Angst! I warned before so when it gets angsty don't come for me.
This fic started like a funny rom-com for Christmas, but I got lazy and could not finish it. Now, I revamped it and made it a dramedy. The update schedule will not interfere with my other fics.
Please, don't let me flop.
I don't own the walking dead.
Please, reviews
Part I: Eric... Rick
Present:
"No," Michonne firmly says.
She bites her tongue because she fears what she desires to say. Instead, she chooses to glare at Sasha, who cares little for her tantrum.
Between endless typing, Sasha raises her head to glance at a fuming Michonne. Being far from the point of chaos, she returns at her typing.
"How do you estimate? Is there a double T?" Sasha asks after a few seconds staring at her phone.
Michonne groans and she goes to sink on the comfortable sofa in Sasha's office. She looks around her, and it feels as if her nightmare has no end in sight. Said nightmare should have only lasted a few months. Now, she fears that it will be eternal, although she has done her best to prevent its end.
"I said no, Sasha." She repeats herself, "Do you ever listen to me? I don't want a party to celebrate a year of marriage with him."
Michonne points her finger at the man, who has remained uninterested by the mildly heated conversation between his wife and her employee. He looks at her finger with disdain, and he scoffs. Michonne draws a deep breath, and she reminds herself that there is no point to argue with an arrogant fool. Even if the so-called fool is her twenty-seven-years old husband, she can only curse his immaturity. Michonne stares at him for a few seconds because she has taken the habit of looking at him for too long when he doesn't notice.
"A single T, sweetheart." He says with a sugary tone, "If I can add a pinch of salt to this boring back and forth…"
He does not have a chance to finish as Michonne jumps into the conversation.
"We don't need you to say or do more than what we paid you for, and it's not your unwanted opinion." She adds with visceral frustration, and the bitterness from their previous argument pollutes the conversation. "Sasha, I said no, and it's final."
Sasha raises her head away from her planner, and she straightens her posture. She sighs with exhaustion, and Michonne's antics add to her tiredness. She has been tirelessly working her way through Michonne's chaos.
"I have finished the invitation. A big party would be tacky, but I can't offer you intimacy. We need to make some of your biggest donors feel valued. So I think two hundred guest is reasonable." Sasha says with a smile.
Michonne screams, and she needs to express her frustration. She leaves the sofa, and she begins to pace back and forth. She stops when her head starts to spin. Her husband throws a questioning look in her direction, and Michonne waves away his worry.
"Have someone make tea and ask them to bring half creamed milk." He says with poorly hidden boredom, "fifty guests are what I'm willing to entertain, and Michonne wouldn't agree to more. My family is not coming aside from my cousin Maggie and my friend Shane. She has even less guests. As we both know, you're her only friend. Rosy is unsure if she can make it, but she will try. The children will attend but not beyond ten."
Sasha grabs her pad, and she begins to amend her previous plan. There is a knock at the door, which forces Michonne to keep from having a breakdown, and she refrains from tearing before her predicament.
"Thank you, darling." Rick says while he picks the trail.
Rick calmly prepares the cup of tea, and he carefully adds the drop of milk. It's a delicate affair to make the perfect infusion for his wife, but it derives a great pleasure into being able to do so well. The only thing Rick Grimes does perfectly as Prime Minister Michonne Barnes-Grimes' husband.
"Here," He places the cup in Michonne's hand, "No need to have a breakdown over an intimate party of fifty guests. We should talk about this newfound sensitivity." His thumb collects a teardrop, which successfully escapes.
He leads her toward the sofa, and Rick watches Michonne sit. She begins to drink her tea, and the sigh, which she makes, reveals acceptance. She has no choice, but to allow the flow to carry her toward a safe port.
"I don't want a party." Michonne pointlessly insists, "I don't want to continue this farce, and I didn't want to begin it. Why did I listen to Sasha? Why did I meet you? I should have stayed home depressed and divorced. I'm not the only forty-three woman who was cheated on by the scum of the earth. So he wanted to raise my children with his new girlfriend. I shouldn't have listened to you. I don't want a party," She laments.
"Fifty guests and nothing more," Sasha repeats.
Michonne's lamentation no longer fazes her. She has heard them all. Sasha has apologised for putting her in a situation where Michonne had to accept to compromise her morals or lose everything, which she worked for all her life.
"Great, I will send my invoice." Rick says, and he stands to leave.
