Chapter 6

One Week Later

Michael was trying everything humanly possible to make me happy about going to Minneapolis. He bought so many things that I think his checkbook cried every time Michael went near it with an ink pen.
Michael bought new clothes for me to wear in Minneapolis and since it was cold around those parts, much of my wardrobe included sweaters and jackets and coats. In addition to that, to keep in touch with me, Michael bought me a red cell phone that he had custom made with his linked “MJ” logo on it in black rhinestones and a red laptop computer with the same logo to it. And to top off the technological trio he got me a red iPod that had every single song he’d ever recorded--even unreleased ones--on it. That also included Not Over.
Michael even found a red camera the shot still photos and video tape so that we could continue to “see” each other.
And in that past week to make sure that I had something homey to keep me company up north, he hired a photographer who dedicated his time to taking pictures of Michael, his kids and me playing around the ranch.
But I still felt sour about having to go to Minneapolis.
I was a crying mess.
I cried while I packed. I cried while my luggage was being loaded into Michael’s SUV. His children and I cried as I kissed them good bye. I cried all over Michael the entire ride to the Los Angeles International Airport to board the private plane that would take me to Minneapolis.
Before I boarded the plane, Michael hugged me and kissed me for so long that I almost missed my plane. I wanted to miss that damn thing. I honestly did. It could have flown to Hell for all I cared. I held onto him trying to engrave his touch and scent into my brain.
Michael made me promise to call him the as soon as I got settled in Minneapolis..
I vowed that I would and slowly boarded the plane.
The plane was empty except for one other person. A man who identified himself as Prince’s personal assistant.
I didn’t ask his name; I didn’t care to know him.
The only thing I cared about was busting out whatever vocals Prince wanted me to in an absolute hurry so that I could be back in Michael’s arms as soon as possible.
The assistant tried to tell me about Prince and Paisley Park, but I popped the earbobs to my iPod into my ears and tuned him out with Michael’s sweet voice.
As the tunes blared and threatened to make my eardrums bleed, I glanced around the plane. It was pretty non-descript and plain. The interior was a dreary beige and the seats were a color that resembled cat poop.
I suppose that since Prince’s signature color was purple, I expected to see some of it.
Even the assistant wore a cream-colored suit and next to him a matching trench coat was folded neatly.
All the blah coloring actually made me long for Michael even more. I was used to Michael’s colorful shirts and even if he wore black, his pale skin glowed like a lighthouse beam.
I wanted to cry even more but since I was in the company of “enemies”, I forced myself to keep a stiff upper lip and kept myself from tearing up during the four-hour flight. I was not going have this man run to Prince and tell him that I had been emotionally wrecked the entire time. Even though I was, I felt that I owed it to Michael to be as tough as a solider trotting off to war.
After what seemed like eons the plane finally touched down in Minneapolis.
As I stood to gather my things, the assistant informed me that I should try to put on a coat because the temperature outside the airplane was cold.
Looking back on it, I should have listened to him. It was spring and I assumed that since California was always eighty-five degrees or more even in the winter, Minneapolis would be.
I was very, very wrong.
Minneapolis was about sixty degrees cooler.
All I had on as I exited the plane was an oversized T-shirt with Minnie Mouse on it and black jeans. The black leather ballet flats I wore offered no warmth as the assistant and I jogged to the limousine that would carry us to Paisley Park Studios.
It took about fifteen minutes for the handlers at the airport to load my bags into trunk of the limo. In the mean time, the assistant talked up what the studios were like and how many bands it had hosted and things of the sort.
I hardly heard him. Prince could have had me singing into a handheld recorder in a bathroom for all I cared. I just wanted to sing for him and go back to Neverland.
The ride from the airport to Paisley Park lasted about and hour and a half and in the meantime, I chatted on the phone with Michael.
Even though we had been separated for only a few hours, we spoke as if we hadn’t seen each other in years.
We discussed everything from his children and pets to if Michael had penned any songs himself.
The only time our conversation was interrupted was by the assistant telling me that we had arrived at Paisley Park.
It took a long while to bid Michael adieu, and when I finally did, the assistant actually gave an audible sigh of relief.
“So, Brynn, are you ready to enter Paisley Park and meet with Mr. Prince?” He asked.
“Yeah, I suppose so.” I sighed. I knew that I couldn’t spend all day in the limo and expect to get back to Michael soon.
“I’ll get your door for you.” The man jumped out and as a gust of wind chilled me to the bone, I slid out of the car.
What I saw actually made my jaw drop. I had actually never seen Paisley Park, because I wasn’t a Prince fan and it never occurred to me to look it up on the internet for any reason.
There before me stood what looked like a sprawling mansion of what had to be tens of thousands of square feet, if not more, all encased in large white bricks that resembled Chiclets candy pieces. It had to have gone on for at least three stories, if not more.
“Hey man, I though you said we were going to Prince’s studio, not his house!” I argued and glared at the assistant.
“Brynn…” The assistant approached me with a large grin on his face.
“This is Paisley Park Studios.”
“This…isn’t his house? It’s a studio?” I was flabbergasted. For a moment I actually forgot that I was freezing.
“Yes, I think that we should get inside because I don’t think you’d be able to sing if you had pneumonia.” He laughed and led me to the glass double doors of the studio.
Inside, my breath was continuously taken away. Even though the exterior of the studio was a stark white, the inside was vibrant and glowing with every color of the spectrum and every pattern. In the warm front entryway, Prince’s symbol was etched into the marble floor in bold red while everything else was a cool and realistic looking blue and white sky and cloud scene. As I followed the assistant, past several empty offices that were encased in glass, I noticed that I could faintly smell vanilla, as if hidden pots of incense were burning and being blown out through the vents.
On the side of an electric blue staircase, leading to the second level, dozens of Prince’s gold and platinum records were displayed. It never crossed my mind that Prince had been that successful. (But he still didn’t have as many as Michael!)
“Mr. Prince, wants to meet with you in the game room.” The assistant noted and I nodded numbly still trying to take in the scene.
Michael’s at home studio was more industrial and in shades of black and chrome, a million miles away from the Technicolor world I was passing through.
Both walls in the large hallway I passed were lined with large colored portraits of women, all glamorously styled in extravagant outfits.
The eras in which they were taken ranged from the 80s to the present. I recognized Apollonia, Prince’s love interest from Purple Rain and Carmen Electra, another actress. I knew of her, but I never knew she had any connection to Prince.
Many of the other women, mostly Hispanic, I didn’t recognize, but I was sure that they all had some kind of romantic background to Prince.
Also Prince never let anyone forget that Paisley Park was his place. Everywhere I looked his symbols were on everything. The walls, the carpets, the doorknobs.
As I neared the game room with the assistant, a larger than life photo of Prince was hanging on a wall to itself caught my attention and nearly strangled it.
I stopped and stared at it. I could tell it had been taken some years back because in it Prince had long hair and his hair had been short in recent years. He was completely nude and seated on a large purple orchid, wind blowing his hair back. The only thing keeping me from being exposed to his “private parts” was that his was seated in a bit of a profile with one leg up to hide his “shame”. It was a bit funny because he had his hand over his nipple, hiding it. As if that miniscule act of modesty--if you could call it that--would make up for a near pornographic shot.
"You like that? That picture stops everyone who sees it.” The assistant chuckled.
