CH:17 A Decade In The Making: A Michael Jackson Story
Previous: CH16: He's Not My Boyfriend Disclaimer! This is an persona fic ! Read previous chapters beforehand. Read from the start: PROLOGUE.
Thriller completely flew off the shelves within weeks, after that—going into months—and the next thing she knew, it was February of 1983.
It was the 22nd when Michael called her. Ever since their phone calls started in October, they'd been getting later and later into the night. At times, Renée would be up until 3 a.m. It was surprising, to say the least, that nearly six months had passed, and yet they still stayed up for hours together on the phone nearly every night.
She never got bored of talking with him, and neither did he.
They'd talk about their day, the chaos at work or with Lanna, stressing over music and his family. Michael had never felt so seen by someone in his entire life. He was so used to being centre stage, but that came with more limitations than privileges. He had his own private dressing rooms, a home studio, and all the animal friends he could dream about, but there was nothing quite like being heard by a friend.
And with Renée, he felt that.
"I was wondering—if it's not too much trouble with work and all—if you could fly here and stay for a while?" His voice grew smaller toward the end, the question carrying a subtle, almost hopeful please.
"Uh..." she began, blinking at the ceiling above her.
Renée was rarely caught off guard, but Michael somehow managed to do it every time.
She liked Michael—now more as a friend than the untouchable celebrity she'd once idolized—but that didn't mean she was ready to agree to anything simply because he could afford it. He had a habit of saying things so casually that Renée had to stop and untangle what he actually meant.
"What do you mean by... stay for a while?" she asked carefully.
Michael's timidness and hopefulness were clear as day. Renée could hear the phone muffle against his shoulder while he paced his room. He clearly wanted a simple answer.
"Well..." he started. Soft footsteps wandered across the carpeted floors. "I'm performing on the 25th of March, and I want you to be there for me."
Renée didn't mean to sigh, but she did. And it sent Michael into a small spiral.
Am I bothering her too much? Am I too annoying?
But it all stopped when she asked, "So, you want me to fly all the way to Los Angeles for some undisclosed, mysterious performance on the 25th of March?"
"Yes," he answered quickly. "But sooner."
There was no way she could say no to Michael.
The next day was more of an experience than anything.
In real time, Renée watched her mother's range of emotions: confusion, concern, suspicion, worry, and soon after, defeat.
This is crazy, Isabel thought to herself. Her daughter flying on her own all the way out to California, and living there for a month.
But he had to remember that her daughter was growing into her own woman. Isabel knew this day would come eventually. Not exactly going to Los Angeles for a boy, but striking out on her own. Craving something more than just normalcy.
"On one condition," Isabel told her firmly. "You call me every night, and if you feel unsafe, you tell me. Got it?"
After her mother, Renée had to break the news to her boss.
Telling David was even more nerve-racking.
David was a chill guy, as Renée had said before, but intimidating as hell. Plus, she was his best employee, so hearing she'd be gone for a whole month was a bit... disappointing.
Renée hated disappointing people.
"A whole month?" David repeated.
Renée twiddled her thumbs, sitting in the chair across from him. David's arms were crossed, his usual glare sharp.
"Y'know," he sighed, "I can't give you paid leave—"
"I know," Renée interrupted. "I wasn't expecting to be paid or anything."
With his usual bite of the lip, David relaxed back in his chair. His expression softened, though his eyes remained narrowed.
"Why the sudden leave, though?"
He couldn't help it. He was curious as to why his most punctual and professional employee was asking for so much time off on such short notice.
"Um..." Renée had to think quickly. "Part two of September," was all she could come up with. To a degree, it was true. September was when she first met Michael, and since she was meeting the same person for the second time, it technically was part two... right?
He knew about Isabel's work to some extent, and he knew his young employee lived a far-from-normal life despite how she acted at work. She was a good, hardworking employee who loved music. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
"A'right then," he smacked his lips. "Permission granted."
March 7th, 1983, came around slower than Renée would've liked.
She'd been antsy for weeks, even more jittery on the flight to LAX.
Without Isabel beside her, anxiety got the best of her.
Renée had never flown alone before, despite flying every summer. Going through the airport back home was nerve-racking, but navigating the American side was even more scary. Eventually she'd get used to it, but for now, it nearly made her cry out of stress.
On the plane, Renée listened to the Thriller cassette on her Walkman, though, of course, she couldn't while going through security.
In the meantime, without the comfort of Baby Be Mine or The Girl Is Mine, she filled her head with thoughts of Michael.
Would seeing each other be awkward like last time? Yes, they barely knew each other back then, but who knows? Maybe their phone calls resolved both their confidence?
Renée's mind drifted as she navigated the airport.
Two nights earlier, Lanna and Renée spent the entire day packing her wardrobe.
Renée only remembered Michael in rehearsal clothes—T-shirts, sweats, jeans—but in recorded interviews, magazine clippings, and photos with his brothers, he always seemed to dress classily.
