Vylette Meraux awoke rudely with a start, her right cheek pressed flush against the glass of the rolled up window.
Through the clear pane, she saw what seemed to be an endless blur of various shades of green sailing past, as the suave, two-toned sports car moved slickly down the lone, unpaved road, towards the City of New Orleans, still a faint shadow in the distance.
“…ah, so Sleeping Beauty at last rouses from her peaceful slumber…”
A soft, dulcet voice teased, and bending the brim of her straw hat back, she found Michael glancing between her and the road, a light smile curling his lips as he clutched the wide black steering wheel.
Vylette stared at him curiously, still halfway hazy from drowsiness, and suppressed a yawn.
“Have…have I been asleep very long?” She wondered, her mind foggy, and trying to decipher real from make-believe.
“Oh yes!” Michael giggled, and was peeking at her again. “You practically dropped off as soon as we left Old Man Goebbels’!”
It was then, everything came sailing back to the teen with crystal clarity and her bosom expanded so suddenly, it threatened to bust the stitches holding her lace corselette together.
Their photograph in the Society Column…the proclamation in black and white that they were engaged, plain for anyone to read!
The unceremonious way in which Steven Wilkes had learned of her betrothal, in front of his slack-jawed cronies, no less!
An immense feeling of dread sat upon her shoulders as heavily as a circus elephant and bringing a hand to her chest, heart pounding, she reached for purse, in an effort to get a hold of her monogrammed hanky, before a flood of tears began flowing down her paling cheeks.
Her hand hit something smooth that crinkled slightly, and Vylette was surprised to discover the latest issue of a publication called “The Delineator” tucked right behind her handbag.
Picking it up, Vylette stared at the illustration gracing the cover; a pale-faced brunette with haunting blue eyes, modeling a coral striped frock.
Vylette had no recollection of ever seeing that magazine before, and turning to Michael again, asked,
“Where did this come from?”
Those dark eyes left the road a split second.
“Sweetness, don’t you remember?” He chuckled, “Right after I went in the store, I came back and got you, because I thought the woman there kind of favored you? Of course, your figure is nowhere near that…ahem….boyish, but the face…What’s wrong, Vylette? Why are you looking so queerly?”
The magazine slipped from her hands and fell into her lap, before sliding off onto the floor.
“Vylette!” Michael repeated, the lax amusement vanishing and being replaced with worry. “What’s the matter--are you ill?”
“No….no….” She shook her head, trying to make sense. “When we were at the five-and-dime…did, did we see Steven Wilkes?”
She whispered, her mouth cottony.
“Steven?” Michael echoed, curls bouncing as he twisted to look at her, the car swerving into the oncoming lane a few seconds. “Lord, no! You only saw Mr. Goebbels, when I bought the magazine.”
A hand was touching after her forehead in alarm.
“Are you ill? Vylette--Answer me!”
Vylette stared straight ahead, dumbly.
They hadn’t seen Steven? He didn’t know of their engagement?
There was no write-up in the paper?
Without warning, the car veered off onto a side road and within moments, a small structure sprang up from the wilderness--a cream and burgundy painted gas station.
Seeing the fine vehicle, the mechanic, whom had been lounging against a pump, jumped to attention as the driver leapt from the vehicle before it was properly in park.
Vylette watched as Michael, moving in an unrestrained, animated fashion, grabbed the man, shouting at him, about something to do with water.
The man said something in return, causing Michael to remove his hat and smack him with it.
“Go get it!” He roared plainly and shaken, the man took off, back into the garage, while Michael rushed to the passenger side door.
Seconds later, Vylette was on her feet, braced against Michael, with him fanning at her with the magazine.
“It’s alright, Baby…you’re just a bit overheated…” Michael was assuring her, removing her hat and tossing it back into the car, continuing to fan after her. “Stand a bit…breathe in some of this good country air…you’ll get straight--will you hurry the hell up, please!”
The mechanic returned, toting a bottle of Coca-Cola.
“I-I had trouble getting the top off, but it‘s cold, colder than the water on tap…” He stammered as Michael snatched the drink, tilting it to parched lips.
“Sip it slowly, Vy…no need for it to come back up…slowly…”
Taking heed, Vylette had a couple of sips, before questioning,
“We…we aren’t in the society column? Steven doesn’t know we’re engaged?”
“Should I send for a doctor, Mister?” The mechanic mumbled, and was promptly ignored.
Hands grasped Vylette’s shoulders and Michael looked her up and down warily.
“Society column--no, Vylette!” Michael’s head shook violently. “No…nobody knows but us and our families, you know that! Oh, the heat must have gotten to you! I meant to roll down your window, but you were right on it! I didn’t want to disturb you…”
Relief washed over her like a cool spring rain.
(Or perhaps that was just perspiration.)
Taking a step away, Vylette sat sideways in the car, sinking into the velvet cushions, the bottle being pressed to her mouth again.
“Are you alright? Do you want to go home? We can go back. I’ll take you to your father--”
A finger mashed his lips.
“No, I’ll be fine. I…I probably just need to eat. All I had this morning was coffee and a croissant. Really, I’ll be fine. We have reservations and I don’t want to spoil everything you‘ve planned--”
Vylette was much calmer and could collect her thoughts, now that she knew a hulking young man with an ego problem wasn’t tearing the Parish apart and plotting revenge.
“You aren’t spoiling a thing!” Michael insisted, eyes swelling in his head. “We’ve got food at home--”
“Don’t argue with your wife.” Vylette cut him off, and an instant smile came to his face, at the thought.
He visibly echoed the word soundlessly.
“Take me on to New Orleans, please…” Thick lashes fanned as she accented her statement with a term of endearment,
“Cheri.”
“Alright.” Michael, heaving a sigh, turned to the mechanic. “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing, I’m just glad your wife is okay…” The mechanic smiled, still looking a tad on the worried side, but Michael pressed something green into his hand anyway.
“Thank you, you‘ve really helped us. I‘m sorry if I hollered at you, I…I was scared…”
“It’s alright Sir. I got a little woman back at home too!”
As Michael hopped back in and started the car, the mechanic began rejoicing at the money in his palm.
“Wooooo-Lordy! God does answer prayers!” He shouted, pitching his cap in the air, as the car sped away.
Leaning against Michael, holding onto his hand,
Vylette pecked his cheek, thankful not only for his attentiveness and swift thinking, but also that the entire mess with Steven Wilkes had never happened.
Oh, the day would come, sure enough, but today was not that day!
And all thought of that nightmare was pushed from her mind.