“I cannot believe that he has a photograph of himself naked hanging out in plain view of everyone. I mean little kids could walk through here--right?” I glanced up at the man and finally got a good look at him. He looked to be about 14 times Prince’s size and was completely bald. His skin was the deepest black that I’d ever seen. And creepily enough, his eyes were gray.
He was a human wall.
“Not hardly, this place is usually invite-only. And if children to happen through here, Prince doesn’t care. That’s a cover of one of his albums.”
(The words splattered against my psyche. My mind could barely grasp that the racy photo had been on the cover of an album!
“Are you serious? Oh my God. Michael would never do anything like that!” I sputtered.
“But didn’t he do a video nude?” The man questioned clearly amused.
The video he was referring to was You Are Not Alone that Michael had done with his then wife, Lisa Marie Presley.
“Not really, I mean he was covered up. Prince isn’t.” I shook my head.
“Well you can discuss it with Prince, he’s still waiting.” The man motioned to the loud, neon pink doors that had “Game Room” etched on them in a multi-colored graffiti-type script.
“Fine, whatever.” I had always wanted to know how that freaky man operated.
The assistant walked up to the door and tapped on it twice, very lightly.
It was almost like a secret knock. We waited a moment before the left door opened.
Prince leaned against the doorjamb. He hadn’t said a word yet and I could honestly feel the arrogance emanating from him.
And even though I hated to admit it, Prince once again looked…ravishing.
Just the thought occurring to me that he looked nice was nauseating to me because I was supposed to be loathing him with every fiber of my being.
Prince was stylishly dressed in an aqua shirt that was embroidered with what looked like thousands of tiny renditions of his symbols in a black.
Black, high-waisted trousers covered his lower half. Aqua boots encased his feet. I noticed that the shirt was left mostly open and tied just above the top of his trousers. Nestled in the jungle of hair on his chest was a gold and diamond studded version of his symbol suspended by a thin gold chain.
He was every bit as good looking as he had been when I last saw him. His hair, blown completely straight and maybe even flat ironed, fell into his light eyes. The stick of a lollipop stuck out of the side of his mouth.
His lips, glossed to a dull sheen curled into a smile when he saw me.
Speaking around the sucker, Prince said,
“Oh so you finally made it. Welcome to Paisley Park.”
I could barely make out his words because his voice was so deep and the candy in his mouth made for a mangled greeting.
I saw that his hand was extended to shake mine.
Forcing my hand out, I grasped his.
I was kind of surprised by how soft his hand was. To say that Prince was a guitar player and spent the bulk of his time doing so, it was shocking that his hands were so soft. I almost felt like I was shaking hands with a woman.
I knew that for Michael’s sake I had to be as cordial to this man as possible.
“Thank you for inviting me. You have a lovely studio.” I still don’t know how I did it, but the words actually sounded sincere to me.
Moving back, Prince ushered the assistant and me into the Game Room.
Inside the room was painted a eye-blistering yellow. Several couches and chairs in loud basic colors and in abstract shapes were scattered around the room. The largest piece in the room was a blood red lacquer pool table. It was upholstered in a rich purple felt that had Prince’s symbol in the center of it in gold. Nine see-through purple balls were setting haphazardly on the table as if the assistant and I had interrupted Prince whilst he was in the middle of a game.
It was an odd change from the game room I was accustomed to--Michael’s.
Michael kept his game room tricked out with the best and latest in arcade games and toys and Prince’s room appeared to be simply a Billiards room and nothing more. But I held my tongue as Prince led me to over to a bright blue couch that was in a half moon shape. Behind a large window composed of glass blocks glittered like a cavern of jewels in the rough.
Prince sat on one end of the couch and I took the other.
I noticed that the assistant stayed in the doorway.
Prince paid him no mind and still around the sucker asked,
“How was your flight? Was everything alright?”
Still feigning politeness, I replied, sweetly as ever,
“Yes, it was nice.”
Prince slowly pulled the sucker from his lips and twirled it in the air.
I saw that it was a large cherry Blow-Pop.
“Are you hungry at all? It wasn’t until after the plane left from here that I realized that I forgot to have a meal prepared for you and Jimmy.” Prince confessed, a bit shyly and indicated the assistant. “I’m sorry for that.”
“That’s okay. I’m fine.” I lied.
In actuality, I was dying of hunger. While I had been throwing a fit at Neverland that morning, I had neglected to eat anything. Not that I had much of an appetite anyway. Food is usually one of the last things on your mind when you’re being forced against your will to go stay with someone you utterly detest.
“It’s nearly six o’clock.” Prince nodded. “Jimmy call my house and have my chef make “the usual” for me and Brynn. Okay?” Prince instructed.
“Yes sir.” Jimmy bowed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
I looked over at Prince nervously.
We were alone.
And I was about twenty-five hundred miles from Michael.
Prince and I sat in silence for a short while. Finally I broke the ice by questioning,
“So, when do you plan to start recording?”
Prince gave me a small chuckle. “Don’t worry about that. We’ll start recording tomorrow. You have to get settled in here first.” Prince tapped his nose with the tip of his finger on his free hand.
That’s when a thought hit me like a sack of nickels. I had no idea where I was supposed to be staying while I was in Minneapolis.
“Um, where exactly am I going to be staying while I’m working with you?” I ran my hand along the arm of the couch.
“Oh…I tried to arrange for you to have an apartment, but unfortunately it’s not ready yet. It won’t be ready for a few days. In the meantime, you’ll be staying at my house.” Prince crossed his legs and popped his candy back in his mouth.
I sat for a moment, so horrified that I could barely breathe. I couldn’t believe it. I was actually going to be living with Prince in his house.
I knew that Michael couldn’t have--and wouldn’t have--approved of me staying with him.
“Oh Prince…” I said delicately, “I don’t know if Michael would want me to stay with you. I mean you seem nice enough, but it just won’t seem right.”
Prince stared at me as if I had lobsters growing out of my nose.
“And what won’t seem right about that? You’re working for me. And you’re only staying until your apartment is ready.” His eyes danced with amusement.
“Well, I don’t know. I mean you’re a grown man and I’m just a young girl…” I mumbled, my true worry rearing its ugly head. I was truly afraid to be alone in Prince’s house with him because I knew that anything could happen to me. And I had no idea what Prince was capable of doing.
Prince slurped on his candy loudly and laughed.
“What’s so funny?” I demanded, so emotionally rocked that I was ready to cry.
“You should listen to yourself. ‘You’re a grown man and I’m just a young girl’! And what the hell is Michael? He sure isn’t a little boy. We’re the same age.” Prince snorted.
“I guess if you stay at that Neverland place long enough, you’ll start acting like a child. But that’s pretty obvious just from looking at and listening to you.” Prince gave me a smirk.
“Excuse me?” My sadness was overridden by an instant of anger.
“I mean look at you.” Prince took his candy out of his mouth and shook it at me. “You’re nineteen years old and you’re parading around in clothes that even an eleven year old won’t wear. A big Minnie Mouse shirt with your hair back--you look like a child. And that mess you were just talking you sound like you’re still thinking like a child. Michael must be babying you just as hard as his own children.” Prince pointed out.
“Now wait just a damn minute--” I started. I really wanted to take that lollipop he was twirling and shove it up his ass just to get that holier-than-thou expression off his face.
“And what happened to the person I met at the lawn party?” Prince rubbed his chin. “The woman with the face full of make-up and dress that her breasts were about to pop out of?” He whispered the last few words so nastily that I threw my arms over my bosom, a grimy feeling consuming me.
