Rick Grimes tried to reassure his anxious best friend, Shane, as they stood in front of the valet station outside one of the Hidden Hills mansions. Shane, practically sweating through his shirt, waved 100 in front of the valet attendant, trying to persuade him to untangle the chaotic mess of cars and free up Rick's prized town car.
"It's a brand-new Lotus Esprit! You've been riding horses more than driving cars these days. You get driven around every time you're out here. Come on, man. Let me get Daryl to pull the Lincoln out—just gimme a minute."
Rick shook his head, brushing Shane's concern aside with a tired sigh.
"I've gotta leave now, Shane. I'll take it straight to the hotel. I promise."
Shane hesitated, clearly torn, before digging into his pocket and reluctantly handing over the keys.
"All right, but listen—be ginger with her, okay? She's not a damn pickup truck."
Rick offered a grateful nod.
"Thank you."
Without another word, he slid into the sleek driver's seat, the soft leather conforming to him as if it had been waiting for this moment. He fired up the engine and sped off into the Hollywood night, leaving Shane behind with a worried scowl.
The low growl of the Lotus's engine purred against the quiet buzz of the city. Rick navigated through unfamiliar streets, squinting at neon signs and streetlights as he tried to piece together a route to Beverly Hills—or at least what he thought was the direction.
The car roared past run-down apartment buildings, its headlights slicing through the night. A few windows flickered with faint light, while others stayed dark, offering only the occasional shadow of someone stirring. It was the kind of place where the hum of nightlife thrived, but Rick barely noticed as he focused on not stalling the unfamiliar stick shift.
Inside one particular dimly lit apartment, the car's growl broke through the stillness, waking those who claimed the night as their own.
He gripped the steering wheel, the sports car whining jerkily through the city streets. The engine's cry resonated under the bright neon signs of Hollywood, an unintended announcement of his presence. He glanced at street names, trying to make sense of the grid, but the road signs seemed to blur in his frustration. Beverly Hills couldn't be far—or so he hoped.
Michonne stirred at the sound of the roaring engine that seemed to pass by at least 3 times. Then her body jerked fully awake, startled from an unplanned nap that had stretched far longer than she intended. She shot up in bed, disoriented, and grabbed at her alarm clock. The blinking display of "12:00 AM" greeted her, mocking her.
"Damn it," she muttered, pushing herself out of bed and power-walking into the small kitchen. Her blurry eyes found the battery-operated analog wall clock—9:45ish PM. Relief washed over her. She still had time.
Her relief was short-lived. She was supposed to meet Rosita hours ago, and she had an important interview lined up tonight. The realization hit her like a jolt of caffeine, spurring her into action. Michonne darted to the bathroom for a quick shower, the water barely warming before she was out, drying off and pulling herself together.
Rosita had promised her a chance to work at the Blue Banana, a lounge on Hollywood Boulevard. A hostess job. Michonne wasn't thrilled about it, but at this point, she needed the income. She adjusted the strap of her blue-and-white mini dress, slipping on her worn thigh-high black boots. They'd seen better days, but tonight they'd have to suffice. She fluffed her long brown locks with some spritzes of rosewater, threw on her patched leather jacket, and grabbed her bag on her way to dash out the door.
She froze when she remembered the rent. Pivoting back to the bathroom, she headed to the toilet tank where she and Rosita stashed their cash. Inside, she found a folded wad of cotton where 350 should have been.
~SORRY BABY, HAD TO PARTY =) ~ it read in Rosita's looping script on a panty liner.
Michonne stared at the note, her heart sinking.
"Fucking Rosita," she groaned, dropping her head back against the door. The rent was due. Today. Their landlord was not the forgiving type. She considered confronting him, pleading for more time, but she knew the answer. He'd already extended them as much grace as he could—or wanted to.
She sighed and grabbed her coat. The fire escape became her new exit strategy for times like this. If the landlord saw her, she'd never make it to her interview. And right now, the only thing worse than unpaid rent was being unemployed next month.
Back out on the road, the glittering lights of Hollywood blurred into a dizzying collage of neon signs and late-night wanderers. Rick wasn't sure where he was going, but it didn't matter. He just needed to keep moving. The city felt endless and alive, pulsing with an energy that matched the steady growl of the Lotus beneath him.
Just as Rick slowed at an intersection which seemed to be the same one he had stopped at at least a dozen times before, the distinctive shriek of a fire escape being forced open pierced through the sound of his engine. He glanced toward the sound. A figure emerged from the shadows of an apartment complex—quick, deliberate movements that caught his eye.