* * *
An Hour Later
The Gilded Lily Restaurant
New Orleans, Louisiana
As it was still well within the lunching hours, the front lobby of Vylette and Michael’s choice eatery was quite literally packed with a long line of patrons, all waiting to be seated and served.
All of the usual suspects were well represented: businessmen in sharply tailored suits of the best fabrics, men looking to wrist and pocket watches nervously as time slipped away with each passing second, ladies of leisure, who, despite wearing the finest garments and jewels would likely dine on no more than watercress and hot water with a twist of lemon to be figure ready for swimsuit season, harried looking nannies tending spoiled and quarrelsome children, most the offspring of the starving women, whining every so often they were hungry.
There was a bit of a rumble beginning to make itself known, but Vylette only noticed it, as the elastic of her sturdy undergarments held her already flat belly in and muffled it.
While most everyone else in the lobby stood, Vylette was seated comfortably near the front revolving door, on a small cushioned bench, which Michael had commandeered out from underneath the maitre d’ a few yards away.
After her bout with the heat and the strange delusions it had inspired, Michael Jackson made it crystal clear he didn’t want Vylette on her feet until she had a proper meal in her.
Sitting there, in the cool the air conditioning offered, Vylette watched him, near the head of the line, only a handful of people ahead of him.
He was so sweet, so gallant, a true gentleman, tending her every need.
He’d been so concerned, that upon his entering the City, he was so eager to get her fed, he was speeding and blew through two stop lights, before being stopped by a cop on a motorcycle.
Annoyed at having to pull over for a citation to be written, Michael asked how much the charge was.
It was only fifty dollars.
A sum which appeared in the flatfoot’s hand with Michael speeding off like a bat out of Hell, declaring over his shoulder,
“My fiancée is ill!”
It had been reckless and thrilling--and anyone else probably would have had half the New Orleans, PD, on his tail--and Vylette swelled, knowing she mattered so much that Michael risked being beaten black and blue with billy-clubs for her.
And from where she sat, Vylette could tell he was again growing impatient, the way he continued to sway back and forth, his jaw set, and eyes boring fierce holes into the head of the man standing in front of him.
He too much of a gentleman to try to cut the line, but she knew he was thinking it.
“…Pardon me, Dear, but are you Miss Vylette Meraux?…”
Goose pimples rose all over Vylette as a hand suddenly patted her shoulder.
Vylette first glanced at her shoulder; a small hand in a sky-blue satin glove was on her.
Following the glove upwards, she found herself staring into the interested face of a young woman, hardly older than she.
She was White, but glowed with a “healthy” tan, that was only accented by the light brown waves peeking from beneath her felt cloche and her brilliant eyes, so light they were nearly clear.
The woman was mildly attractive, with an oval face, somewhat heavy in the jaw and a small, prim nose over thin lips painted a shocking scarlet.
Any on-looker was fooled into believing she was more pretty, due to how finely she was dressed. She wore a light blue, chiffon day suit and blouse, hugging an athletic-looking frame.
Delicate pearls hung from her throat and dangled out her earlobes.
Although the woman certainly seemed able to place her, Vylette couldn’t recall having met her before.
“Yes, I’m Vylette Meraux…”She confirmed and a broad grin spread on the woman’s face.
“How do you do?” A hand was jutted out and grasping Vylette‘s tightly. “I’m Miss Nora Belloq! I‘m a member of the Fleur-de-Lis Country Club.”
She gushed as Vylette shook her frankly cold hand, despite the gloves, and allowed herself to be pecked on the cheek lightly.
Vylette smiled and rose to her feet in greeting, despite direct instructions to remain seated.
She was quite a bit taller than the very petite Miss Belloq.
She still didn’t have the foggiest idea as to whom this woman was, but Vylette, chalked it up to having met so many people at the Gala a few weeks ago, it was impossible to keep track of them all.
“Vylette…” Those colorless eyes widened happily. “…you see we’ve never met before.”
Vylette’s own penciled in brows went up in surprise.
“We haven’t--?”
“No…“ Nora shook her head in the negative. “…unfortunately I missed the big to-do thrown for y’all by one day, because the ship I was sailing back on got delayed a few hours. I was in Europe on holiday, and when we were set to sail, some little German man…a gruesome looking creature, really, started spouting all sorts of horrendous, Anti-Semitic balderdash.”
False lashes fluttered passionately and her slim chest expanded.
“Well, I’m half-Jewish by my mother, and I took offense and refused to sail if he intended to complain like that an entire two weeks. We sparked right up and I said some things that shouldn’t be repeated in public. It took three hours for security to get him off the ship once he and a few of his colleagues got into it…uncouth scoundrels.”
She tossed her head flagrantly.
“Oh my…” Vylette was slightly dizzy. And she didn’t know if it were from heat, hunger, or the idea of a society dame shouting obscenities on an ocean liner. “How dreadful!”
“It most certainly was!” Nora tittered and was again kissing Vylette’s cheek.
“I hope you’ll forgive me for being so short, Dear, but I really must dash! I’ve an appointment in fifteen minutes. ‘The Works’ at Armand’s, don’t you know? I recognized you from a picture that sweet Tabitha Cavendish showed me the other day and I wanted to introduce myself. The picture didn’t half do you justice. You’re ravishing in person! I really do hate to rush, but I will be attending the theatre openings! I hope we can chat more there! Lovely meeting you, Dear!”
“You too!” Vylette turned as Nora hurriedly made her exit through the revolving door and Vylette watched, mouth parting a little as Nora stepped into an idling black limousine, door held by a chauffer in a black uniform, before merging with the rest of traffic and whisking her away.
“Ready to eat?” A voice teased, and Vylette found Michael at her side, taking her arm and looping it through his.
“Oh, yes…” In the moment, her gut fired up with a vengeance. “I just met a lady from the Club…”
“That’s wonderful Mein Leibling…” Michael cooed, leading her towards the open archway of the dining room, where the maitre d’ waited, looking sternly down his flared nose at them.
“My little Vylette is on her way to being the Belle of New Orleans…” He intoned, and Vylette flushed, feeling the sin of pride rising in her and not caring that it read plainly on her face.
* * *
Before Vylette had sat down, at one of the many round tables dotting the dining hall, she had felt weakened and famished with a dull ache to her gut.
By the end her meal, she was quite literally stuffed to popping thanks to her lover.
When her simple order of two fried catfish fillets with coleslaw on the side had been lodged, Michael had waved their server to his side and spoken in low tomes.
Vylette had taken it only as him specifying how he wanted a certain dish prepared and merrily sipped her iced tea.