As fiercely as ever, I replied, “I’m still the same person you met that day.”
“Sure. You look like you’ve gone back in time about ten years girl.” Prince said the word girl the way others would have said manure.
“I mean…what--since it was like a tea party you played dress up?” He continued teasing.
“I should have known that shit was all an act. Michael seems like the type to be attracted to a girl who looks like she’s still in elementary school.”
I hopped to my feet, ready to snatch the mole off Prince’s cheek. It was one thing for him to be talking about me, but to poke fun at Michael’s still aching wounds over his trial was just too much.
“You…you….you…” But as hard as I tried to come up with a string of retorts to throw his way, I just couldn’t. Michael was counting on me even though I’m sure he didn’t think that Prince was going to be treating me this way.
“What?” Prince also got up. “What are you going to do? Go running back to Neverland?” He placed his candy in his mouth and sucked on it arrogantly.
I started to call him every nasty name in the book…
“Mr. Prince?” A voice from behind me called.
I turned to see Jimmy peeking in through the door.
“Yes?” Prince mumbled.
“The chef just called, your dinner is ready sir.” Jimmy replied humbly.
“Good.” Prince rubbed his hands together. “Is the car waiting?”
“Yes sir, of course.” Jimmy nodded.
“Great. Come on Brynn. The last thing I need is for you to lose weight and look even younger.” Prince snickered and started past me towards the door.
Cursing him under my breath, I followed a few feet away. I knew I had to put distance between him and myself because I probably would have tried to strangle him under his nude photo I was so hot with fury.
In the limo, I made sure that I didn’t breathe a word to Prince the entire ride. I assumed that the ride would be long, but I was starting to notice a trend:
I had been wrong about damn near everything lately.
Prince’s mansion was only about a five minute drive from Paisley Park.
Atop a sprawling hill, was a large, snow-white, Spanish style villa.
As I got closer to the front entrance which was dotted with trimmed bushes I saw that on the front, double wooden doors were colorful stained glasses.
Both featured a red version of Prince’s symbol.
The car stopped, and Jimmy was opening the door and helping us out in a flash.
The three of us jogged, against biting cold winds, up to the front door.
Jimmy pushed them open and we ran inside.
I looked around for a hot moment. Prince did have a lovely home.
Unlike his studio, his home was more refined and decorated in creams, golds, plums and cimmamons. And on nearly every surface was his symbol.
On the banisters of the wrought iron stairs that led to the second floor, embroidered on throw pillows on the couches and chairs in the seating area.
“This way.” Prince instructed taking the half eaten sucker out of his mouth and handing it to Jimmy who quickly deposited it in a small trash container in the corner. Jimmy stayed behind as Prince led me through a long hallway that had many large photographs of himself. Many of them dated back to his Purple Rain era.
One photograph in particular caught my eye. It appeared to be fairly recent. Prince was smiling and embracing a woman, who appeared to be a few years older than me. She was Hispanic with long curly black hair and was as every woman I had ever seen with Prince, perfectly made up and coifed like a Latin Barbie Doll. She wore a low cut, high skirted red dress that matched the suit that Prince was wearing.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Prince asked and I saw that he was standing behind me.
“Yes, who is she?” I wondered quietly looking back at the portrait. This was the first picture I had actually seen of Prince where he and a woman actually looked to be in love.
“That’s my wife, Manuela.” Prince said so quietly I barely heard him.
My jaw instantly dropped. I had no idea that Prince was even married!
“She’s…your wife?” The words tumbled out of my mouth.
“Yes…but we’re separated. We have been for about four months. We’re…we’re getting a divorce.” Prince continued to mumble almost inaudibly.
I looked back again and saw that Prince actually looked sad. Not arrogant, not confident, but truly sad.
“Prince--I’m sorry.” As much as I disliked Prince, I hated to hear that his marriage was on the skids.
“It’s okay.” Prince’s bottom lip trembled and he looked away.
Sighing deeply, he said, “Our dinner won’t keep for long.”
Without waiting for my answer, Prince continued down the hall. I stared at the photo a moment longer, wondering what had indeed gone wrong.
Unable to think of anything, I ran to catch up with him.
Prince’s formal dining room was lovely. We were seated at a glass topped table in high-backed cream chairs. Down the middle of the table were balls of white flowers and each place setting--ten in all--were marked with a circle of peacock feathers.
Prince sat at the head of the table and I was off to his left side.
A moment later, a Hispanic man in spotless white chef garb approached us. Balanced on each hand was a large bowl. The man appeared to be in his fifties, with tufts of gray hair curling all over his head.
“Here you are Mr. Prince. And for your guest.” The man lowered the bowls onto the settings.
Inside each bowl was a thick yellow liquid, and the end of a spoon stuck out of each.
“What would you like to drink Mr. Prince?” The chef smiled warmly.
“I’ll have a glass of Pinot Noir, thank you.” Prince nodded.
“And for guest?” The chef smiled at me.
“Um…” I glanced at Prince. “I don’t drink.”
“Would you like a soda then?” Prince suggested.
“Yes.” I looked back up at the chef. “I’ll take a Diet Coke, thank you.”
“Right away.” The chef backed away.
I started to pick up my spoon when Prince reached over and grabbed wrist.
“Don’t eat; you haven’t said grace yet.” He cautioned.
“Oh…” Well it never struck me that Prince would be the type of man to want to say grace or that he even knew what grace was!
I lowered my head and what came out of Prince’s mouth troubled me further.
“Dear Jehovah, thank you for this meal from which we are about to partake. Amen.”
“You’re a Jehovah’s Witness?” I wondered as I lifted my head.
“Yes…” Prince said quietly. “Are you a member of the Witnesses?”
“No, I’m Catholic.” I shook my head.
“Have you ever thought about converting?” Prince spooned the liquid into his mouth.
“Um, no, I’m quite happy with my religious decisions, thank you.” I nodded as the chef returned with clear glass goblets. One contained Prince’s wine and the other contained my soda. Both glasses had a gold symbol etched on them.
“Well, if you ever change your mind, you can talk to me about it.” Prince spooned more food into his mouth. “I thought Michael was a Witness.”
“No, he gave up the religion a long time ago.” I replied and lifted my own spoon up to my mouth. Even the flatware had Prince’s symbol on it.
Michael had given up being a Jehovah’s Witness shortly after a clash with the elders of his religion about his Thriller short film. They found Michael’s dancing with ‘the dead’ to be sacrilegious.
“What exactly is this I’m eating?” I shifted the topic onto the actual dinner because I didn’t feel like having a clash over faiths with Prince. I was still raw about him commenting on my looks and in a setting where I could have smashed a glass and gouged him with it, I wanted to keep conversation as light as possible.
“Is butternut squash soup. It’s one of my favorite meals. The squash are grown out back in my greenhouse.” Prince smiled.
“Oh really? You must really like veggies.” I spooned some of the soup into my mouth. It wasn’t half-bad. It had a buttery flavor to it and a spicy bite near the end.
“I’m a vegetarian.” Prince explained. “I like to make sure that everything I eat and serve to my guests is as fresh as possible.”
That was news to me. I had no idea that Prince was a veg-head.
“Michael is supposed to be a vegetarian but he eats meat occasionally.” I smiled thinking of Michael. I wondered what he was eating. There was a three hour time difference between us.