"Of course you will," Michonne mumbles between sips. "Parasite." She adds with a vile tone.
Rick wildly smiles, and she hates that toothy grin. Michonne hates Rick on occasion. He is indifferent to Michonne's rage because it is never definite to her complex set of emotions. Rick shoves his hand in his pockets, and he strolls toward Michonne. He crouches to be at eye-level, and he hooks his fingers beneath her chin.
"I offer a service, and it's only fair that you pay me for being a companion to your extensive misery." Rick states and places a kiss on Michonne's cheek. "I will see you at home, my love, and please, no drama with the children around," He adds as he walks through the door. "Aitana doesn't take it well when you're hysterical. You have been it a lot in the last days."
Michonne turns toward Sasha, and she makes a Herculean effort to contain her fury. She puts down the cup of tea, and she has lost her taste for it and life.
"Five thousands a month," Michonne pointedly looks at her longtime friend and chief of staff, "Do you know how much that man cost a year?"
"Minimum wage," She replies with a smile, which does not move from her pretty face.
"First that is not minimum wage and he gets that money for existing and making my life impossible," Michonne points out, "I pay him to parasite me and my family. It's entirely your fault."
Sasha rises from her desk, and she looks at her boss. She sighs as she prepares herself to refute Michonne's claim.
"Not really, I gave you a name and a place. You were caught doing what I told you not to do with whom I didn't know. It's your fault, and you're lucky I fixed it. Rick was charitable enough to agree to help," Sasha corrects Michonne. "I made it clear at the time. Don't get caught. You're lucky Rick agreed to help in exchange of compensation."
A year ago
Michonne stares at Sasha, and she takes in the news. She remains sceptical despite her friend's extended explanation. Nothing good can happen to her in this godforsaken year. Each day has shown her that life is cruel beyond words.
"Are you joking?" Michonne hesitantly asks. "I'm not sure I'm the suitable public for that."
Sasha drops the small piece of paper where she noted everything. Michonne reads the hour and the name of the restaurant for the meeting.
"This is a public place," Michonne points out, and it only assures her doubt. "Why would the president meet me there? It must be a joke." She sighs. "I don't have time for this. I don't want to be the next fool on TV."
Sasha takes back the stick note, and she carefully folds it. She looks at Michonne, and she does not know where to start. The source of the problem is glaring. Her friend's appearance leaves to desire. Michonne, who Sasha knows, is always clad inexpensive fabric and Maison clothes. Now, staring at her, Sasha wonders where she found a sweat.
"Michonne, nine months…"
Michonne promptly interrupts Sasha. She does not want to have that conversation. She has no strength to touch the topic. She shakes her hand and issues a verbal warning.
"I don't want to talk about it, Sasha."
"You need to move on, and you can't allow it to eat up your confidence. This is the meeting of your political career. You're forty two and might have a chance to be this youngest prime minister of this country." Sasha says with excitement.
"This situation has nothing to do with that other one. Nothing has to do with the mess Philip made." Michonne insists.
Sasha scoffs, and she begs to differ. She looks at Michonne, and she can read the woman without trying.
"It has everything to do with the mess your ex-husband made. That idiot felt jealous of your success, and he has found no other ways to stroke his ego, but fucking your assistant and letting it become national news. He fucked up his little political career, and so you couldn't have yours." Sasha bluntly says. "The evil bitch."
Michonne winces at the reminder of her ex-husband unfaithfulness. She does not want to look into Andrea's betrayal. She rises from her sofa, and she walks to her minibar to pick a bottle of wine.
"I'm merely a senator of a small town, who is tragically famous because her very famous husband cheated on her. This call is nothing but a joke." Michonne points out, and she fills two glasses for Sasha and her. "I doubt the president knows my name. I couldn't even make it to the private party. I'm no one." She depreciatingly says.
"Everyone knows your name, Chonne," Sasha inconsiderately retorts. "Your marital misadventures continue to be in the gossip. You made the eight p.m. news."
Michonne groans at the reminder. She refuses to think about how much of her life has become an object of public mockery. The scrutiny makes it impossible to leave her home.
"Like I said he is an idiot, and he won you sympathy. This is an opportunity. You need to find your confidence before tomorrow. If you go to that dinner talking yourself down, it's going to be a disaster." Sasha ignores Michonne's pity party.
Michonne laughs, and she wishes it could be as easy as Sasha makes it sound.
