A/n: No copyright infringement intended.
It was dim in that place; only lit by blazing blue, gallant green, and odd orange lights. The floor, a black sea of dropped pills, empty beer bottles and designer shoes. The music so loud the throbbing of it in one's head could be the confused with the fast beating of one's heart. Half naked females danced with men who forgot they had obligations. It was smoggy even when sober one could feel intoxication of some kind.
He couldn't believe it. Here he was. Dressed in a shirt that wasn't dirty. Well…not too dirty. Sneakers. His tennis sneakers but still…navy jeans and whatever else Franklin told him was decent looking for the night. Not that he really cared or anything. But what made the matter seem all the more surreal was that he was talking to a woman.
He was talking to a woman. A young woman rather. Her skin was a smooth hazelnut. Her eyes were a brown that seemed to have speckles of stardust. Her lips were a nude color that he wanted to run his tongue over. She wore a sleeveless, skin tight dress and was from Broker. A college student going to LSU. She was telling him of how she hated Los Santos and that all the people were faux. A forgery of worth and value. That pretty much caught the peak of his interest. It's what started the conversation in the first place.
She told him she only came to screen write. It was her dream to make movies. But what he really liked about her was that she was not offended, surprised, or scared by the very interesting details of his entrepreneurship. She wasn't turned off at all. Not even when he told of how Wade licked red 'syrup' off his shirt after his visit to Floyd and Debra's place. She didn't wince once.
He felt good about that.
Oh, what was he doing? To be that age? To be talking to a girl who was half that age. To be putting his arm around her waist - buying the drinks of this young woman – laughing at her jokes. What was he doing?
He was waiting for it to get late enough. Waiting for it to get dark enough. Waiting for her to get drunk enough. Waiting for her to run her hands over his manhood again. Though Michael was always stuck in the 80's, he himself couldn't see why he'd want to go back.
Here was this – young, beautiful, possibly as crazy as him to not fear him – girl, talking to him. And here he was listening. And she was listening to him. He could get use to the attention.
Franklin tried to get a look at the girl that was making Trevor's night, but his head was turned away by a soft pale hand. He looked at the girl and she shook her head in disapproval. With platinum blonde hair and blue eyes she pouted her candy pink lips. "Pay attention only to me, baby." She said. He nodded accordingly. The girl was sitting in his lap and trailing her delicate fingers on his jawline.
It was good to be his age. It was so good.
He was young. Good looking. Loaded. He had just about everything. He was tall. Smart. The list of his attributes could go on. He never wanted to get old. Michael and Trevor definitely made sure to scare him of that. He'd never be this young again. Never be this good looking again. Well…maybe good looking. They say black don't crack.
He was telling the pretty pale lady about his garages. About all the fancy cars he drove. How fast they could go. How the speed made him feel. That he could give her a test drive sometime. The girl smiled and whispered to him that the only wheel she wanted him behind was hers. He liked that part.
Here he was. Bagging white bitches. He'd have to tell Lamar about that.
Michael sighed then sipped his beer. What was he doing there? There was no scene for him. The girls there was half his age. Meaning he could be their father. He was their father. Tracey was their age. He hoped she hadn't chosen to go clubbing that night. And if she did, not to where he presently was.
The idea of a bunch of Tracey's rubbing their asses on men like himself, men like Trevor – who was now making out with the brown Broker babe – just made his stomach turn. Where were these girls' fathers? Where?
He wanted to go home. He had given up on the night when he saw Lester go to the bathroom with his cane, followed by a woman who clearly had too much to drink. Even Lester was going to score. What was he doing? This wasn't his scene. It wasn't him. He got up from the lounge and walked over to Franklin.
"Hey kid – I'm gonna go."
"Really? You want me to drive you home? I know you came with Trevor –"
"Nah, it's good. I'll hail a taxi."
"Alright man, be cool. Catch you later."
"Yeah. You too."
Michael headed to the exit, but not without having young women rub alcohol in his hair, calling him daddy and trying to pull his blazer off. Yeah, at one point he was young enough to enjoy that – but he missed that time.
When he should have been staying up late to do blow off the bellies of women and fucking, he was making plans for his next big thing. His thing being theft and possibly murder. Maybe more. The one time he was that age he fell in love and tied the knot. How he missed, and didn't miss the past. How he missed and didn't miss his youth.
And as he pushed open the door to the Bahama Mama West he stared at her. Her hair was let loose, long and wavy, framing her face. Her lipstick was a retro red and she wore Tracey's clothes. A tight leather jacket, with only a bra underneath. Her leopard print pants were even tighter and her pumps a retro glam red like her lips.
There she was before him like a Teenage Dream. When seeing her – he wanted so bad to be young again. To relive when he met her and fell in love.
"Where you headed Mr. De Santa?" Amanda asked. She pushed him back into the club and against a wall.
"What are you doing here?" He asked almost breathlessly.
"Me? I'm just looking for a good time." She held him by the collar of his shirt and crushed her fiery lips against his. She brushed her hands over his manhood and his arms circled around her waist holding and pressing her into his body.
Oh to be young again.
A/n: If anyone would like for more chapters, let me know. I did intend for this to be a one shot – but I'm open to writing more.