“Oh.” Prince sounded bored. “Why don’t you tell me more about yourself?”
I could tell that Prince had no interest in Michael at all and didn’t want to talk about him.
“Oh…uh…” I mumbled. “What do you want to know?” I didn’t want to just start volunteering information and let him know things I didn’t want others to.
“Let’s see” Prince put his spoon down and tapped his fingers together. It was then I noticed the absence of his wedding band. It was the only finger that didn’t have a ring on it.
“Where are you from?” He questioned.
“I’m originally from Texas.” I replied twirling my spoon in the bowl.
“Oh, that’s cool. What made you want to get in the business?” Prince was leaning towards me, his hazel eyes full of interest.
“I don’t know…” I felt a smile creeping onto my lips. “I guess I just like the idea of performing. Having fans and people liking you. It’s nice.”
“How did you end up with Michael Jackson?” Prince took a sip of his wine.
I don’t know why I felt so calm talking to Prince, maybe some spores of alcohol from his wine had floated into my soda, but I had no problems telling him the story of how Rusty found me in that seedy dive so many months ago.
When I finished telling him, Prince was quiet for a long moment, and tapping his fingers together so hard that I could hear them popping.
“Well I have to hand it to you Brynn, I had no clue that you traveled half way across the country by yourself with basically nothing. That took a lot of guts.” Prince nodded.
“Thank you, but I knew that I wanted to make it and I couldn’t do it in that little town I lived in. When I first went to California, if someone would have told me that I would have been singing with huge, renowned stars, I would have called them lying sacks of crap. I just didn’t think it would be this way. Hanging at Neverland, recording with Michael Jackson, or that I’d be at Paisley Park, recording with the Purple One himself.” Despite myself, I was actually kind of warming up to Prince.
Prince laughed lightly.
“What made you go to California instead of maybe around this way?” Prince sipped more of his Pinot Noir.
“Well, people always go to L.A. and Hollywood and get discovered. I know that there are like record companies that are in places like Atlanta and New York, but I wanted to go to L.A.” I shrugged and spooned more soup into my mouth.
“Too bad. I was kind of surprised when I first heard you. You do have a lot of talent.” Prince gave me a warm smile. He kind of resembled a mouse when he grinned.
“I would have signed you to Paisley Park in a hurry. Did you sign with Michael’s label?”
I held my spoon in midair. I realized that even though I was on Michael’s song, that he had never said anything about signing me to a label.
I didn’t want Prince to know that because I was indeed working very hard to keep my relationship with Michael as hush-hush as possible.
“It’s in the works. Michael doesn’t want me to say much about it until all the details are bumped out.” I took a deep sip of my soda.
“Can I ask you a question?” Prince blew a lock of his hair out of his eyes.
“Sure.” I nodded. In the back of my mind, I was begging that he wouldn’t ask me anything that would cause me to drive my spoon into his forehead.
“Do you do everything that Michael tells you to do?” His eyes leered at me.
“Um, Michael doesn’t tell me what to do. He asks me. And since he’s been so nice to me, I try to do what I can to keep him happy. That’s part of the reason why I’m here now.” I rolled my eyes.
Prince closed his eyes and nodded as if he had a deep understanding.
“Brynn, if you’re finished with your dinner, I’ll show you where you’ll be staying, alright?” Prince asked rising from the table.
“Alright.” I started to push my chair back and I noticed that Prince was actually pulling it back for me. “Thanks.” I said standing.
“It’s no problem.” Prince turned and led me out of the room.
I followed Prince back through his mansion and up the twisting staircase to the second level.
The color scheme stayed the same throughout. Prince led me up to a set of double doors.
“This is where you’ll be staying. My room is at the end of the hall.” Prince pointed in the opposite direction.
A pair of doors were at the end of the hall and on them a large gold symbol was painted on them.
I noticed there was a tiny one on the crystal doorknob as Prince opened the doors wide.
I kind of hated to admit it--my room was pretty impressive. The room was of course in a creamy-beige tone, but was decorated in hues of cinnamon and burnt orange. A large burnt orange valance and curtain concealed a huge window.
In the center of the room was a King-sized bed, done up in cinnamon with a matching cloth headboard. Above it was a large gold symbol and all the throw pillows on the bed also were embroidered with the symbol.
Next to the bed, my luggage had been arranged and my laptop, iPod and cell phone were set on the end of the bed.
“If you want, I’ll help you get settled in.” Prince offered going over to the walk-in closet that was opposite the bed and opening it.
“Okay…” I shrugged. I lifted one of my bags up and began to get my things out of it.
Prince was very quiet, taking the things I pulled out and putting them on hangers and placing them in the closet.
About half way through my unpacking, he began chuckling.
I stared at him as the chuckle escalated into a full on laugh.
“What are you laughing at?” I demanded.
“Nothing.” Prince snorted, leaning against the doorframe. “I just can’t believe how many cartoon shirts and jeans you have. Don’t you have any dresses or skirts or something that a woman wears?” He continued to laugh.
Taking offense I stormed over to him. “Well excuse me. I thought I was supposed to be recording a few songs with you, not doing a cover shoot for Vogue!” I exclaimed sharply.
“I know that. But don’t you just dress up nice anyway? Like put on make-up?” A laughter tear rolled down Prince’s cheek.
“No, Michael doesn’t like for me to wear make-up. So I don’t worry about it too much.” I bit my bottom lip.
Prince looked me over with a smile. He looked so much like a rat I wanted to shove a wheel of cheese down his throat. “This is the entertainment industry. You need to look on point all the time. Don’t ever forget that. While you’re here and singing with me, you’re going to be representing me. I insist that you wear make-up.” He instructed quietly.
“That’s fine…” I smiled at him slyly. “…but my make-up case is back in Santa Ynez.”
Prince shook his head. “That’s okay. I’ll tell you what. Tomorrow, you come to Paisley Park in your robe.” He said.
“My robe? What for man?” I demanded. I wondered what kind of obscene thoughts were going through his long head.
Prince approached me and was on me so hard, that for the first time that day, I noticed that he was wearing his lavender based cologne again.
Prince’s breath was hot as he nearly whispered, “I’m not letting a single note come out of your mouth until you look presentable. To my specifications. Do you understand?” His hazel eyes searched mine fiercely.
All the comfort and ease I was starting to feel with Prince instantly flew out the window. I put my hands, trembling with fear, behind me so he wouldn’t see them.
“Yes…I understand.” I tried to keep my voice from quaking. My heart pounded that I was sure Prince could hear it beating.
“That’s what I wanted to hear.” Prince gave me a satisfied grin. “If you’ll excuse me I have to go and make arrangements for tomorrow.”
With that, Prince turned and swiftly exited the room.
I sank to the carpeted floor, tears welling in my eyes. I didn’t know what I had gotten myself into. Even though most people probably would have laughed at the thought of Prince intimidating anyone--he was so short and seemed very quiet--he really did scare me. There was something about his eyes. They were rather hypnotic and I could actually see a streak of meanness behind them. All I wanted was to go home and be with Michael and not have to worry about anyone frightening me.
“You know I’m bad, I’m bad, c’mon. Bad, bad, really, really bad…”
I looked up at the sound of my phone ringing. Michael knew that Bad was one of my favorite songs and had it set as my ringtone.
I crawled over to the bed and picked up my phone.
At the sound of Michael’s falsetto voice, I burst into a full sob.