"Andrea," Michonne sighs, "She is beautiful. I mean look at me. Forty something and with three kids. Did I tell you that he wants to have their full custody? Did you know what he told me before walking away from me? I was a failure of a wife. He went in detail on how bad the sex was. He said a surfboard would make him climax faster than I did after all we both would be lying there emotionless while he ruts. Make it make sense, Sasha," Michonne yells. "Make it sense."
Michonne laughs and drains her wine. She pours a second glass, and she immediately drinks it all.
"Sex?" Sasha asks, and her eyes shine with what appears to be an immediate solution, "Why didn't I think of it?"
"Sasha," Michonne senses the impending chaos. "Stop before you make things worse."
Michonne senses the worst coming, and Sasha quickly proves her right. Sasha comes to stand before Michonne, and she pries the wine glass from her hand.
"A hooker," She states with a frightening seriousness, "You need to fuck a hooker tonight and get over that comment on how bad you're in bed. I have a name and an address." Sasha continues to speak as if what she said is logical. "He is a tomb, and it won't leak to the press. You can trust him to take the money and do his job. All my other clients have only good comments about him."
"Are you on cracks?" Michonne asks, "Oh, it can't be anything else. I, a mother of three children, paying for sex. How would that boost my confidence?" She laughs at the ludicrous thought.
"Once you actually find out that it's not your fault, you would forget what Philip said."
Sasha searches her pocket for a pen, and she tears half of the paper where she already marked the info of Michonne's meeting with the presidential cabinet. She quickly writes a name and an address.
"Here," She pushes the note toward Michonne, "Buff guy with dark hair. You ask for Eric. He does not charge much, and I can vouch for how good he is. Above all, he will not run to the news."
Michonne looks at her friend, and she only sees a madwoman. What she hears does not make sense.
"Forget about it," Michonne does not care much for the conversation. "You're insane."
Michonne roams around the dark alley, and she feels so out of place. She clings on the little piece of paper in her hand. A small street lamp struggles to light the entire alley, and she does not want to use her flashing light.
She looks at the passenger seat, and the small wedding invitation taunts her. How dare he invite her? How dare she leave a message with a sugary tone? They ruined her life, now she has to go to their wedding ceremony, and so she can avoid looking like the bitter ex-wife. How can she not be the bitter ex when he deliberately picked that date to hurt her?
To think of it forces Michonne to step out of her zone of comfort. She squeezes the piece of paper with Sasha's handwriting. It is war, and she has every intention to win it. Michonne is going to take away his dream career.
It feels ridiculous.
She is desperate.
Michonne is not in the right state of mind. Sasha often has a decent idea, and she did conduct her electoral campaign marvellously. How can such a brilliant woman have a bad idea?
When Sasha had suggested a hooker, Michonne had not portrayed the feminine cliché. She had not thought of the dark alley. The dirty street and God forbid she thought of a strip club. The so-called Eric was catering to politicians, and the venue should reflect as much, but here, Michonne is parking before a shady looking strip club.
Therefore, her present attire makes sense. She is wearing debatably clean sweat pants with a black t-shirt, which still carries a few stains after feeding her three-year-old daughter, Aitana. Michonne is trying that present mother thing, but so far, she has had arguable results. Her teenage son, Camille, is in a rebellious phase. Her nine-year-old son, Julian, is suffering from the messy divorce while being prone to strange behaviours, and her little one, Aitana, is existing and staining her t-shirt.
Michonne straightens her t-shirt, and she draws a deep breath.
"You can do it."
Michonne looks at the door of the place. It resembles the gate of hell. The faux-leather on the door aspire nothing, but a total absence of class. She needs to run. Michonne returns her car key, and she is ready to leave. The invitation sitting on the passenger seat taunts her.
"Fuck it," She says with faltering confidence, "a surfboard. A surfboard…" Michonne finds the courage to leave the car. "How dare he?"
She almost runs into the strip club, but she manages to remain calm. Michonne looks at the bouncer who does not care for her, and he moves out of her way.
….
…
…
Michonne tightly holds the piece of paper, which Sasha gave her. She looks around, and there is a bachelorette party. Michonne takes a breath of half-smoke and half-sweat. At least, she is not the only desperate woman in the place.
She attempts to find the so-called Eric amidst the artificial smoke effect and the many man's butts. She does not know why she has not run away. Michonne sits at the bar, and she orders wine. With all the glasses, which she took before, Michonne enjoys a quiet buzz.
"Eric," She ultimately dares to ask the bartender.