It wasn’t until plates began dancing out of the kitchen that she realized her order had been vastly supplemented.
There had been the addition of a creamy cucumber salad to start--nowhere near as tasty as Adelaide’s thought--her fish fillets had multiplied from two to four, and keeping the coleslaw company was a small bowl of sautéed mushrooms and one of crisp, golden hushpuppies. Not to mention that a glass of tomato juice magically appeared beside her tea. (Thankfully, the Tabasco sauce had been left out and her tongue wasn’t set on fire.)
It was a hearty spread, more than Vylette would have preferred to eat, but she knew she had to try to put as much of it as she could into her mouth.
Meals at the Gilded Lily were costly and Vylette never wanted to be wasteful.
It took a bit of doing, and silent praying for forgiveness for gluttony, but Vylette managed to make a great portion disappear.
But it wasn’t without some cheating.
On Michael’s platter of salmon croquettes, and steamed broccoli with sliced tomatoes, a fish fillet, three hushpuppies, and several mushrooms were added by her hand.
Which he readily ingested.
Now her plate was nearly clean, only half a fillet, smeared with tartar sauce left.
And after all that, Michael Jackson had the gall to order dessert!
Where it all went into his slim, wiry frame was anyone’s guess.
“…I’d like a sundae please…” He was stating, squinting at the thick dessert menu offering over fifty confections to rot a soul’s teeth.
“Can you make it with vanilla ice cream, hot fudge and butterscotch and sprinkle chopped walnuts on top?”
Vylette shook her head. Around sweets, Michael was just like a child, with eyes bigger than his stomach.
The waiter was scribbling in a small notepad.
“And for Madam?”
“Nothing, thank you.” Vylette refused, and noticed Michael signaling the waiter.
“Michael, don’t order anything for me, please!” She begged dabbing at her mouth. “I’ll burst!”
“I’m not, I swear!” Michael grinned before whispering inaudibly.
Quickly, the waiter made tracks, before reappearing a moment later, handing Michael a gift box.
It was a few inches in height and width, wrapped shimmering gold paper, fastened with a gauzy white bow.
“Thank you.” Michael nodded and the box was placed beside Vylette’s drink glass.
Chewing on fish, she looked to him curiously.
“For me?” She was patting her mouth again and reaching for it, as Michael beamed. “You spoil me!”
“Really now?” Michael snickered as the paper was being ripped to shreds. “I thought it was a man’s duty to spoil his soon-to-be wife!”
“I’ll be conceited--”
Vylette paused as she got the box open, paper floating away onto the floor.
“Oh…oh Michael…”
Reaching in carefully, Vylette produced a large bottle, sloshing with liquid.
The box bounced on the table, as Vylette stared at it in awe.
It was impressive, big enough to be held in both hands, made of frosted glass, shaped into what appeared to be the head of a pharaoh, striped headdress and all.
It was a proud, regal face, that very faintly, mimicked Michael’s, and for a scant second, Vylette wondered if the bottle had been molded in his likeness.
“Do you like that?” Michael was now at her side, smiling down upon her, soaking in the glow of flattery.
“Yes…it’s lovely….” Pulling out the dauber, topped with what appeared to be her initials in gilt script--her married initials of V. J.--and inhaled, the deeply rich fragrance of jasmine, with notes of bergamot, citrus and cinnamon. It was another heavy, sexy scent.
Was that all Michael ever wanted her drenched in?
“What’s it called?”
“East of Egypt…”
Gingerly, he took the bottle from his love.
Twisting it in his hands so that the clear liquid inside burbled, Michael inquired luridly,
“My Darling…do you know what Egyptian Revival is?”
There was ignorance all over the heart-shaped face as, reluctantly, the head shook in the negative, white straw brim swishing.
No, Vylette didn’t have the faintest clue what those words meant and felt the burning twinge of shame. Michael Jackson knew so many things that evaded her outside the covers of books.
A warm hand patted her softly rouged cheek, showing no love was lost at this ignorance.
“Well, Sweetness, its an art, clothing and architecture movement; modeled after and inspired by things of Ancient Egypt. It‘s been happening off and for about a good fifty or so years…it came back en vogue, you know, when that British guy went and dug up King Tutankhamen about ten years ago…”
Vylette had a vague idea of what he was talking about. She could remember her father commenting about how Lord…Carter, something or other, had dug around in the Valley of the Kings and discovered a crypt which hadn’t been disturbed in over two thousand years.
(And how shortly after, Lord Carter had died of an illness that some believed to be a curse from having dared open and loot the final resting place of King Tut, most of the treasures being taken to a museum in England.)
Michael trailed off and smiled at Vylette sheepishly, as his grand sundae came out and was placed on the table.
It was a mountainous spectacle composed too many scoops of ice cream, thick ribbons of both melted chocolate and butterscotch, accented with mounds of whipped cream, the chopped walnuts and several maraschino cherries.
Instantly, Michael, was seated and digging away into it.
Mouth full of sweets, crunching on nuts, he explained,
“It’s always fascinated me, that sort of style, the opulence of it all. I’ve been to Africa before, but I was in Zanzibar, not Egypt. I never had the chance to see it…”
More ice cream was shoved into his gullet.
“..I had intended for the Palace to be done in the Egyptian style, but Jermaine beat me to it…he got his place open five years ago, when I was struggling with my divorce and getting my finances in order…yanked it right out from under me…”
Hatred crossed his features before returning to ambivalent softness.
“At least it burned partially three years later and closed for six months during the reconstruction…”
Vylette snickered at the blatant sibling rivalry. It hadn’t occurred to her with so many theatres and only so many styles to choose from, that it was possible for more than one Jackson to light on the same décor idea.
“So, I did my theatre in a different style, kind of French, Belle Époque…because this is New Orleans and there is such a heavy French imprint upon everything here…including in you…”
Her cheek was patted again, bringing a bashful shying away on her part.
“…but…I wanted my office Egyptian. Marlon said I was crazy, that the style is on its way out, that I was throwing money away, but I knew I had to have it…It’s where I’ll have to work from time to time. It’s not on display like the rest. It’s just for me. The Palace is my place of business. I’m the boss. I’m the King--er, Pharaoh of it all. I worked hard procuring everything in my office and getting my vision realized, especially with that idiot Antoine fouling up things over and over--”
Michael was interrupted by Vylette teasing, and twirling one of the curls trailing his forehead around her finger,
“If a Hebrew gent comes along with a walking stick, demanding you free all the other Hebrews, you will be in trouble, won’t you?”