“Brynn! Honey! What’s the matter?” Michael exclaimed once he realized I was crying.
“I don’t like it here! I want to come home now!” I begged, tears collecting under my chin and dripping on my shirt.
“What happened?” Michael questioned.
“Prince doesn’t like the way I look! He thinks I look like a child!” I banged my fist against the side of the bed.
“You don’t look like a child. You’re nineteen years old. You’re a woman. A lovely woman. Why does he think you look like a child?” Michael sounded truly confused.
“He thinks I look like a child because all I packed was T-shirts and jeans and I’m not wearing make-up.” My tears were slowly being replaced with a deep-set anger.
“Did you explain to him that I asked you not to wear it? You’re a natural beauty.” Michael spoke softly, trying to soothe my nerves.
“Yes I did. He says that you’re babying me!” I said quietly.
“That’s B.S.!” Michael whined. “I don’t know where he got that idea from. Oh Brynn. Don’t be upset please.” He sounded like he was crying. “I know that you’re going to have to stay in his house for a few days--”
“How’d you know that?” I interrupted.
“He called me earlier and told me that the apartment he had for you wasn’t ready yet and asked if it would be okay if you stayed with him. I said it was okay.” Michael explained.
“Michael! Why? I don’t really want to be here. And tomorrow he wants me to come to his studio in just my robe. My robe! I don’t know why. He keeps saying stuff about him wanting me to look the way he wants.” I complained.
“Brynn, please, darling remember that you’re helping me. And Prince wants probably just wants to give you a little make-over. Just go along with it.” Michael reasoned.
“What the hell for? He’s not a stylist! He shouldn’t tell me what to wear.” I nearly shouted.
“If it’ll make him happy, just do it. You keep saying that you want to come home. The longer you keep arguing and being stubborn, the longer you’re going to be in Minneapolis. And I know you want to come back to Neverland. I want you to come back soon. And the kids miss you.” Michael said quietly.
“They do?” It softened my heart to hear that his children missed me.
“Yes, I gave them a little calendar to mark off the days until you came back. They’re off watching a movie now, but they wanted me to tell you that they love you. And I love you too.” Michael giggled.
“I…I love you too.” I felt myself smiling. “Do you think that if I let Prince make me over, it’ll make things go smoother?” I wondered. I tried to keep in mind that I was with Prince for Michael’s benefit.
“Yes sweetheart. So what if you have to wear a little make-up? It’s nothing bad.” Michael reasoned.
“Okay.” I shrugged. “Michael, I miss you so much.” I whispered into the receiver.
“I miss you too. I can’t wait to hug you again.” Michael’s voice dropped a few octaves.
“I don’t care to hug you. I want to do…more.” I whispered sexily.
Michael started “Hee-heeing.”
“As you wish my little dear.” He laughed.
“Michael, do you know what kind of songs I’m supposed to be singing on? Did you discuss it with Prince?” I stood and sat on the edge of the bed. It was a bit firmer than I liked but I didn’t feel like bogging Michael down with another complaint.
“No, not really. I just know you’re doing a little background work. That’s what Rusty told me.” Michael replied.
“Oh…” I twirled a lock of hair that had worked it’s way out of my ponytail.
“I bet that little bastard knows what’s going down and he just won’t say.” I sighed.
“You really don’t like Rusty do you?” Michael chuckled.
“Sure I like Rusty. I like him about as much as you’d probably like to be kicked in the balls.” I giggled.
“That’s bad.” Michael noted.
As Michael continued to talk, the only bad thing on my mind was what Prince might have in store for me the following day.
* * *
The Next Morning
* * *
　

“Good morning Miss Brynn.” I was awakened by a heavily accented voice from somewhere near more.
I opened my eyes to see Prince’s chef standing in the doorway of my room, a tray balanced on his left palm.
“Good morning…what time is it?” I asked as I yawned loudly.
“About fifteen after six.” The chef replied placing the tray on my lap as I sat up.
“Six? As in six a.m.?” I questioned, stunned. I wasn’t used to getting up that early in the morning unless I was going to go snuggle with Michael.
“Yes.” The chef pulled the lid of my platter. On a small plate was a Western omelet and a couple links of sausage. “What would you like to drink with your breakfast?”
“Could I have some coffee? With a lot of sugar and cream in it, please? I asked.
“Right away.” The chef disappeared and I started in on my meal. It tasted pretty good. The sausage, though was a dud: it was meatless.
When the chef returned with a large mug--with Prince’s symbol on it in blue--I asked,
“Where is Prince? He didn’t want to have breakfast with me?” I figured that Prince was still burned about our argument that previous night.
Some argument, he’d done all the talking.
“Oh Mr. Prince has been at his studio since about three a.m.” The chef replied.
I almost choked. “He’s been in there that long? What is he doing?” I knew that sometimes Michael pulled long hours in his studio, but he didn’t just hop up at a ridiculous hour in the morning to tinker with instruments.
“I assume he’s preparing for the recording you and he are going to do today.” The chef shrugged.
I picked at the half eaten omelet in front of me. “What’s your name?” I smiled up at him.
“Juan-Carlos.” The chef smiled.
“Okay, Juan-Carlos, how long have you been working for Prince?” I wondered.
“About five years. Why?” Juan-Carlos rubbed the gray stubble on his chin.
“Nothing, I’m just curious about a few things with Prince.” I explained. “Like this morning. He wants me to go to Paisley Park in a robe. Is that a normal request?”
Juan-Carlos laughed heartily. “Actually Miss Brynn, yes it is. He always grooms his ‘new artists’ how he wants them.”
“Well what does that mean? I mean what’s going to happen to me?” I hid my shaking hands under the covers. I thought to myself that I wasn’t his artist, I was Michael’s and that I was just on loan.
“I’m not sure, but I know that Prince loves beautiful, glamorous women. He always makes sure and even insists that the women he’s around look perfect at all times.” Juan-Carlos nodded.
I agreed; I remembered the pictures of all the women I had seen at the studio.
“I can honestly say, that I’ve been here and Prince has been married twice and I’ve never seen either one of his wives without make-up. Ever.”
I stared at him. “Never? Really? Damn.” I ran a hand through my hair.
“I’ll leave you to your meal.” Juan-Carlos started towards the door. “Mr. Prince wanted me to tell you that he’ll send the car for you at eight o’clock sharp.”
“Thank you Juan-Carlos.” I called after him.
After I finished my breakfast, I retreated to my private bathroom. It was posh, totally in cinnamon marble. I noticed that when I closed the door, there was a bright white robe hanging on the back of it. And like everything else I had touched in the house, it had the symbol embroidered on it in gold silk.
I had my own pink robe from Neverland. But in an effort to assimilate to the Purple One’s ways, I decided that once I got out of the shower, I would wear that robe. The last thing I needed was hell for not wearing it.
Once my shower was complete, and before I put on the robe on I made sure that I put on a bra and panties. The last thing I needed was for that robe to pop open and for Prince to get an eyeful of my “goodies”.
I stood and looked at myself in the large mirror over the face bowl.
This is probably the last time I’ll see myself like this, I thought.
I wondered just what Prince had in mind for my appearance. I hoped that he didn’t intend to cut my hair, because I loved how long my hair was and Michael probably would have strangled him over it too.
All I hoped was that I didn’t end up looking like one of those women who jiggled their booties in rap videos.