"Who?" The brunette asks with slight confusion.
"Eric," Michonne shouts from the top of her lungs to allow her voice to echo above the music.
"Just started working here, I don't know everyone's name." The bartender replies with an apologetic smile. "Tell me what he looks like, and I might help."
Michonne attempts to remember what Sasha said, but her mind is fuzzy. Around the alcoholic fog, she can remember the picture of the hooker that she made out of what Sasha said.
"Light blue eyes, dark hair, and a white boy. I know the blue eyes gave it away, but he is kind of the cliché of the sweet white boy. Pretty as hell. I think that is all." Michonne sighs, and she moves her hand to ask for a new drink. "His name is Rick," Michonne's speech slurred, and she mispronounced the name.
The bartender looks around, and she smiles when she catches sight of who could be the so-called Rick.
"Give me a minute," She rushes away from the bar.
She disappears in the fog of smoke. Michonne returns her attention to her drink, and her tongue is bitter from the excess of alcohol. She hesitantly looks around. Michonne has never been in a strip club before, and it is not as glamorous as movies make it look.
The bachelorette party is aiming to be the wildest on earth. The dollars are flying, and some hands are dipping in underwear clinging to sweaty skin. Michonne wants to go home, and she needs to sleep off the alcohol. The room smells like sweat, smoke, and desperation.
However, she does not leave her spot. Michonne makes herself small, and she waits for the bartender to return. It takes less than five minutes, but to Michonne, it feels like an eternity. The bartender returns with a man. Correction, she returns with a young man.
"That's the lady looking for you," the bartender says, and she heads behind the bar.
Michonne and Rick become a second thought to her, and she returns to work.
Michonne's mouth is dry. She has not dared to speak. She is ogling, and there is a lot to see. Words are hard to find. Michonne stands from the barstool and does not how to react to a half-naked stranger. Michonne stares until her eyes hurt.
"I'm on the clock, ma'am." He drawls.
His eyes run on her person. Her choice of attire returns at the forefront of Michonne's mind. She attempts to clean the stain, which they both cannot see with the light effect. She looks agitated and anxious. He eyes her curiously.
"Oh great, she is wasting my time. " Rick sighs with frustration. "What is that you want? A lap dance, to hire a guy for a friend bachelorette party or…" He allows her to feel the blank, and his hands come to rest on his hips.
Michonne only blinks, and Rick is becoming more impatient. He hisses, and he knew it was an odd story. He glares at the bartender who is cleaning the shaker.
"Well, I'm going to keep it moving." He says, and he begins to leave. "Have a great night," He adds with a hint of frustration despite the polite tone.
In an instinctive reaction, Michonne grabs Rick's wrist to stop him. She cannot chicken out after enduring so many tribulations. Her hair smells like cigarettes. Someone might have robbed her car as she speaks. She is in sweatpants like a bum in a strip club. What is talking to a stripper at this point? Everything but retaining less sex appeal than a surfboard.
"Sasha," Michonne stutters.
His look is blank, and he appears annoyed. Michonne has a long pause in her thoughts. She leans toward him, and it is when she is on her toes that she notices her panda's slipper. What did she think of when she left her home? Michonne was not thinking. Now, she is trying to use her brain like the adult who she is.
"Can I talk to you?" She shouts.
"I work on the clock or by dances. I can't run around talking to you." He replies with nonchalance.
"Do you take credit card?" She asks while aware that she should head home.
He laughs mockingly. What is this night? He does not care for the answer. He cares for his time, and she is wasting it.
"It's a strip club," He elects to entertain her.
The night is calm, and since he does not like to deal with brides and company, he does not expect to make a lot of money tonight. Rick might as well deal with the weirdo.
"Oh," Michonne replies, and there is an odd surprise, "right, it's a strip club. I should be home, but I had to listen to Sasha…"
She rambles aimlessly. Is she having an anxiety attack? What the actual fuck is going on now? Rick has no choice but to question the events.
"You won." He says half-bored, "I will talk to you, but please, shut up." Rick adds because it does not look as if Michonne intends to stop talking.
Michonne nods, and she begins to walk toward the exit. He looks at her, and he wonders if she is perfectly sane.
"I'm almost butt naked," He deadpans.
Michonne stops to look at him, and she does too much of it. She ogles to the point where her eyes redden and glisten with tears as she attempts to scrutinise every muscle.
