has kept locked for so long. Her mother had passed away when she was twelve; finally giving up her battle with ovarian cancer. Her father had passed away when she was even younger, so she had no real recollections of him besides the pictures and stories her mother would tell. She ended up living with an aunt who raised her and lived long enough to see her through college.

“Oh God,” she finally blurts out in disbelief. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this. I don’t even know you.”

It isn’t until something soft is shoved into her hand does she realize he’s actually giving her his handkerchief. She lifts her lashes to stare at him with a vision that’s blurry (thanks to her eventually giving in to the damn tears), and at his soft nod and smile, she blows loudly into the silk-like cloth – which she’s got to admit smells just as good as he does.

“Sorry,” she sniffles. “I don’t know how to blow my nose like a lady.”

This has him laughing softly. “That’s good to hear. It would have been weird if you did know how to do that.”

Blushing darkly, she wrings the cloth within her hands. “Uum…I’ll wash it and return it…” Return it when? When I get hired? When I’m in the neighborhood? Or I could just mail it to your home.

“You can keep it,” he says with a light shrug. “I have plenty of others.”

“Of course.”

He raises a brow at her muttered words and leans back in his chair again to now toss the ball up and down absently. “Deja…Deja…Deja…that’s an odd name. Is that your real name?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“My mom was quirky like that.”

“Was she?” He leans forward again to cup his chin within his hands as if examining something fantastical. “You must take after her then,” he observes.

“What do you mean?”

“I sense you are most like her.”

“Sense, huh? Well, I lived with her most of my life so…I guess I picked up a few things here and there.”

“Uh huh.”

She expects him to say more, but no. He continues to watch her and the scrutiny is unnerving in a way. She tries to hold his gaze steady (no fair she couldn’t really see his eyes again), but the more she tries, the harder it becomes. She can feel her body reacting again to his presence, and she becomes more aware of how ‘alone’ they are despite the door being slightly ajar. And did the temperature in the room suddenly get a little warmer? She can feel her skin pricking with heat.

“What does it mean?” he muses aloud finally.

“What does what mean?” she asks in bemusement; hating how breathless she sounds.

“Deja.”

Oh, they are still on the topic of her name apparently. “I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. "Guess it means…Déjà vu? Or something?” She had never really bothered asking to be honest.

“I see…your mother sounds like she was wonderful. To give you a name like that…I would have liked to meet her.”

She is stumped into silence, though a part of her wonders if he’s just doing this to egg her on. However, she can detect no snarky or insincere vibes from him. Maybe he genuinely did mean what he was saying.

“What made you want to get into the music business?”

Ah, finally they were getting into the real thing, she thinks with a sigh of relief, but before she can open her mouth, he cuts in with a raised hand. “Please don’t tell me it’s because you just wanted to learn the ropes about the industry.”

Okay…now what?

“I wanted to be a musician,” she admits with a light shrug. This answer seems to get him intrigued enough.

“Really? Do you sing?”

“Can’t carry a fucking tune…oops.” She slaps a hand over her mouth, but it doesn’t seem to bother him because he only chuckles again at her slip. Boy, was she making an impression here or what?

“Can’t sing, huh?”

“No…I play the guitar…not so well though,” she confesses with a sheepish expression.

“Can I see your hands, please?” comes the shy question that has her gawking in surprise at the request. However, not wanting to deny him the opportunity to see if she was lying or not, she raises her hands and places them on the desk.

He studies her palms for a long minute and finally nods in satisfaction. “You must have played a lot.”

“Yes, I did,” she agrees, impressed he can tell. Her calluses might not be as bad as some others, but they are there; signs of all the hours she put into honing a craft that got her nowhere.

“Do you have any plans to get back into making music?” he asks.

“No.” She shakes her head. “I’m enjoying working behind the scenes to be honest. It’s a better fit for me.”

“Brian speaks highly of you.”

“Which is why you’ve been scouting me for a while now,” she quips back, wondering if he’ll be upset at that. All he does is smile and toss the ball a little higher.

“I like to know what I’m getting into before making an investment,” he replies. “And from the moment I saw you, I thought to myself…now that’s a woman I could work with.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You don’t sound like it.”