Michael winked playfully and smiled harder, at the mild blasphemy.
Kathleen would have slapped the wave out Vylette’s hair for such a statement.
“The thing is, there’s only one thing lacking in my office, that I’m desperate to have.” he added seriously, voice dropping an octave.
“What’s that?” Vylette brushed the pinching hand from her cheek.
“I need a photograph of you.” Michael replied and Vylette gave him a skeptical glare.
“Why, you have dozens--”
“None of them will fit in with my theme. Modern clothes of nineteen thirty-one have no place in a room that harkens to the days of the Bible, when Christ walked the Earth. That‘s not my vision at all!”
“Well, I--”
“You are so beautiful.” Michael complimented her point blank.
“You’re so dark and exotic looking, Vylette…”
That statement produced a giggle from Vylette.
“I’m dark?” She cackled, and sniffled, “When half the people I meet mistake me for White--”
“I meant your hair.” Michael declared flatly and Vylette shut her mouth. “And you are Colored, Vy. Somewhere in you, there’s African blood. You’re only a generation or two removed from the slaves who were brought here to toil. I want a picture of you in Egyptian garb…you could be on par with Cleopatra, styled appropriately.”
“You’re serious?” Vylette gaped at him, her mind trying to process this scheme of his.
Michael Jackson had had eccentric ideas before, but this was off, even for him. He wanted her to pose for him as the Queen of the Nile?
“Yes I am. Right this moment, on the third floor of the Palace, in my office, there’s a costume for you, that I designed myself and had created by hand for you. I also have my camera, and any cosmetics you’d need…”
Her face was cupped in those long, warm hands and his eyes burned with a strange creative intensity.
The kind of intensity Vylette had only witnessed in the brief instances when he’d be swept up, reciting his love sonnets to her.
“Will you be Cleopatra…for me?”
Vylette thought a long hard moment…and his eyes danced in anticipation.
He wanted her to pose for him? Be a part of this fantasy he was rendering for himself?
The head drooped and lashed fluttered coyly at such a flattering notion. He wanted to include her…
“Do I have to hold an asp?”
“No!--quit being hilarious, Vy--”
“Alright.”
The dark eyes grew and wobbled in their sockets at the speedy confirmation.
Vylette couldn’t say no to him… not her lover.
She did like giving in to his schemes; they always called for a good time.
Also, Michael had mentioned that her costume had been hand designed by himself and handmade for her--she couldn’t very well let so much effort go to waste.
Michael was beside himself with glee.
A loud snap left his fingertips and cut through the din of the hall.
“Garcon! Check, please!”
* * *
Vylette sat shotgun in the front seat of the Cadillac, staring at Michael Jackson, whom in turn, was staring at the packed roads stretching on ahead of them, as traffic moved at a snail’s pace, trying to make a way to the theatre.
Sometimes, Vylette just didn’t understand how the mind under all of those shiny curls worked and managed to come up with such tantalizing inspirations.
He wanted to photograph her as Cleopatra.
And it couldn’t have been a spur of the moment thought or something that had come up as a whim, if Michael had taken the time to see that a custom costume be created for her.
He was so delightfully strange and Vylette did feel an excited little twinge running up and down her spine and causing goose pimples to break out across the surface of her skin.
She did wonder how she would be dressed…how she would look.
Emulating a Queen for her King--Pharaoh.
Vylette didn’t want to give into vanity, but she did hope she looked very beautiful…at least for him.
She always wanted to be beautiful for him.
Michael’s hand was on her thigh, squeezing after the firm flesh now and then as he continued to guide the vehicle through the crowded and noisy French Quarter; people all in the streets and calling to one another from the lace-like balconies of the buildings overhead.
Everyone was so happy and full of holiday spirit, Vylette could feel it and was smiling for no sure reason.
She dipped her head, continuing to grin, face and neck burning, hands wringing in her lap.
She didn’t know what was coming over her, but she liked it.
This joyous, silly, drunken feeling.
Her thigh was squeezed again, and coyly, Michael asked,
“Well, what do you think of that, Mein Leibling?”
Head coming up, Vylette first looked to Michael.
He was beaming broadly like a proud father at his firstborn, and pointing ahead.
Following that slim finger, Vylette stared forward through the windshield.
And all the wind in her lungs whooshed out, leaving her woozy for a moment.
In front of them, was the Palace theatre…
Vylette leaned forward so, her forehead bopped against the cool glass.
But that afternoon, it looked even more wonderful and spellbinding than Vylette could remember or imagined and her mouth popped open in utter awe.
Like the rest of New Orleans, the front of the building had been adored with American flag patterned festoons and banners, wagging in the breeze, for the Fourth. From the very top of the roof, extending from the backs of the cornerstone gargoyles, were two large flags.
As Vylette’s breast began to swell with unchecked pride, her eyes came down a bit, and noted the large, red banner, emblazoned with swirling white print declaring to anyone with a modicum of eyesight,
“The Palace Theatre Welcomes Mister Charles Chaplin!”
There it was staring her--the common knowledge that the star was going to be in attendance and gracing the City with his presence!
Why, everyone in town must have known about this!
Vylette wanted to shout, it seemed to good to be true!
Too, too good! That she would again be graced with The Little Tramp’s presence.
Down on the first level, the four display cases, set between the three sets of shut double doors, each held a crisp, brightly-colored poster, each one exclusively advertising “City Lights”.
Vylette was in true danger of weeping.
Pulling up along the curb, Michael explained,
“There’s going to be a red carpet, and a life-sized cutout of Chaplin’s Tramp character by the door. I already lost three cutouts because each time I had one put out, someone with sticky fingers stole it. So, the one I have now won‘t go up until the day of the premiere. But what can I expect, when Chaplin is one of the most popular film stars in the world?”
He didn’t seem scornful, more amused than anything that the stand-ups were being swiped by fans.
“It looks just beautiful, Michael.” Vylette was blinking again, more of those thankful happy tears blurring her field of vision.
“Oh, I can’t wait to see the inside--”
It was unfathomable that the interior was even more incredible. Was it possible? Had Michael managed it? Curiosity was eating her alive and leaving thin bones behind.
Vylette started to open the car door, to sprint as fast as the three-inch heels on her feet would allow, and was surprised when Michael reached across her and shut it back promptly.
“I want to peek in and make sure the lobby looks right before I bring you in. I want to make sure everything is perfect, Mein Leibling! It has to be perfect. This is more important to me than the opening! Stay here. And if a masher comes along to molest you, lay on the horn!”