"Indeed, you're naked." Michonne manages to say, "A naked man… walking around naked," she has a moment of doubt. "Butt naked, and a man who is naked."
Rick stares with concern, and he questions his decision to have a conversation. He assumes Michonne might be insane. If she attempts to kill him, Rick has a chance to overpower her small frame.
"Never has seen a man in underwear before while looking as you do? I doubt it." He scrutinises her appearance with a firm scold on his face.
Michonne might be insane, but Rick finds her nothing short of gorgeous. He does stare for a few seconds before clearing his mind.
"Well, they don't announce that they are butt-naked." She mumbles. "They're just naked."
"Give me a minute. If you're going to kill me out there, I would at least have some clothes." He ignores her mumbling, and he begins to walk away from her.
"I don't want to kill you." Michonne shouts, "I'm a respectable woman not a killer."
Rick turns to look at her. He rolls his forefinger to remind Michonne of her location.
There is nothing respectable about a strip club. Michonne feels bashful, and she begins to rush toward the exit. Although, she abruptly stops, and she backtracks.
"I'll wait outside." She tells him. "Where I won't kill you?"
Rick's answer is to look at her as if she has lost her mind. He walks away without a word. Michonne wants to leave, but she stays to watch him walk away. That walk mesmerizes her. She only feels able to look away from him when he has completely disappeared from her sight.
Michonne stares at her watch. After ten minutes, it seems apparent that he is not coming. As she thinks about it, it is the logical thing to do. Only a person with a limited amount of brain cells would follow a stranger in her car parked in a dark alley.
"It's for the best," She sighs.
She lets her head fall against the wheel, and it is enough to prompt a honking sound to leave the car. Michonne feels exhausted and frustrated. Why did she have to listen to Sasha? Why did she have to receive that invitation and listen to that message? She straightens the rearview, and she looks at herself.
"Dumbass," Michonne's forefinger pokes the forehead of her reflection. "I must look like some pervert. I have three children. What am I doing parked in front of a strip club? What happens if I get arrested for solicitation?" her forehead again hits the wheels. "Oh, I fucking hate you." She pokes the rearview.
Michonne cannot stand it. She shouts how frustrated she is, and she repeatedly allows her head to fall in shame. From any perspective, she looks as if she is undergoing an exorcism. When Michonne ultimately stops, she raises her head, and she must deal with newly created embarrassment.
Rick stands with his hand up, and he looks at her with concern. Michonne slowly opens the car window, and she offers an embarrassed smile.
"I swear I'm not crazy." She clarifies. "Just mad at myself."
Rick looks at her with scepticism. She may be sane, but it does not guarantee that everything is perfect in her pretty head.
"I will trust you on that one," He sarcastically replies. "You wanted to talk?"
Michonne hesitates for a few seconds. She unlocks her car, and she pushes open the passenger door.
"It's cold," She says. Rick has nothing but a bathrobe. "You don't have clothes."
Rick looks at Michonne, and he worries more about her mental health. He must be more insane than she is. Rick enters her cars. He was right about her being rich.
"Okay," Rick starts to speak, "That conversation," He prompts Michonne.
Michonne looks at him, and she waits for clues, which Rick would give her about the situation. He does not do anything beyond impatiently staring at her.
"I have never done this before," Michonne explains, "What do I do now?" She genuinely expresses her confusion. "My friend told me to look for Eric."
"Rick," He corrects.
"What do I do now? I didn't even have the name right. What do I do?"
Rick sighs, and he looks at Michonne with a curious expression. He turns to face her.
"Oh you're serious," He notices with shock, "This is your first time. Of course, it is one of those nights. You should return with your friend at the bachelorette party."
"I came alone," She tells him, "but you're right I should go home." Michonne agrees.
She does not drive away nor asks Rick to leave the car.
"I can't go home," She says with a frustrated tone. "I need good sex to fix the situation. He left me for her because I'm bad at sex. He is going to get married with my fresh out of college assistant." Michonne mumbles.
"You have a lot to unpack, good luck with that." Rick says while he reaches for the door.
Michonne snorts, and she leans to drag the wedding invitation from beneath Rick.
"Look at this!" She maladroitly shoves the card against his chest. "The date, which he picked, is a big fuck you."
Rick looks at her, and he shrugs. The woman is not his problem. Michonne might be too drunk to notice how abnormal it is to cry on a stranger's shoulder.
"Look ma'am," He begins to speak, but Michonne interrupts him.