From the photographs I had seen in the hallway in the studio, Prince seem to favor outfits that accentuated busts, legs and butts. I ran a comb through my hair, still a bit damp from my shower and continued to ponder what was going to happen to me that day. I just hoped that I wouldn’t end up in anything too scandalous. But if I did end up looking like Stripper Barbie, I’d have to endure it for Michael’s sake.
Thinking of Michael, I jogged out of the bathroom and over to my bedside table, snatching up my phone. For a brief moment, I almost dialed his number. But I stopped myself because even though it was almost seven in Minneapolis, it was only about four in Santa Ynez. And I didn’t want to wake Michael. But I made sure that I stuffed my phone into the pocket of my robe, just for security. I wanted to keep Michael as close to me as possible.
Popping on the pink house slippers that I had brought with me from Neverland, I made my way down the stairs and out to the front of the house.
It was deathly cold out there; I was sure that it couldn’t have been over twenty degrees, if it was that warm. I was trembling to the point my teeth were chattering. If the car didn’t come around soon, they’d have to use an ice pick to get me off the front walk.
Finally the limo pulled up for me and I got in. On the short ride back to the studio, I worried about what was going to happen to me
Upon entering Paisley Park, Jimmy appeared and told me that wanted me to wait for Prince in the salon.
My mind spun. What studio--outside of modeling ones--came with its own salon?
I followed Jimmy quietly, shaking hands shoved into my pockets.
Inside the studio was eerily quiet. It surprised me, because if Prince was indeed recording, as Juan-Carlos had said, I was sure that I’d have been able to hear some sort of music or singing, at least.
Jimmy led me up the platinum/gold record staircase to the second level. We walked silently, past large, bare picture windows that showcased the semi-bare landscape that was behind the studio. I could tell that if it ever warmed up, flowers probably would have been blooming all over the estate.
At the end of the hall, double doors, painted pumpkin orange, stood closed before us.
“Well here we are…” Jimmy huffed breaking the silence. “…the salon.”
Jimmy pushed the doors and just as silently as the rest of the place, they opened without a sound.
As I stepped inside, I was once again stunned by the architecture and interior design.
The salon was in an hexagonal shape and painted a bright, almost blinding shade of blue. One of the five walls was taken up by another larger-than-life sized portrait of Prince in a thick, gilded frame. It appeared to have been taken in the early 80s. Prince stood in a pair of purple lace trousers and was staring at his topless reflection in a large mirror. Long, curly hair framed his thin face. I saw the same flame in his eyes that I had seen the night before. It gave me chills. But it scared me that it was a happy chill, rather than a frightened one.
“Jimmy…does Prince always look that…intense?” I questioned quietly.
When I had no response, I looked to see that Jimmy was nowhere to be found.
I was alone.
I finally noticed the other items in the room.
Another wall was taken up by a huge, single sheet mirror without a frame that was hung above a large red marble countertop. The countertop was barely visible. Dozens of containers of make-up ranging from foundation to blush to tube of lipstick and glosses in every shade of the rainbow were arranged in rows, waiting to be used. Tons more of application brushes took up about a foot of the top by themselves.
Under the counter top, two zebra print director chairs were situated under the counter.
Across the room, two hair washing stations, both in a deep fuchsia took up a wall. Next to the them were three changing stalls with hunter green doors. I saw that the doors were just large enough to cover up the “strategic” parts of a person changing behind them.
The last wall of the room was taken with another large uncut mirror that stretched from the ceiling to the blue marble floor. Superimposed over the glass was a very light, sheer blue version of Prince’s symbol.
In the middle of the room was a large, round pristine white quilted leather couch.
I looked back around the room and my eyes once again landed on the portrait of Prince.
I wandered over to it and stared at it again.
Prince had a nice body in the photo. For such a tiny person, his arms were alarmingly defined as were his abs. He appeared almost rock-solid. Prince probably was no stranger to lifting weights.
I looked at Prince’s face once again. It was remarkable how much Prince’s features had stayed the same in a photo that had to have been taken no less than two decades before. I couldn’t really tell if Prince had had any cosmetic work done, but for him to be forty-something and not have a single wrinkle to his skin, he had to have had a little nip/tuck somewhere along the line.
Else that or he made one hell of a pact with the Devil.
Prince had tapped into his feminine side in the portrait. He was wearing a heavy application of deep plum eye shadow and a thick pancake foundation that made his yellow skin appear a bit washed out. I saw that a small golden cross hung at his throat on a nearly transparent chain. It glittered in his chest hair.
As my eyes swept down the photo, I noticed something. A visible bulge was protruding from his groin area. Prince wasn’t wearing underwear in the almost see-through pants! It was a bit shocking because I could plainly make out the mushroom head tip of his--
“You like that?” A voice whispered in my ear, breaking my train of thought, and startling me.
I whipped around and found myself standing face to face with Prince. I quickly looked down to avoid eye contact with him and I was kind of struck speechless by his outfit.
Prince was clad in a white see through shirt that was partially unbuttoned, in his signature style, exposing his tuft of chest hair. The collar and cuffs of the shirt were a sunny yellow and trimmed with large sequins that--big surprise--featured his symbol.
His shirt was tucked into another pair of high-waisted pants, also yellow.
A gold version of his symbol, on a thick chain and studded with tiny diamonds, hung at his natural waist.
He smiled at me sweetly and I realized he was waiting for an answer.
“Yes…” I glanced at the photo, feeling a hot surge of blood pulsing through me. “It’s nice. When was it taken?”
I looked back at Prince.
“A long time ago.” Prince nodded. “I think that was about ‘82 or ‘83.”
“That is a while ago.” I said nervously.
“So, are you ready to be made over?” Prince turned and started over to the white couch. The heels of his yellow boots clicked on the floor as he neared the couch; I wondered why I hadn’t heard them when he had entered the room.
“I suppose so.” I wrung my hands, apprehensive about what was in store for me.
Prince sat facing me and crossed his legs. “I want to ask you something.” Prince rubbed is chin lightly. “What did you wear when you met Michael Jackson for the first time?”
“Um…” I closed my eyes and thought for a moment. “A white blouse, black pants and…zebra print shoes.” I said quietly.
“Flats or heels?” Prince questioned.
“Uh, heels.” I opened my eyes and looked at him.
“I take it that everything you wore fit you properly…correct?” Prince was tapping his fingers against the couch and the act produced a dull thumping noise.
“Yes, I guess.” I shrugged.
Leaning over his knees, Prince’s voice dropped,
“Why didn’t you dress like that yesterday. That sounds pretty damn professional to me. And you showed up yesterday looking like you were here to play dolls.” He simpered.
“Are you going to start in on that again?” I demanded. “And speaking of dolls, aren’t you getting what you want: the opportunity to dress me up like a human Barbie doll, so that I can look like all the other women in the pictures that you’ve got hanging all over the place?” I crossed my arms, a rush of anger hitting me.
Prince laughed out loud and straightened back up. “Is that what you think? I make women up to look like Barbie dolls? I make women look like what they are--women. It doesn’t have anything to do with dolls. Right now, nothing about you really says “woman”.” Prince also crossed his arms.
“Now from what I recall when I met with you at Neverland, and shortly before you threw a temper tantrum, you were sitting in front of me, and Rusty and Michael in a pair of itty-bitty shorts that barely covered your ass cheeks and a tank top that was almost too small for you. You were about to pop out, seriously. And on top of that, you were soaking wet.” Prince said the words with such a nastiness that a chill ran the length of my spine several times.