He hooted and skipped-he was so joyful he was skipping--up the walk to the center doors, slipping inside.
Unable to obey the simple request, Vylette unfolded from the car as soon as the door shut behind him, staring up at the building.
Trying to imagine what it would be like at night, with the marquee lit up and blinking, emerging from a stretch limousine, possibly on the arm of Charlie Chaplin himself.
She knew his appearance would garner all kinds of publicity for the Palace and she’d likely make it into the Society Column for real this time.
A smug grin crossed her face.
What would people like Steven Wilkes and Mary Povah think of her, little Vylette Meraux from tiny Rainelle Parish, in the company of celebrities like Chaplin?
Getting her name printed and photograph spread in the biggest circulations of newspapers in the city and perhaps even the state!
Is this what it meant to be a socialite?
Michael had said she was going to be the Belle of New Orleans and in spite of herself and a stern upbringing that focused on the utmost modesty, Vylette did feel a zealous little chill each time she thought of the activities in which she could now be a part of--the bridge parties and dinner parties and luncheons, provided no one else’s child injured themselves the night before.
Being friends with ladies who spoke of more than just sharecropping, penny-pinching and what else the Soup Kitchen needed.
No boring droning on of the Wednesday night’s Ladies’ Christian League. And even if she had to endure the insufferable company of a pack of peahens at least the trouble of preparing and hosting could partially be put off on Adelaide. (with a generous raise for her extra work, as Michael insisted upon.)
It was exactly as Lorraine had stated and nay, bragged over and over. The two of them were on the upgrade and this meant socializing and becoming friendly with an entirely different breed of women.
Cultured, exciting, sophisticated women.
Women who traveled…wore the best of everything.
And how she wanted to be like them. It may have been covetous, nay, sinful, but Vylette wanted to be like them.
Look beautiful, live in a beautiful house, bear the beautiful children for so handsome a husband.
Perhaps even be a key player in this special, exclusive world.
That’s what her betrothed seemed to be gunning for even if he did crave the solitude of country life.
He knew what it meant to be a part of the hierarchy of the big city, to be sociable and socialites--
“Violette Blanche?”
The daydreaming teen came crashing back to earth, with a start.
Leaning against the center doors, arms tucked behind him and bracing against it, Michael Jackson was staring at her, a touch of a smirk on his dully glossed lips.
While the lines of his body pointed to the placid there was an air excitement and electricity about him that Vylette sensed and the scant few hairs on her arms rose as her heart beat went all off twitter.
“Are you ready?” He questioned as she did a little jump and rushed to him, her cheeks growing redder as the rest of her complexion receded to pure milkiness.
Those lavender-blues were so wide and glassy Michael could see his own faint reflection in them.
“Yes--I have been for eons!” Vylette gasped hands beginning to wring and threatening to rip the silk of her gloves.
Michael looked rather young, reckless and boyish, he was smiling so much.
Her heart was clambering in her chest.
It was time….it was finally time.
She was going to see the inside of the theatre!
The theatre that had taken Michael all this time to create.
She was going to see his vision!
The culmination of his vision!
Slickly, he moved behind her, a large hand carefully covering her eyes, as the five-foot-seven body trembled.
“I sincerely hope you like it, Baby…” Michael whispered off into her ear. “You opinion is what matters to me the most…”
Her cheek was smooched.
“I want you to be immersed in the lobby…” He cooed, his hand hovering where it wouldn’t spoil her tediously-applied eye shadow.
“I-I-immerse me…” Vylette stammered, as Michael’s body pressed against hers from behind and she slowly began to shuffle forward.
“Keep your eyes closed until I tell you…” He instructed and Vylette heard something squeak, before feeling an intense rush of cold air, breaking the humid heat of the day and causing goose pimples to cover the surface of her body ever more harshly.
Taking a few more steps, Vylette’s feet went from the hard concrete pavement to sinking into thick, plush carpeting.
Faintly, she could smell new paint mixed with the scent of rosewater in an effort to combat it.
Eyes remaining so squinted her mascara was coming off onto her cheeks Vylette was certain she couldn’t contain herself any longer.
“Open them.”
Michael’s voice was muffled as the hand taken from her face and her eyes fluttered open.
And for a moment, Vylette was stunned.
Absolutely, unequivocally stunned.
Her heart thudding in her ears like tom-tom drumbeats.
Turning, she looked to Michael for some sense of explanation, and he only looked back at her a hand pressed to his mouth, trying to gauge her reaction.
“M-M-Michael…” She stuttered, turning in a circle, blinking long and hard. “This…this can’t be…this…this is the theatre…?”
Removing his fedora, and pressing it to his chest, an expression of intense crestfallenness, hurt and detriment came to his face and the curled head bobbed in agreement.
“You don’t like it--” He started and was interrupted by Vylette screeching
“Why, it’s like Versailles! It’s beautiful! Stunning, magnificent, remarkable! ZOWIE!”
The interior of the Palace was no exaggeration, and never had such a single word conveyed one passionate idea so very clearly.
The front lobby of the Palace was, in short breathtaking.
The lobby wasn’t so much a lobby, but a grand front hall, dressed opulently and ostentatiously in shades of bright red and gleaming gilt.
It was indeed as if Vylette had entered a grand royal Palace, miles from New Orleans, or even the North American continent.
It was regal, royal and screamed of Europe.
The massive hall was carpeted in deep crimson, with the walls papered in a matching shade. from the walls, half columns, painted in that expensive of metallic’s were lit here and there with three pronged sconces, electrified by flame shaped bulbs. Every few feet, decorative mirrors gave the space the illusion of being even larger.
The hall stretched on for two stories and about a hundred yards in was the lavish staircase.
Carpeted in red as if made for only the feet of royalty, it was trimmed by a gold scrollwork banister curling gracefully as the lines on a woman‘s body, leading up to a majestic fountain.
The fountain, featuring five tiers of dangling crystal prisms and spheres, tinkled in the silent hall, as water spouted from the very top and fell back into a little pool surrounded by fat, naked cherubs playing pan flutes and harps.
A painting behind the fountain featured naked women lounging on the banks of a river with a few more splashing in the water for good measure.
It was a bit tongue-in-cheek, and Michael had again seemed to satisfy his obsession with the female figure in an artistic way.
Vylette was no longer disturbed by the sights of artistic nudes; she’d become desensitized to them from constant exposure in Jackson Manor.
Bending back, Vylette took in the vaulted ceiling with a mix of a gasp and a scream.
Painstakingly, the entire ceiling had been carved in relief and featured everything from more cherubs to fruits to animals flouncing. Less work had gone into the Sistine Chapel!