A woman climbed down the rusted escape ladder, her boots hitting the pavement with a dull thud. She straightened her coat, adjusted her bag, and threw her long locs over her shoulder. Barely glancing up before striding toward the sidewalk. Rick watched her in his peripheral vision, drawn momentarily out of his own troubles by the sheer determination in her gait. Whoever she was, she was moving with purpose.
The light turned green, and Rick hesitated for a fraction of a second before easing his foot onto the gas. Something about her seemed familiar, though he couldn't place it. Shaking his head, he dismissed the thought. This was Los Angeles—everyone thought they recognized someone.
As Rick disappeared into the night, Michonne hurried down the sidewalk, muttering under her breath about unreliable roommates and terrible timing.
The Blue Banana Lounge hummed with energy, its neon sign casting a faint blue glow onto the cracked pavement. Michonne stepped off the bus and smoothed her blue-and-white mini dress, her black thigh-high boots clicking as she stormed toward the entrance. Her irritation was sharper than the chill of the night air.
Inside, the lounge pulsed with music, laughter, and clinking glasses. Rosita sat perched on a barstool near the back, her long, dark hair cascading over her shoulders as she sipped a bright cocktail. Her eyes widened when she spotted Michonne striding toward her.
"Michonne, hey! You look amazing tonight,"
Rosita greeted, her smile just a little too bright.
"Don't try to butter me up,"
She crossed her arms.
"Where's the rent money?"
Rosita winced.
"Okay, look, I may have… slightly overindulged this month."
"Slightly?"
Michonne shot back, her voice rising.
Rosita glanced nervously at the other patrons, then leaned in, lowering her voice.
"Relax, okay? I've got a plan. I already talked to the manager here. You're in, no interview is needed. You can start tomorrow night."
Michonne's arms crossed tighter.
"Starting Tomorrow and getting paid next week doesn't pay today's rent, Rosita."
"Okay, fine,"
Rosita admitted, eyes darting toward the exit.
"But there's another way to get the money tonight."
Michonne narrowed her brown eyes.
"What are you talking about?"
Rosita slid off the stool and motioned for Michonne to follow her outside.
"Just come on. I'll explain."
The cool night air hit them as they stepped onto the curb. Michonne leaned against the brick wall, her arms still crossed as Rosita spoke.
"This part of the city gets a lot of high-rollers,"
Rosita began, lowering her voice.
"Some of them? They're looking for some special company."
Michonne's expression hardened.
"You can't be serious."
"Just for one night,"
Rosita said quickly, hands raised defensively.
"No strings. You could make the rent and then some. Easy money, girl. I'd do it myself but I'm stuck here till 4 am- you don't have to fuck, tell them hand jobs only and just talk extra dirty, they love that shit,1 or 2 and we'll have enough to buy us a week"
Michonne shook her head, her eyes wide, exasperated. She was sick of living this way. Six months in Hollywood and she was ready to give in and go back to Georgia. Selling handies on sunset had to be rock bottom.
"You've lost your damn mind, Ro."
But she knew she didn't have many choices or much time to get the rent paid. Rosita could stay out for days on a bender, but Michonne needed to be able to go back home in a few hours and through the front door. Chewing on her lip she considered stooping lower than she ever had mere weeks before her 27th birthday. She thought buying and returning her audition outfits would be the worst she would have to do but here we were. The choice was made.
"If I end up dead in a dumpster it's on you"
Michonne said holding out her hands knowing Rosita would give her the trusty knife and mace that she always kept in her fanny pack. Rosita paused and handed Michonne one more thing. Michonne frowned at the condom that joined the two other objects of protection.
"I'm not fucking Rosita"
"Just in case- be safe girl"
She shoved the abundance of safety into her purse and turned off to find, well, she didn't exactly know, but she was sure she'd eventually find it in the breezy late summer night.
She scanned the crowded street, her nerves flaring as she glanced at her reflection in a storefront window. Her dress hugged her figure a little perfectly, enough to distract from the fact that her thigh-high boots had scuffs that refused to buff out. She tugged her coat tighter, but Rosita had been adamant since she arrived in the city—sex sells.
Her mind raced. She needed to figure out a way to salvage the night—and her rent money. Sleeping on the streets wasn't an option. A sports car roared down the boulevard, its silver sheen catching her attention.
Rosita's voice rang in her head: "Catch this and you'll have the rent in 30 minutes."
The Lotus slowed as it approached the corner. Rick had his window down, his blue eyes scanning the unfamiliar streets, searching for any recognizable sign. His frustration deepened when he realized he had driven in a circle for the past 20 minutes.