“This may shock you, but Neverland is in California, where it’s hot. What do you expect me to wear? A parka and mittens? And the reason I was wet was because Michael’s children pushed me into the pool. I shouldn’t have to explain that to you, but oh well.” I tossed my hair over my shoulder. .
Prince was really starting to creep under my skin. And the way he was talking so frankly about my body was scaring me. Really scaring me. The man talked like the rapists in movies did before they claimed another victim. (And killed them to keep them from telling.)
Prince ran a hand over his hair, which had been slicked back and gelled firmly in place. “You could have fooled me. I thought you were trying to win a wet T-shirt contest.” He laughed.
“Well what about what you wear, huh? What grown man wears high heels? The only men in heels I’ve ever seen have been drag queens!” I stalked over to Prince and stood over him, fuming so heavily that I was breathing hard.
Prince stared up at me, his hazel eyes huge with what I supposed was anger.
“Oh if you want to get on footwear, let’s talk about those played-out, tired-ass loafers that Michael has been rocking for the last thirty years. Only confused men wear loafers.
Michael must be confused as hell to let you come off into his house looking like a woman and making you into a little girl.” Prince rose to his feet.
“I’m not taking this!” I exclaimed and yanked my phone out of my pocket.
“Oh what’s this? You’re gonna call Daddy Warbucks?” Prince placed his hands on his hips.
“I’m getting on the first thing smoking out of here.” I declared, flipped my phone open and went to my ear with it.
Prince snatched my phone out of my grasp so quickly, it took a moment to register that it was no longer in my hand.
“You’re on my time now. You’ll get this phone back when you’re done, and trust me you’ve got a long, long, long day.” Prince waved my phone at me.
“Give it back!” I reached for the phone. Prince leaned back and deposited it in his own pants pocket.
A part of me wanted to rip a hole in his pants to get the phone back, but I knew that if I physically put my hands on him, it would have made matters worse.
“Now…” Prince rubbed his hands together. “I have a stylist waiting downstairs to put clothes on you. What size are you?” He said calmly.
Feeling an arrogance of my own, I retorted,
“I dunno, what size do women who are dealing with an overgrown midget usually wear?”
“Oh you’re smart.” Prince chuckled. “You look like you’re a size six.”
“You’re not too smart…I’m a size four. I wear a size six--in shoes.” I tapped my hands on my hips.
Prince turned and started towards the door. “That’s funny. Four and six. Technically, you’re a ten, but that mouth of yours is off the damn chart. Stay here and the stylist will be in in a moment.”
A short while later, the door opened and a woman, tugging a large rack of clothes entered. A large duffel bag was slung over her shoulder.
“Hi!” She said cheerfully yanking the rack over to the changing stalls.
“Hello.” I said quietly, still stewing with rage.
“I’m Mindy, and Mr. Prince wants me to get you dressed.” She smiled.
Mindy was a pretty woman. I figured her age to be about thirty. She wore her long blonde hair back in a French braid and her face was covered with considerable amount of make-up.
She was dressed stylishly in a thick mint green sweater that matched her eyes perfectly, a tweed mini skirt and brown knee-length boots that were perched on heels that had to have been at least five inches tall and thin as needles.
“What exactly does Prince want you to do with me?” I looked down at my slippered feet.
“Well, Mr. Prince wants me to curl your hair, do your make-up and put you in something purple. Cliché, I know.” Mindy giggled tossing her duffel on the couch.
“He wants my hair curly?” I questioned. I had never really worn my hair curly, ever.
“Yes, he thinks that it’ll make you look older.” Mindy replied leading me over to the director’s chairs.
Taking a seat, I inquired,
“What is his obsession with age and my looks? That’s all he’s been going on about since I’ve gotten here! Does he think that if I look older, he’ll look younger?”
“Maybe.” Mindy giggled, “But you have to admit, he does look exceptional for his age.” Mindy rummaged around in her bag and produced a hot roller set.
As she returned to the counter and plugged up the curlers, I glanced back over at the portrait on the wall.
“Yeah…” I said sheepishly, “I guess you’re right.”
“Mr. Prince tells me that you’re living with Michael Jackson. What’s that like?” Mindy asked flipping the lid of the set and testing them for heat with the back of her finely manicured hand. I suppose they weren’t hot enough because closed the lid back.
“It’s totally different than it is here. It’s a lot more laid back.” I sighed.
I vainly wished that Prince hadn’t taken my phone, because I really needed to hear Michael’s voice.
“That must be awesome. I think Neverland is a cool place.” Mindy flipped the lid to the curlers open again and I guess they were hot enough because she started parting and rolling my hair.
“It is. And Michael doesn’t insist on having me made up like I’m going to be doing a four page spread in Elle.” I looked up at Mindy in the mirror.
“What’s Michael like? Is he weird like they always say?” Mindy wondered, placing small clamps on the curlers to keep them in place.
“No, I don’t think that Michael’s weird at all. He’s very nice to me. He’s one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met. If he was weird, I wouldn‘t be staying anywhere near him.” I could feel myself blushing. It was from a mixture of resentment that so many people had the misconception that Michael was odd and a sheer want to be back near him.
“Wow, that’s cool. I still think it’s pretty messed up what he went through though. I don’t think he’d hurt anyone.” Mindy secured the last roller.
“Of course not. He’s the kindest person. Really a sweet man.” I watched as Mindy started opening make-up containers and began wielding brushes.
“Mr. Prince wants me to make you up the whole time you’re here, so you’ll be seeing a lot of me.” Mindy tilted my head back slightly and started applying foundation and powder.
“Mindy, do you do Prince’s make-up?” I asked as I could feel her beginning to sweep blush on my cheeks.
“Sometimes…and sometimes he does his own. But I mostly do his hair every morning.” Mindy replied.
My eyes popped open. She was responsible for that helmet of gel Prince had on his head?!?
I just prayed that I would end up looking like a poodle!
“Oh, I’ve been dying to know this: Did Michael name his son after Prince?” Mindy giggled. Her giggle, a high pitched shriek was starting to grind my gears. (Other than that, she was pretty decent. Almost nice.)
“Um, no. Michael’s Prince is named after Michael’s grandfather, not that leprechaun.” I looked up as Mindy started placing black liner under my lover lashes. I had to keep myself from laughing. It always amused me how people thought that Michael’s Prince was named after the singer.
“Oh geez…a leprechaun.” Mindy chortled to herself. “You’ve got great skin. What do you do to it?” Mindy changed the topic. But I knew that the short joke had amused her.
“Nothing, Michael specifically asked me not to wear make-up. You know, unless its for an outing.” I closed my eyes when I saw that Mindy was dipping a brush into a disk of deep plum eye shadow.
“Oh really? Now I understand why Prince was going on so long about make-up and you.” Mindy brushed my eyelids gently.
“What do you mean “so long“? It was no time between him leaving and you coming in.” I responded.
“Oh last night. He had me tied up on my phone for at least two hours going on about how you looked like a kid.
But trust me, when I’m done with you, you’ll look your right age. Nineteen, right?” Mindy tapped me and handed me an eyelash curler.
As I tortured my eyelashes, I said “That’s right.”
Mindy selected a tube of lipstick. It was a very neutral shade, actually a hue or two darker than my actual lip tone.
As she smeared it onto my mouth, I caught sight of myself in the mirror.