Adding to the grandeur, eight huge crystal covered chandeliers, which Vylette later came to the conclusion were shaped, in a way, like female breasts, hung and glittered like balls of diamonds overhead.
Turning, Vylette saw in the far left corner the glassed in ticket booth, covered mid way in guilt, with “Tickets” etched into the glass.
And it was then, Vylette saw one of the most jaw-dropping features.
Right above the exits, in golden script on a sea of red,
“Take the Magic with You!”
“Oh Michael, Michael--” Vylette reached for him and hugged to him tightly, gushing.
“It’s marvelous. I love it. I love every bit of it!”
Why she wasn’t sobbing, she’d never know.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet!” Michael winked and raising an arm, his fingers snapped with an ear-splitting POP!
How did he always manage to pop his fingers so loudly?
Vylette became aware of what sounded like distant marching and from around the staircase, from the hallways it masked, two lines of teenaged boys, two dozen of them, came goose-stepping out.
All, Colored, White and a few Hispanic, were dressed elegantly in usher’s uniforms of blood-red epaulet jackets, shining brass buttons and golden fringe, with black pants bearing a gold stripe down the sides.
Atop each of their heads, were small, red pill box hats, and white gloves on their hands.
Standing at attention on both sides of the hall, the boys, with the precision of a drill team, all removed their hats and bowed to her, gallantly, remarking in unison,
“Welcome to the Palace, Miss Meraux!”
“Why…why, thank you!” Vylette was shocked by the display and could feel herself swelling with an importance that only her mother could have beat out of her with a leather strap.
It would be Michael Jackson to do something extra and dramatic.
“These are the boys who will be working as ushers for us, hopefully for a long time…” Michael explained, leading her past them, each of them smiling brightly at her.
And as she passed, she could hear whispers,
“All I done heard about for the last three weeks was Mr. Jackson’s fiancée. Now I see what he was talking about!”
“Gosh, she’s a looker!”
“Looker, nothing, she’s gorgeous!”
“She looks just like that dame from ‘Arrowsmith’--Myrna Loy!”
“His girl would look like movie star!”
“Is she really Colored?”
“My mama’s that light--”
“--she ain’t that pretty though!”
“But did you see her eyes? Her eyes, man! Was they blue?”
Leading Vylette to the base of the steps, Michael turned around, announcing.
“All you fellows are dismissed until Friday. Remember I need you back here to do your duties at the opening!”
“Yes, Sir, Mr. Jackson!”
“Thank you kindly, Sir!”
“I’ll be here, you can bet on that!”
Falling out of formation, most of the boys started to drift away, talking amongst themselves.
“Now I’ll show you--what is it, Orville?”
Michael stopped as one of the boys, a thin, gangly thing of about fourteen with a face of freckles and coarse black hair came forward, eyeing Vylette curiously.
“Ma’am, pardon my asking…” He was holding his hat so hard, he was starting to crush it. “…but what color are your eyes?”
Vylette chuckled, “Lavender.”
“Golly, you look just like Myrna Loy, Ma’am…”The boy smiled, before turning and jogging away.
“I’m going to have to take a closer look at that actress, I keep hearing her name come up in relation to you.” Michael stared after the kid.
“Well, there is a difference…” Vylette concurred as he took her hand, leading her up to the fountain.
“And that is?”
“Myrna is White, with auburn hair and green eyes. I’m Colored with black hair and lavender eyes--”
“And you have me, you win!’ Michael snorted and they both laughed.
* * *
For the next hour, Michael and Vylette toured the cavernous halls of the first two floors, seeing the humungous concession stands on the first floor, just beyond the staircase and virtually hidden from view through a door, so as not to spoil the look of the lobby.
The Ladies’ and Gentleman’s Lounges--otherwise known as the bathrooms--each awash in gold and mirrors with more touches that harkened back to Victorian and Edwardian Era Royalty.
Halls were lined with mirrors surrounded by relief work, and glowing, crystal hanging sconces.
The only room Michael neglected to let Vylette view was the auditorium, stating that she had to see it “filled to the brim with patrons to get the full effect, Sweetness!”
By the time they reached the much smaller, scarlet carpeted staircase near the end of the second floor, Vylette felt faint.
She could hardly fathom it; that Michael Jackson, a man of only twenty-five, could have created such a place, much less do all the work of managing it and all those under his employ.
In addition to the ushers there were concession stand workers, custodians, projectionists, cigarette girls--all of whom Michael assured her were no older than fourteen and homely creatures, so as not to make her jealous--and so many others to keep the theatre running tightly and smoothly.
He was hauntingly, searingly brilliant and a mastermind of business, she realized suddenly. And all of this splendor was half hers. It belonged to her too and would be passed down to their offspring one day.
She wanted to burst so was so blissfully happy.
Up the stairs they went, hand in hand, emerging into an eerily, dimly lit corridor, on the third floor.
It took Vylette a long moment to understand why the hallways seemed dimmer: it was papered in flat black, rather than red as the floors below.
Sconces did light the way, and as she passed them, she began to realize Michael’s seriousness about wanting to have Egyptian inspired decorations. The sconces were not made of crystal; instead , of highly polished bronze, all made to resemble Ra, the ancient Sun God, arms spread, with wings, each hand holding a glowing bulb.
Vylette passed a dozen representations of Ra as they progressed to the only doorway in the hall and upon seeing it, Vylette was starkly taken aback.
The doors had been painted black, but over both doors a relief in bronze had been placed and Vylette squinted at it curiously.
On the door, was what appeared to be a life-sized rendition of Michael in the fine metal, topless and himself dressed as a pharaoh. His body had been outlined, true to life, right to the faint impression of his abs and outie bellybutton.
When he’d sat for a sculptor, Vylette had no clue, they were together so often.
He wore a fine headdress and a kilt, impressed with eagles, his large feet in sandals.
Flanking him were what appeared to be two beings and it was a long time before Vylette recognized them as Michael’s parents at his sides. The female, his mother, Katherine, had a hand on his shoulder, in profile, several inches shorter than him, whilst Joseph, his father, a few inches taller, held an Ankh in his hands, the symbol of Life.
Above him were two more eagles facing one another and all over, hieroglyphics had been hand painted in gold.
“Here’s my office.” Michael said simply, as if they were faced with plain oak doors and not such an artwork, that Vylette found self-boasting, just a bit…just a bit.
“Yes…I can see that, Darling….”
Reaching out Michael, took grasp of the two doorknobs, shaped like hooded cobras raising up to strike and pushed the doors open.
