Lady in His Life || MJ Imagines Vol. 1

The Way You Make Me Feel

          Growing up, a lot of things hadn't made sense. Your childhood was shitty, for lack of a better word. As if your father's desertion hadn't been devastating enough, your mother also struggled with substance abuse which made her very aggressive, and, at times, even physically abusive toward you. Music had been the one constant in your life during that rough period. When the sound of your mother's doped-up rants threatened to drown out your thoughts, you would turn up the radio and just move. It didn't matter how.
   
At every opportunity, you were moving your body to the beat. Eventually, dancing became as instinctive to you as sleeping or eating. Naturally, you dedicated your life to dance. And you were amazing at your craft. At only twenty-four, you had become one of the world's most successful dancers, even occasionally being invited to go on tour with popular artists. You loved being on tour. You loved the sound of a crowd hollering your name, music blasting through the speakers, and cheers getting louder as you began to dance. You loved the attention.
You'd danced alongside Tina Turner, Madonna, and even Prince, but the public seemed to think your repertoire was missing somebody of note.

From the start of your first tour, your fans had been rooting for you to tour with one specific artist. His talent had been recognized far and wide since his childhood, and that was only the beginning. He was unequivocally number one, second to nobody. The King of Pop himself, Michael Jackson. Now, you'd never been opposed to the idea of touring with him. In fact, you actually found Michael quite attractive. That was, until you bumped into him in person.
You'd just begun searching for a new studio and had scheduled a viewing for the space you liked the best. When you arrived, the realtors scrambled to greet you at the door. A lanky, weaselly man walking briskly by your side turned to you.

"Hello, Ms. L/N, my name is David, and I'm going to be showing you around the studio today," he squeaked nervously.

You followed him through the studio, admiring the way its big glass windows contrasted the soft brown wood of its floors. The dance rooms were beautiful and had the perfect acoustics for playing music. You could already see yourself gliding across the floor with poise, grace, and captivating sass. The place even had a sauna! It really seemed to be the perfect studio for you. At the end of the tour, you turned to David, smiled, and said, "I'll take it."

He turned back to you, nervousness written all over him. You sighed and pressed a hand to your forehead.

"What is it?"

David winced, gulped, and finally croaked out, "Someone else is checking the studio out today as well, and so, I really must wait to accept your offer."

Unfazed, you scoffed, "That's it? I'll just make a better offer."

Groaning, David replied, "That's the thing. You might not be able to."

Raising an eyebrow, you asked, "Just who exactly am I dealing with here?" crossing your arms and narrowing your eyes.

Looking at the floor, David murmured, "Michael Jackson."

Your eye twitched with annoyance. You tried to tell yourself you had nothing to worry about. Michael seems like a reasonable guy; when he realizes you found the studio first, he'll look for a different one.

David followed you back towards the front of the studio, where an entourage of men in black suits had gathered at the door. You watched as they walked in procession, guarding their charge. Michael was wearing a black leather outfit, and you had to admit, it really suited him. His hair was styled into a curly mullet that cascaded down to his shoulders. It added a rough edge to his look, and you were definitely feeling it. As he walked towards you, his eyes came into clear view. They had this intensity to them that you'd never felt before. When he reached you, he smiled sweetly and said, "Nice to finally meet you, Ms. L/N."

Your cheeks began to heat up, yet you coolly replied, "Likewise," smiling softly. He extended a gloved hand for you to shake. When you took it, he leaned in close, beaming, and whispered into your ear, "I'm going to have to take this studio, though."

You ripped your hand out of his and spun around to look at him. "Mr. Jackson, that wouldn't be fair, and you know it. I got here first!" you fumed.

He chuckled and turned on his heels towards you. "You're very whiny. Anybody ever tell you that before, Ms. L/N?"

You laughed dryly. "You're not as nice as they make you seem on TV."

He laughed back. "And you are?"

You turned towards him, now with an air of seriousness. "I really love this studio, and I got here first, Mr. Jackson. Will you please look for another studio somewhere else?" you huffed.

You softened your eyes at him, your bottom lip pushed out in a slight pout. The grin on his face faded slowly, replaced by an almost bashful expression.

"Alright, alright, You can have the studio, but on one small condition," he grinned, his eyes bright.

You glared at him suspiciously. "And what would that be?"

He smirked, "My lead dancer quit and-

"No," you said firmly, turning away from him and crossing your arms.

He shrugged his shoulders and sighed.  "What a shame I'll have to buy this beautiful studio out from under you. Too bad," he jeered.

You turned back towards him and pleaded, "C'mon, Mr. Jackson, you can't be serious. I wasn't even planning to tour. I was in the middle of-

"That's my one condition, Ms. L/N," he chorused, smirking at you triumphantly.

Frustrated, you brought your hand to your forehead and muttered, "Fine. I'll do it."

Looking down at you, he smiled. "Good. I'll see you Monday for rehearsal."

Yeah, after that ordeal, it could be confidently said that you weren't Michael's biggest fan.