"Michonne," She tells me. "You can call me Michonne."
"Michonne," He stresses. "I'm a striper not a counselor or whatever you need."
Michonne nods as if she has registered what Rick said. She sighs and leans on his shoulder. Rick shrugs, and he scoops to the corner of the car to avoid her head.
"We have three children. One morning, he tells me about his younger mistress, and it's apparently my fault," Michonne laments. "Wasted seventeen years of my life. Today, that bitch...excuses my language. Today that harlot calls me to propose a brunch, and so we can amend things. After all, we will all co-parent." She sneers.
Rick is speechless, and Michonne's tale has nothing to do with it. Her lunacy has Rick wondering if he will survive the encounter.
"Do you mind unlocking the door?" Rick asks while growing irritated.
"Okay," Michonne softly says.
Michonne attempts to do as asked, but she repeatedly presses the wrong button. She honks more than twice for good measure.
"Did you drink yourself to incompetence or…?"
Michonne blinks, and her eyes fill themselves with tears.
"You're rude," Michonne points out. "Of course, I drank as much as I could. You're too good looking and young to understand the misfortune of love. Who would cheat on you? People pay to have sex with you." She says with an accusing tone. "Fuck you."
"God, that is enough," Rick deadpans. "I had a fucking long night. I barely made any money because bachelorette parties are full of stingy people. You, ma'am, come out of nowhere to cry and lament. Excuse me if I don't care. I sell sex not compassion. I work on the hour. You want my service. I offer them to those who pay. Anything else is none of my fucking business," He rants when he can no longer bear the exuberance of Michonne's lamentation.
"I have money," Michonne finds nothing else to answer.
Rick arches an eyebrow. He cannot tell why he entertains a mentally unstable woman. He leans toward her to press the button unlocking the door.
"Lucky you," Rick retorts as he pulls away and prepares to leave. "Having money is great."
Michonne grabs his shoulder, and Rick is gallant enough not to shake her off him. He remains in the car and stares at Michonne while he waits for an explanation.
"I meant I can pay for sex," She rushes out.
"I don't take credit cards," Rick replies. "He carefully removes her hand from his shoulder."
Michonne drags her glove box open after much effort. She searches until she can notice the dollar note.
"I have five hundred dollars," She shows Rick the money. "Is that enough?"
Rick shakes his head. He would leave the car if rent were not due soon. He also has to cover a master degree, which cost a fortune. He should have stayed in the force.
"I think you should go home, ma'am." Rick replies. "Have a cold shower and drink enough water to save you from the hangover tomorrow."
Michonne nods, and she frees him. Everything was a bad idea.
"Will you get off with a surfboard?" Michonne suddenly inquires.
"What the actual fuck is wrong with you?" Rick grows confused. "Did Shane get you up to this? This is not funny."
"Will you?" Michonne insists.
Rick feels exhausted. He should have left when she began to cry about her ex-husband and the sob story, which he did not care enough to hear. Now, Rick is sharing a space with a woman having a breakdown.
The sobs fill the car, and Rick silently curses. He might be an asshole, but a crying woman is a reason enough to be indulgent.
"If I get it right, there is a surfboard, a home wrecker, and a husband. Through a series of event, you're trying to have sex with me." Rick illuminates his misunderstanding of the situation.
"My friend, Sasha, thinks sex will return my lost confidence. I have a very important job interview. I have to go to my ex-husband wedding ceremony, which is on our wedding anniversary. "Michonne attempts to correct Rick, but she adds to the confusion.
Rick scratches his head, and he wonders where his newfound clemency comes from as he deals with the lunatic next to him.
"Five hundred dollars is beneath my usual fees," He explains with nonchalance. "Let's say I'm feeling generous and empathetic. I'm not going to have sex with you…" Michonne interrupts Rick, but he presses his finger on her lips. "I have heard enough of the poor me symphony. I'm not going to have sex with you, but I will give you an orgasm." He confidently says. "But not here."
Rick has convinced Michonne to let him drive, and he is following the GPS for the address. He cannot rely on Michonne, who is ranting about things that matter little to Rick.
"You know he was my first love," Michonne breathes out. "His reasons for what he did. Do you want to hear them?" She rhetorically asks. "I didn't know my place. What does that even mean?"
Rick's eyes stray from the road to look at Michonne. He remains doubtful of her sanity. She has been talking his ear off, and yet, he hasn't given any sign of interest.