Hands came up to Vylette’s mouth, as she ambled in, those lavender eyes growing in her skull.
“Sweet Fancy Moses!” She started and looked up at Michael,
“I…I mean…”
Vylette had scarcely believed that anything could ever top Michael’s at home office, a deeper shade of the hues that had been presented downstairs and again, she was proven to be wrong.
The office was quite large, much larger than Michael’s at the Manor. The walls were papered in a heavy, dark flat gold.
Under her feet, the flooring was solid black marble, a complete departure from anything outside. All around, the walls, in between the many windows, rimmed with black velvet valances, were murals showing everything from nude people flocking around the River Nile to the Pyramids, to the Sphinx.
Below each painting were statues. Some were of Ra, some of other Pharaohs, others of animals, all in marble of dark saturated colors.
Scattered around were chairs and low lounges, all in ebony with gilt accents and figures.
The hallmark, of course, was Michael’s desk.
Setting on a six-inch, solid platform of black marble his desk was made of shining ebony, the front of it, embellished with a huge carving made to look like King Tutankhamen’s face, staring out at her.
Atop the desk were more figures, a lamp made to look like a sarcophagus, and left open, showing a tiny gold mummy inside.
His small black clock, on the front corner, was supported by four Sphinxes.
On the wall behind him, two columns, painted in gold with dancing figures and eagles, supported elaborate sconces, looking like more relics from Tut’s time, flanked an oversized golden frame sitting empty, and Vylette realized it was the frame intended for her photograph.
“Do you like it?” Michael was mashing the roses on her shoulders again. “Marlon said this looked like the Tombs to him.”
“Marlon is ignorant.” Vylette spoke up carefully and removing her straw hat, placed it into one of the guest chairs, black with little gold heads of Ramses on it.
Snorting, Michael seemed apprehensive, taking off his hat, too.
“This is lovely, I feel as though I am in Egypt.” Vylette tittered, and pointed out a striped chaise across the room where Michael’s camera stood on a tripod.
“Is that where--”
“Yes!” Michael was alive and jittery.
Taking hold of her shoulders, turned her so they faced one another directly.
His eyes, keen and narrowed, took in her features, the heart-shaped, glowing face, the exotic, almond shaped eyes, the patrician nose and pert mouth.
Eyes rambled over the womanly body and Vylette could hear the gears turning as a vision was formulating in his head.
“I…I’d like for you to take your hair down…” He spoke slowly, gripping her chin and examining her face.
“I need you to do your makeup darker…”
“Darker?” Vylette echoed and he nodded.
“I want you to look like a vamp. You have ‘It’ Vy…I want to see ‘It’…” Michael replied solemnly.
Vylette knew ‘It’ meant sex appeal, and she flushed violently at being asked so plainly to emulate such a look.
She worried what guests would think of her, upon seeing her in such a fashion in the huge frame behind the desk.
“Um…” She was skeptical, as Michael let go of her, rounding his desk and opening a drawer.
From it he produced the duplicates of the cosmetics she typically used at home, all from the Ferocious line.
Vylette noticed the eye shadow was stark, matte black and the lipstick so dark it was nearly plum.
“I need you to take off everything, Vy. Dress, stockings, under things…your costume is very…ah…revealing…”
“Michael!” Vylette nearly dropped the pot of cold crème. “I don’t know--”
“Don’t worry…” Michael was lighting cigarette and pointing out a screen in the far corner of the room, featuring a pharaoh and two protective guards. “…all your…ahem…’treasures’ will be concealed.”
Those eyes were on her.
“Please…go put on the robe and I’ll set everything out for you…it’s nearly three now. I want to shoot a few good frames. Then I’ll take you to dinner and get you on home.”
“Alright…” Vylette wasn’t fully convinced she liked where this was going, but decided it was best to at least see what wanted first.
She only worried her mother wouldn’t raise too much Hell over it.
Half an hour later, Vylette Meraux was absolutely certain her mother would raise Hell and Satan clean up out of the ground over how she now looked.
And yet, in spite of the wrath she was sure to incur, upon having her photographic image viewed by the blustery, pious matriarch, Vylette has lost the will to worry.
She was too consumed by her own reflection at the moment to have any thoughts that complex.
Perhaps for the first time in her young life, Vylette had a real, honest grasping of what Vanity was and was pretty damn close to reveling in it.
By the skill of her own hand at makeup application and coiffing and Michael’s at crafting her Cleopatra costume, Vylette had transformed from a country teen and into a stunning, statuesque interpretation of the Queen of the Nile.
As wanted, her long, waved tresses trailed down her back, framing her milky skin. The dark, deep tones of the cosmetics added a mysterious, sultry touch, giving her a look and a feeling unfamiliar to her, but thrilling just the same.
Michael Jackson had not lied when he’d stated the costume was revealing--it was.
Made of bright gold lame, the costume consisted of two pieces, a belly baring top that just managed to conceal her large breasts in the shimmering material and a low-slung skirt, with cutouts on the hips to bear even more flesh. Thankfully the skirt was long, giving a wisp of modesty.
Adorning the top and scattered around the hips were carved scarab pins in what appeared to be moonstones, reflecting and dancing in the light.
From the back of the halter top, two floor sweeping panels hung and as Vylette moved back and forth she was happy her hair was so long, it concealed the completely backless portion behind her.
But staring at herself, she saw she did have a pleasantly shaped figure, and started to have a minor understanding as to why Michael fretted so about leaving her alone.
Vylette was pretty and appealing to many a man’s tastes--
Tinkle….Tinkle….Tinkle….
At the softly metallic sound, Vylette looked down and was surprised to see Michael sitting Indian-style at her side.
His blazer had been cast off, revealing cherry-red suspenders holding up his blue trousers. His tie had been removed and his sleeves loosened and rolled out.
At Vylette’s feet, he was placing a rather large, inlaid wooden box, gleaming with varnish.
“How….how do I look?” Vylette questioned hesitantly, as latches were thrown and the box opened with Michael starting to dig through it.
“Gorgeous…everything I imagined and more…” He spoke quietly, eyes down cast and Vylette could feel herself flushing.
Taking hold of her right arm, Michael began to slip what looked like jeweled bangles onto it--five of them in all, bearing everything from what looked like pearls, to rubies to emeralds.
Her left arm was grabbed and the process repeated.
“There’s a head piece….its in the bottom drawer of my desk. Let me run and get it…and we can get started…” Michael was jogging away and giggling to herself, Vylette removed one of the ‘emerald’ bracelets and was absently looking it over.