She sighs and suddenly feeling tired of the doing the run around (or being considered an ‘investment’ for that matter), she places her hands on the desk and leans closer to capture his undivided attention. “To be honest, Michael, I had sworn never to become anyone’s personal assistant. I’ve been in this industry long enough to know that it’s not exactly as great as everyone makes it out to be. I don’t want to work for some stuck up asshole who thinks he or she has the right to treat others like shit because they can. If I end up working for anyone, I need a boss that I can trust to treat me with respect. It’s not too much to ask, is it? In return, I can guarantee my undying loyalty and dedication to the job. I put in a 110% all the time and expect nothing less from me.”

Now sure she is going to get her ass kicked, or told to get the hell out of here, she settles back and waits for his admonishment. Or if push comes to shove, he might decide to call Brian to reconsider his decision.

However, after a long pause where he keeps tossing the ball higher and higher still, she is most definitely not ready for the next words that come out of his mouth. It would only be the beginning of many more ‘randomness’ from the man she would come to see as more than a boss as the years went by.

“Do you like animals?”

“…wh...what?” she stutters in confusion. How had this turned into her liking -

“Animals?” he asks with a grin, and as if to illustrate, he reaches for a carved statue of a giraffe to shake it gently. “Birds, giraffes, cows, dogs, stuff like that.”

“I know what animals are.”

“Okay then, do you like them?”

“…I guess…”

“Great. Then when I return from my trip, we can go see them at my home in Encino. I’ll call you when I get back, okay?”

What the...?

“Michael, I -”

He rises to his feet and stretches his lithe frame. “Frank will tell you the details about my work schedule and get you acclimated to the business. If you have any questions, fire them at him, okay?”

“Okay but -”

“It was fun talking to you, Deja,” he cuts in before she can get a word in.

He moves around the desk and extends a hand. “I look forward to a productive working relationship, eh?”

Still dumbfounded at how fast everything seems to be going, she can only rise to her feet on legs that feel like jelly and accept the strong grip. She is also vaguely aware that despite spending almost half-an-hour with him, she had been the one doing most of the talking and she knew absolutely nothing about him in return.

“People usually gush in excitement during this stage of the interview,” comes the wry comment.

Deja shrugs. “I don’t…I’m not quite sure of what to say. I mean, this is all so…fast -”

“Just say ‘yes’,” he implores; the once somewhat high-pitched voice now descending to a baritone that sends reluctant shivers of pleasure down her spine.

Okay, Deja, you have GOT to stop seeing him as a ‘man’ and try to focus on him as nothing more than your potential…no…your new boss! Get a fucking grip!

“Yes,” she finally says slowly; as if perhaps drawing out the word would help her come to terms with what she’s finally allowing herself to get into.

Michael’s grin widens, and with a final gentle squeeze of her hand, he releases her and begins to make his way toward the door. “So I’ll see you in a couple of weeks, okay? If you need anything…soda…snacks…food…just let Frank know.”

Let Frank know this. Let Frank know that.

And though she would have loved to tell him that Frank being the middle man was going to be a pain in the ass, all she can do is give him a smile and allow herself to be escorted out the office and into ‘civilization’ again.

Interview with Michael = Success!

It isn’t until she’s back home, tucked in bed, and munching on some chocolate-flavored popcorn (while watching Out of Africa…again! Meryl Streep was a goddess after all) does it finally hit her like a ton of bricks.

I am Michael Jackson’s personal assistant.
I am THE Michael Jackson’s personal assistant.
I am going to be privy to the most famous man in the world’s personal life.
I am going to be working closely with him.
I will know his every move even before he makes it.
I will get to know his circle of friends whether I want to or not.
I am going to be a part of the madness, the frenzy, the…insanity.
I am going to be at his beck and call 24/7/365.

Me. Deja Cassandra Rogers.

Holy shit!

She kicks up her heels in excitement and hides her squeal of delight within a pillow, not caring that her bed is now sprinkled with the remnants of her snack. If she dared tell any of her girlfriends or colleagues about this, they would be green with envy. Totally green! And though she knows she’s throwing away her personal beliefs, and is more than aware of how glamorous and unglamorous her new role is going to be, she is determined to keep her word.

She will give Michael no cause to regret the day he made the decision to keep her by his side.

Absolutely no regrets at all.



--


It was just a damn pity she eventually broke the number one cardinal rule of working for a celebrity…


...never fall in love.