"I think he was mad I won the Senate seat," Michonne continues to speak. "I don't get it. He had a whole cabinet. Yes, it was one of the most useless, but he was a junior minister." She argues with herself.
Rick pretends not to hear Michonne, and if he did, he would consider throwing himself out of a moving car. He has met people with emotional baggage, but she is on roll with the pity party.
"The GPS says we arrived," Rick announces. "Is it the right place?"
Michonne looks through the window, and she nods. Rick sighs, and he readies himself to leave the car. Michonne promptly grabs his arm. Becoming accustomed to Michonne randomly grabbing his hand, Rick barely reacts. He faces her with a question drawn over his exasperated facial expression.
"We can't go in," Michonne whispers. "The children…"
Rick looks at Michonne, and he swears she is insane. After refusing to go to a hotel room, she suggested this place, which he presumes to be her house. Looking at it, he reconsiders the offer of a discount, which he made. The lunatic is loaded.
"At this point, where it doesn't matter. I'm tired. I put with too much of the insanity not to cash the money. Now, I have integrity, and I love my dollars hard earned. The car will do," Rick deadpans. "Go to the backseat."
Michonne blinks, and she wants to argue. Rick's stern look dissuades her. She draws a deep breath, and she opens the door. Michonne carefully walks from the front to the back of the car. Her legs are unsteady. Her buzz has turned into full drunkenness. She carefully sits on the backseat, and she grabs the headrest of the driver seat.
"Now what?" She asks.
"You get what five hundred dollars can afford you."
Rick opens the car, and he walks toward the backseat. He opens the door, and he delicately grabs Michonne's leg to pull her toward him.
"Remove your pants!" He orders. "It's in the way."
Michonne hesitantly does as Rick's asked. She looks down, and she feels relieved by her choice of underwear.
"Hold off the moans. I don't want to be arrested for public indecency." Rick advises, and he has yet to enter the car.
"I don't moan," Michonne defensively argues.
Rick arches an eyebrow, and he reserves himself the right to comment. Silently, he kneels on the dirt path that is part of the entrance of Michonne's house. He picks one of her legs, he places it over his shoulder, and Rick does the same with the other leg.
Rick sneaks his fingers in her thong, and he pushes the lace fabric away from her cunt. Michonne curiously looks at him, and she wonders what he intends to do. She cannot have paid five hundred for a man to finger her. Even her drunk mind knows it is a swindle. Michonne desires to protest, but her complaint dies on her lips when Rick's lips brush her inner thigh.
His palms firmly hold her thighs, and he draws a path of kisses from her knees to her vulva. Rick's lips graze her cunt, and Michonne holds breath as Rick's tongue teases her labia.
The words, which she believed the veracity, he rapidly disproved. A guttural moan falls from Michonne's lips when Rick stops teasing, and his lips close on her clitoris. He looks at her with smugness and promise of more.
It was his lucky day or rather night. After months of looking for a scoop and trailing Senator Barnes, he finally has a scandal worthy of national coverage. He had hoped for something trashy when the announcement of the engagement between Philip Blake and Andrea Harrison came. However, he thought more of a catfight. Never once, he believed the holier than thou Senator Barnes would console herself in the arms of a youngster.
Now, Michonne Barnes and her lover were putting on a show for his camera. He scrolls through the picture to make sure that he got the boyfriend's face. There could be nothing but Michonne's boyfriend if he was walking in a robe around her house.
So far, the angle offers nothing scandalous, and the paparazzo would not bother taking pictures to immortalize what any amateur paparazzo would have caught. He clicks and searches for a better angle. He zooms to get more than two legs in the air and ahead between them. Having a headshot of Senator Barnes is imperative to sensationalize the news.
"Michonne Barnes receiving a cunnilingus at the back of her luxurious car by her young lover. Has she finally recovered from her heartbreak, or is it a way to seek revenge against her ex-husband?" He says as he thinks of the gossip front page.
He presses on his camera to immortalize more of the act, and he keeps an eye behind the objective while he waits to take a picture of a satiated Michonne. The gossip press will plaster Senator Barnes' sexual interlude everywhere. The paparazzo smiles when Rick pulls away, and he helps Michonne out of the car. Next, he sees gossip gold. He immediately takes a picture of Michonne as she presses her lips on Rick's one. The evidence of their previous activities is clear as the great picture that will show a kissing couple and Senator Barnes' beautiful bottom. Tonight is his lucky day.