It was a mighty pretty piece of costume jewelry and Vylette had hoped to keep it…
She squinted at a small stamp on the inside of the thick gold cuff.
‘Cartier, 1927’.
Vylette froze, and held out her arms in a zombie-like fahsion. Were…were all of these bracelets genuine? They were real precious metals and stones?
All this for a photograph?
Michael appeared behind her, and propping up on tip-toes, he began to place the crown on his Queen: a brilliant gold half-moon shaped, kokoshnik looking piece that sat up about four inches from her head and was rimmed with graduating carvings of more scarab beetles, all in moonstones.
“There….” He whispered, eye huge in his slender face.
“Oh, Vylette…you look more perfect than I ever dreamed…”
Smiling up at him through her reflection, Vylette’s voice was just as hushed,
“It’s a shame, really. How wonderfully everything looks and how vibrant and alive it looks in color and the photograph will be in black and white--”
She stopped when his cool hands gripped her upper arms tightly.
“You will be photographed in color, Mein Leibling…” Michael intoned and Vylette turned to him, brows going up.
“In color--how?”
It was incredible to her. She had never heard of color photography. She had seen a few motion pictures that had colored segments but had never really seen a true colorized still photo.
Taking her by the hand and leading her to the gold and black striped divan, Michael explained,
“This isn’t my camera…it’s a new, experimental model I borrowed from a friend. It takes color photographs. I had to beg and plead and damn near cried, but I managed to get it lent out. I wanted the best photo of you possible Vy…”
“Why do you do all of this?” Vylette inquired as she allowed him to begin posing her in front of the lens.
“…because I love you.”
Hands were placed on her hips and her head turned slightly to right.
“I love you too, Michael…” Vylette stated and his eyes sparkled.
“Hold that pose…” He warned, and jumped back behind the camera. “Don’t lose it…no smile, I want you to smolder…smolder Baby!”
POP!
The flash bulb went off, momentarily blinding Vylette.
Again, she was being moved, her hands lowered and slightly away from her body, face tilted downwards now.
POP!
“You’re doing well, doing beautifully!” Michael encouraged switching in another bulb. “Cross your arms and look to me, kind of over your shoulder--Yes!”
Commands begin to come faster and faster and more and more bulbs exploded as frames were shot left and right.
Vylette was positioned all around the lounge, before being permitted to actually sit upon it, for several more shots.
Vylette was an easy model, following directions without difficulty, and didn’t hurt that Michael complimented her each and every time he took a picture.
For all the preparation that had gone into getting Vylette outfitted, the entire photo shoot took less than fifteen minutes, with Michael Jackson convinced that one of the nonstop photos he’d shot was the “one” that would live on in the frame before his desk at all times.
And as quickly as it had began it was over.
Vylette sat on the lounge, in her ivory corselette, starting to pull a stocking onto one leg.
A few feet away, Michael was packing the camera away, staring at the back of her head, her hair still loose and trailing down her back.
She had been so ravishing to his eyes…embodying the fantasy he’d wanted to portray. She never even complained about all the work that had had to be done in order to achieve it.
She’d merely said yes and asked to be instructed.
And how she’d looked. How sensational she’d looked. So different from the sweet gamine he’d fallen in love with.
So royal and regal Vylette had appeared.
The woman that was going to be his wife.
Vylette was slipping on the other stocking and securing it with a pink garter.
There were so many sides to see, to explore…
How he wanted to put his hands on her right then…pull the foundation garment from her…
The things he wanted to do to her…things that had to wait until they were wed. He owed her that much.
He respected her that much…
But she drove him so crazy. He wanted to make love to her so terribly.
At times he wished they did make love, the way he knew his brother and her cousin did, nearly each time they saw each other.
But Michael knew it would be Vylette’s very first time and he was determined to make it special. Not just two people pawing after one another. He had already planned towards it, even without a solid wedding date being decided yet.
Bending down, to pick up her shoes, Vylette became aware of a strange noise, sounding like a cross between a gurgle and a sob.
Shifting on the cushion, she glanced back at Michael.
And the pump in her hand fell back to the floor.
“Oh!” The gasp popped from her lips but went unheard.
A few feet away, Michael Jackson was staggering, head thrown back and mouth agape as he stared upwards at the vaulted ceiling and hanging gilt fixtures.
The fly of his trousers had been undone and from it, his penis, hardened, and pointing skywards had been freed.
One hand wrapped around the brown girth, moving up and down rapidly, giving peeks of the pinkish mushroom head tip with each stroke.
Michael….Michael was masturbating, right in front of her!
Unconscious of her own actions, Vylette was on her feet, carefully and tentatively picking her way back over to him, staring as he continued to manipulate himself, that strange noise coming from him.
Her heart was in her ears at the spectacle.
Nearing him, she heard him starting to pant through his white, gritted teeth.
“Oh God…oh God…oh God…”
His eyes, narrow slits, opened briefly and seeing Vylette so close to him, took her hair in his free hand and forced his mouth against hers, all the while, still pumping after himself.
Vylette allowed him to kiss her, sweeping his tongue to the back of her throat repeatedly and pressing himself against her as he continued to fondle after himself.
Not exactly sure what to do, she grasped his shoulders and rested her cheek again his hot one.
“Oh…oh Vylette….Vy!…” He murmured into her ear, flapping his arm, the tip of the mighty beast bumping her inner thigh.
Gingerly, Vylette wrapped her arms around him, surprised but what he was doing, but wanting to comfort him just the same.
Resting against her, Michael gave a very loud exhalation, and Vylette felt warm moisture splashing against her leg.
“Oh…oh, damn it…I’m sorry…” He gasped and gulped the weight of his frame heavy on her.
“I…I did it--”
“I know why you did it…” Vylette assured him in a way that caused his curled head to come up, sweat shining on the brow and he gazed at her in alarm.
“You do it to keep yourself a gentleman and me a lady…and I’m grateful for it.” Leaning upwards she pecked his mouth.
A smile brimming with relief came to Michael’s face and holding onto the love of his life, he planted one smack dab on her lips.
Oh, their time for intimacy was coming, the real intimacy and the longer they waited the better the pay off would be in the end.
It had to be.
Michael excused himself to get himself decent and a towel to sponge off her leg and Vylette crumpled back on the chair.
Michael Jackson was clearly losing a battle with his urges as evidenced by the performance he’d just given.
But what he didn’t know…was that Vylette was also beginning to lose the battle and many times wanted to throw up the white flag of surrender.
How long could they both go on….without giving in?
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