I almost inhaled the lipstick. I had never been so done up before in my life, and yet, my face felt pretty light. Mindy had really played up my eyes. The shadow had been applied to give me a smoky eye. It started really deep at the lash line and faded as it went up to my eyebrows.
“Do you like how you look, Brynn?” Mindy asked selecting a tube of mascara and opening it.
“Yes…wow!” I whispered.
“I aim to please. Look up for me.” Mindy asked and began coating my lashes with what had to be at least eight applications of mascara.
“Come on, I have the dress on the rack for you to put on.” Mindy led the way over to the rack and after a bit of shuffling through clothes, she produced what looked like a dark violet cowl-neck sweater.
“That’s cute. Where’s the pants that go with it?” I smiled taking the garment from her.
“Oh…” Mindy giggled and twisted a lock of hair that had come free from her braid. “That’s actually a dress.” She smiled weakly.
“Are you flippin’ serious?” I stared at the purple scrap of cloth.
“It’s cashmere and it’s Versace.” Mindy declared as if dropping the names of fancy designers and high-end fabric would impress me.
“I don’t care what it is.” I looked at the “dress”. I knew that Michael would have freaked out if he knew I was going to wear something that skimpy and that it wasn’t for his pleasure!
“It may not be as short as you think. Why don’t you try it on? Please?” Mindy’s eyes were pleading. “Mr. Prince will be mad if you’re not dressed to his ideals.”
Mindy looked so desperate, I kind of wondered if her job was dependent upon my wearing that dress.
“Look Mindy, I’ll try it on, but if it’s too short, I’m getting another outfit.” I sauntered over to the stalls, took one and slipped the “dress” on.
I stepped back out and immediately took note of the draft on my thighs!
“Oh my God!” I ran up to the large mirror. The “dress” just barely came to my thighs. “I have never worn anything this short in my life! Not even when I was singing in clubs!” I put my hands to my face, mortified.
“I think you look nice.” Mindy offered gently. “ You’ve got the figure to pull it off.”
“That’s if it doesn’t pop off like a freaking rubber band.” I snapped. As if it wasn’t bad enough that the dress was shorter than a gnat, it was also very tight and left little to the imagination. This woman was trying everything humanly possible to coax me into keeping the outfit on. I’m sure she would have done the same thing if I had pranced out in a thong and tassels.
“It’ll look better once you get your hair down and some shoes on.” Mindy dug frantically through her bag and came up with a pair of boots. The leather of the boots matched my “dress” to a “T” and featured highly polished silver toes and chunky, yet high, heels. I sat on the couch and slipped the boots on. They stopped right above my ankles.
It was no trouble to stand and walk in them because I had worn heels every night when I sang in clubs.
“Let me style your hair. It’s 10:30 now and Mr. Prince expects you to be done by 11:00.” Mindy literally pushed me over to the director’s chair and began loosening the curlers. My hair tumbled around my shoulders in springy tendrils.
Mindy ran her hands through my hair and had me toss my head forward several times to make the curls look more natural and free-flowing.
Mindy was a almost a madwoman, she was so consumed with separating curls and spritzing them with a thin cloud of hairspray.
At eleven o’clock on the dot, as Mindy was putting the finishing touches on my hair which cascaded around my shoulders in gentle waves. While she was steadily picking at my head, I noticed that her movements had become stiff and in the reflection in the mirror, I saw that Prince slowly making his way across the room. A thin white box was tucked under his left arm.
Once again, he was totally quiet, like he had been when I was looking at his portrait.
Prince wore no emotion in his face as he had done at Quincy’s lawn party when Michael was dancing to Not Over.
He stopped and stared at Mindy as she fussed over my curls.
Mindy never did make eye contact with him; she continued to look at the back of my head.
For a few tense moments, all three of us were silent.
“Mr. Prince, do you like it?” Mindy asked so quietly I barely head her.
She finally stopped messing with my hair and placed her hands behind her back.
Silent as ever, Prince walked around the chair and placed himself directly in front of me.
With his free hand, Prince grasped my chin and tilted my face up. His eyes scanned every surface of my face as if he were searching for a single pore that didn’t bear make-up.
I was terribly uncomfortable with him holding onto my face and staring at it the way art buffs would stare at a Monet or an O’Keefe.
Making matters worse and my heart pound with unrestrained throbs, Prince then gazed down into my eyes.
For me, it felt as though time had stopped. An eternity seemed to pass as I gazed into his light, clear brown eyes.
When Prince finally looked away, my body actually kind of crumpled. I hadn’t felt like that since the first time Michael had kissed me.
And the fright had to have shortened my life by at least three years.
“I like it.” Prince glanced at Mindy and looked back at me. “I really do like it.” Prince dropped his hand from my chin and grabbing my hand, helped me slide out of the chair.
Prince led me out into the center of the room and paced around me slowly, taking in my appearance from every angle.
I glanced back at Mindy; she was smiling like she had just won the Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes.
I looked ahead once more and saw that Prince was staring me down again.
The temperature in the room decreased about fifty degrees for me. There was something in his eyes. They looked so hungry, so bare-based and animalistic.
“Brynn, how do you feel about the way you look?” Prince asked, his voice deeper than usual.
“Um…” I looked down at my boots. My mind burned as I tried to think of what Michael would have wanted me to say in that situation. “It’s different. But if it makes you happy, then I guess I’m okay with it.” I whispered.
“Mmm-hmmm.” I heard Prince murmur and he held the box out to me.
“This is for you.”
“For me?” I was truly surprised. I didn’t expect any gifts from Prince at all.
“Yes.” Prince chuckled as I opened the box. “I would have given it to you earlier, but you were shooting off at the mouth.”
I pulled the top off the box and for a moment, I was stunned.
In the box, on a long and thick silver link chain, was a somewhat large pendant in the shape of Prince’s symbol. It was big enough to be noticed, but not so large as to be considered gaudy.
“Is…” I was breathless. “Is this real?” I looked up at Prince.
“Of course. I never give away fake jewelry.” Prince cackled and lifted the necklace out of the box.
“Let me put it on you.” Prince stepped behind me and looped the long chain over my head, lifting my hair so that it wouldn’t get tangled. The necklace hung near my waist as the gold one he wore did.
“It’s nice, lovely. Thank you. ” I said fingering the charm. I kind of felt bad for accepting the trinket so easily. I knew that Michael would have probably highly disapproved of me taking jewelry from other men. But I figured that once my time with Prince was up, I’d simply give it back to him and pretend to believe that it had just been a loaner.
“Prince…” I said carefully. I had a question I had been bursting to ask him since I had arrived.
“Yes?” Prince was fluffing out my hair.
“What exactly does your symbol mean? I mean is it something…bad?” I whispered. I had always wondered if his symbol, which kind of looked like a combination of the male and female symbols, represented something perverse and sexual.
Mindy and Prince both laughed. “No…it’s a spiritual symbol. It’s unpronounceable. It has no sound. Even I can’t pronounce it.” He snorted.
“Really?” I was surprised that Prince would have let something represent him for so long that even he couldn’t pronounce.
“Really.” Prince brushed his fingers against my cheek. “Come on, we have some recording to do. Studio B is ready and waiting for us. Let’s go.” Prince started towards the door.
I smiled at Mindy who grinned gleefully back and I jogged, making sure not to stumble, and followed Prince.
As I walked along side of him en route to the recording studio, quietly watching him.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was falling for Prince.
Falling hard.