Renée needed to look classy.
Clothes were thrown left or right. The left pile was the "yes" pile, stacked on top of her suitcase. And the right pile was the "no" pile, spread across her bed.
Lanna tossed outfit after outfit across Renée's room.
"Cute jacket, but no. This top's a yes..."
After a few hours, there was an assortment of cute cardigans, light sweaters, long sleeves, jeans, and capris. And the hour after that turned into a fashion show. Complete with spins, hair, and makeup. Lanna was a harsh critic, but her fashion sense was good. Renée definitely trusted her judgment.
Finally through security, Renée was relieved to see a slightly familiar face holding a sign with her last name. Bill Bray—Michael's head of security, and someone he'd mentioned from time to time over the phone. He was also the one who'd driven them to Michael's Encino home and back to her hotel months earlier.
Bill tipped his bucket hat and lowered the sign with a slight smile.
As soon as Renée approached him, he took her suitcase and carried it off while leading her to the car.
Unlike the sleek black van from before, a Cadillac awaited them just outside the terminal.
It felt casual. Less pressure-inducing.
Before Renée could grab the handle herself, Bill quickly opened the rear door for her.
"Michael insisted I personally take care of your arrangements."
"Oh... okay," was all Renée could really muster before climbing inside.
He shut the door, loaded her suitcase into the trunk, closed it with a click, and got behind the wheel. Bill started the engine and pulled away.
Although it was now Renée's third time in Los Angeles, the view still amazed her.
At first, the highway was disgustingly bumper-to-bumper, but after a while they'd pass palm tree after palm tree.
When they finally pulled up to the Beverly Hills Hotel, Bill left her with a few words.
"Michael said he'll call your room later once you're all settled. He'd like to see you tonight."
After helping her with her luggage and checking her in, he left.
No hint about when Michael would call.
He simply left her with the bellhop, who escorted her to her room—this time a private bungalow.
Driving away, Bill couldn't help but think:
Michael was a sheltered kid, but maybe... just maybe... that girl's gonna help with that.
Renée stepped inside her pink-walled bungalow.
It was even more luxurious than last time.
One bedroom—a very large one—a living room with a television, and a semi-full kitchen. Not that she'd cook much anyway.
Before the bellhop left, he handed Renée a note. At first she assumed it was a brochure, but after flopping onto her new bed, she read it anyway.
It was a list of amenities. Even more than before.
Hotel dining Hotel room service
Hotel spa Private car Exclusive lounge access Pool access
Renée took a shower right away.
There was no way she was seeing Michael looking all crappy, and on top of that she smelled like cabin pressure and recycled air.
Wrapping herself and her hair in towels, Renée made full use of the hotel's amenities.
Before she'd even sat down, she was already on the phone ordering lunch.
The McCarthy Salad and Club Sandwich.
The receiver clicked back into place, ending the call.
Renée wandered toward the dining area on her way to the bedroom when something caught her eye. A bouquet in a glass vase, and a basket filled with food.
At first she figured—again—it was like last time.
She and her mom had received champagne as a welcome gift—something she couldn't even drink because she didn't do alcohol.
Renée approached the flowers first. They smelt fragrant, already filling the air with their fresh floral scent. Looking closer, she noticed something. Nestled among the lilac, white, and pink blooms was a card addressed simply:
Dear Renée, I will call You tonight, so Please be ready. Don't worry, we're not going Out, so there's no Need to dress up. I'm just so Glad you came Here, and I'm so Excited to spend More Time with you. Please don't eat Dinner.
His signature followed underneath.
Renée smiled to herself, recognizing his on-going quirk of random capitalization. It was cute, but a little difficult to read. Renée turned her attention toward the basket that sat beside the bouquets.
Inside was filled with glossy-looking fruit, sweet snacks, and a bag of almonds.
And right beside the almonds sat a few packs of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.
She remembered eating them constantly during rehearsals, despite knowing they weren't exactly healthy. Did he really remember her eating them all the time, or was it just a coincidence?
The rest of the afternoon was spent snacking on fruit and pacing the room while picking out an outfit for that night. Michael's note had explicitly told her not to dress up, but a part of her still felt the nervous urge to pretty herself up for him anyway. She didn't realize yet that Michael would always prefer her completely unvarnished. After applying a layer of very light makeup—just some concealer, mascara, and a touch of brown eyeliner—Renée ultimately opted for comfort, slipping into a green long-sleeved pullover and her favourite pair of blue jeans. Was it too casual? Maybe. But Lanna picked it out, and Renée trusted her fashion sense. After, she spent her free-time watching the television and writing in her diary she brought with her. That was until the phone rang.
Just like every other phone call they'd shared over the past seven months, he always started with: "It's me, Michael..."
As if Renée couldn't tell..
"Just stay right there, okay?" He told her, then followed with a quick: "I'll be over soon."
Before Renée could even stutter out a word, the line went dead. She sighed, although not really upset. After all, she flew out of Canada just to be with Michael. Renée couldn't be upset. It wasn't fair to her or Michael. Renée put the phone down in its receiver, and leaned her hands against the desk and glanced over her room.
I'll be there soon... repeated in her mind. "Does he mean here? As in... in my room here?"
Renée quickly scanned the room. Even though she'd only been there a few hours, she suddenly felt the need to clean.
The gift basket went back onto the table, the flowers carefully placed beside it. The fruit was tucked into the refrigerator, leaving only the jelly beans, almonds, and chocolate behind. The sparkling water—which she'd only discovered after her shower, sitting in a bucket of melted ice—also went into the fridge.
By then, everything looked perfect.
The pillows were neatly arranged, the throw blanket wrinkle-free and the bathroom looked more or less untouched.
Renée's hands felt clammy and even shook as she reached for the handle she was so desperate to grab. "Shut the fuck up," she muttered to herself, hoping Michael hadn't heard it. Telling herself to shut up was her decidedly unladylike way of telling her brain to stop overthinking
Overthinking would only make that trip harder.
As soon as she turned the handle and opened the door, a tall dark figure in a trench coat slipped inside. And before she'd even had a chance to react, the door was shut again and the chain lock slid into place. For one brief second, Renée wondered if the man really was Michael—or if she'd just let a complete stranger into her bungalow.
And then, there was a soft sigh of relief.
"Hi, Renée," he said softly, showing his deep brown eyes to her, removing his disguise.
His phone confidence melting into a sweet, nervous stammer.
"I'm sorry if I scared you, rushing in and all. It's just... there were people down by the pool..."
He draped the coat neatly across a canary-yellow chesterfield and placed the sunglasses he wore on top. Michael quickly removed his black loafers, scuffed from dancing, seeing how Renée was in her socks.
Without a phone between them, eye contact proved difficult for Michael. Not because he didn't want to look at Renée—he really wanted to. But he felt simply... too shy.
So they wouldn't stand so awkwardly, Michael spotted and pointed at the basket on the table. "Did you like it?" he walked over to the dining table. "I hand-picked everything myself, even the Reese's you like."
"You—" Renée leaned on the opposite side of the table "—noticed that? I though I was being subtle about it since there was a 'no eating' sign in the studio."
Michael shook his head, smiling a little more. "Maybe to everyone else," he chuckled. "But it's not like I told on you anyways."
Renée looked down with the bite of her lip, ending up in a smile. "I owe you one then..."
She moved on quietly, her fingers grazing the bouquets. "And these? You hand-picked them too?"
Michael nodded again, his fingers too softly gliding across the top of the petals. "Bill took us to a flower shop. I chose them myself. Do you... like them?"
Eventually, room service arrived. The two of them ended up on the floor in front of the television, watching one of the DVDs Michael had brought from home, with cushions propped behind their backs against the couch and a tub of vanilla bean ice cream between them.
"So..." Renée began after swallowing a spoonful. "You still haven't told me why you wanted me to come earlier?"
Oops. Michael forgot to tell her. "I should've told you sooner—I'm sorry, Renée."
"No no," Renée waved her hand in front of herself. "You don't have to apologize. I'm kinda happy to come here again, as long as you're the excuse."
Michael chuckled alongside her, taking a deep breath before continuing on. "I have this feeling, Renée. I have this feeling that that after this... after Motown 25... everything's going to change."
Motown was label The Jackson 5's were signed to, right?
"Everything?" She looked at him, mirroring the certainty on his face, as if what he was about to tell her made absolute sense. The Charlie Chaplin film they were watching faded into the background, growing quiet. "Change how?"
"I want..." he took her left hand into his own out of impulse. "... to do everything I can before it all changes. Before I can't live... a normal life."
Man, how Renée wish she could say how she really felt. Michael has never lived a normal life, but she knew she couldn't say that out right. She just couldn't
"And... I wanted you to come earlier so we could."
Both their eyes dropped to their joined hands.
The feeling was right. Too right. So right, it scared him.
Renée had never met someone so kind. And at that moment, it occurred to her... Despite only knowing him for seven months, Michael had always worn his heart on his sleeve, and at times, it felt like she'd known him forever.
Renée was no longer an 18-year-old girl fawning over an album cover. She was head over heels for a man—a man who would one day become the King of Pop.
Written: June 29 2026 / July 6 2027 / July 7 2026 / July 15 2026
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a/n: Ooo Renée has a crush now... I wonder what Michael has planned for the weeks leading up to the show. Oh wait! I'm the author! Of course I know what's gonna happen. They're going--
"What—Paul McCartney? The hell are you doing here, Loca? You don't show up for...actually...I don't even know how to write you. I know—like—two Beatles songs."
"I'm just here to save the readers from getting spoiled. And to remind them the girl is—"
"The girl will never be yours—you're in denial, Paul."
"Well, she told me that I'm her forever lover—"
"No offence, Paul, but no."