He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, frustration mounting with every wrong turn. The unfamiliar streets of Hollywood blurred together, neon signs casting distorted shadows on his windshield. The engine protested loudly with each rough shift of the gear, and he muttered to himself, "Should've just waited for Shane."
As he slowed at a red light, a figure caught his eye—a woman yet again stepping out from the shadows, her long legs accentuated by worn thigh-high boots. Her blue-and-white dress hugged her figure in all the right places, the gold hoop at her waist glittering under the streetlight. She approached his car with a confidence that made his breath catch.
Rick fumbled with the controls, finally managing to roll down the window.
"Hey, sugar—" she started, leaning in.
"Do you know how to get to Beverly Hills from here?" he blurted out, catching her off guard.
Her lips parted in a surprised smile, and for a moment, neither of them moved. Her beauty was disarming, but there was something more—an air of vulnerability beneath her poised exterior.
"Sure," she said, recovering quickly.
"You gonna unlock the door?"
The lock clicked instantly. Rick knew it was reckless to let a stranger into his car, but something about her intrigued him. Maybe it was the way her smile lit up the dark or the unspoken challenge in her eyes.
She slid into the passenger seat, her scent—something floral and warm—filling the small space. As she adjusted her seatbelt, she turned to him.
"What part of Beverly Hills are you heading to?"
"The Four Seasons," he replied, his voice gruff.
She nodded, her gaze lingering on his face. She decided to break the ice
"What's your name handsome?"
He stopped to look at her, as they came to a red light. Taken back by her compliment. He couldn't help but smile.
"Rick"
"What a coincidence Rick is my favorite name" she winked
"And yours?" Still smiling.
"Whatever you want it to be darlin'" she winked.
The car behind him honked alerting him to the green light.
He looked at her again as fished a 100 out of his jacket pocket.
"Your name" is said evenly. Tipping the cash towards her.
"It's Michonne" She rolled her eyes as she took her ransom.
"That's very pretty"
"Thank you, Rick"
He looked at the length of her body. Rich brown skin, rich brown eyes, and the softest lips he'd ever seen made for a strikingly gorgeous woman. Her long locs making her look almost mystical. A perfect preamble to the deadly curves that not even her oversized jacket could hide. He shifted in his seat as he stole a glance and her legs, smooth and crossed delicately just inches from his grasp. For a moment he allowed himself to picture them inching up his torso as he had her on his desk back in Manhattan. He blinked quickly to refocus on the road. Yet his tongue still played between his lips at the thought.
The plump, pink lips nearly made Michonne miss their turn as she stared at his mouth, the small gestures stealing her attention.
"Left on Doheny, then right on Dayton. I'll guide you from there." She said quickly.
The car lurched as Rick struggled with the gearshift, the engine protesting loudly.
"Here," she said softly, placing her hand on his.
Her touch was warm and steady. She guided the stick into gear with practiced ease, the ride smoothing out instantly.
"How'd you do that?" he asked, genuinely impressed.
She shrugged a hint of pride in her smile.
"My dad worked on cars. Guess I picked up a thing or two."
As they continued, Rick found himself stealing glances at her. The way her hair framed her face, the curve of her lips when she gave directions—everything about her felt magnetic.
"You've got a nice car," she said, breaking the silence.
"Thanks, but it's not mine" he replied, his lips quirking into a small smile.
"I'm not great at driving it."
She chuckled, the sound soft and melodic.
"You just need a little practice."
They arrived at the hotel sooner than he expected. As he pulled up to the valet, he hesitated. He didn't want the moment to end just yet. After a few moments with this woman, the weight of his terrible day was temporarily forgotten.
"Michonne, would you like to come up for a drink?" he asked, his voice low.
Her brow arched slightly, a playful smile tugging at her lips.
"A drink?"
He nodded.
"Just a drink, to thank you for your help. I can also pay for your cab after, to take you back to…wherever you were if you'd like"
She studied him for a moment, her eyes searching his. Then, with a small shrug, she said.
"Why not?"
Rick grabbed his trench coat from the backseat and draped it over her shoulders knowing her enticing ensemble would garner a few stares from those with less tact. She glanced up at him, her smile softening.
"Thanks," she said, pulling the coat tighter around herself.
He couldn't help but smile back. This woman—whoever she was—had already turned his night upside down.
"Mr. Grimes," the valet said with a nod, opening Rick's door. Rick stepped out confidently, tossing the keys to the valet.
Michonne hesitated. Her instinct was to stay in the car, invisible to the stares she was sure would follow her the moment she stepped out. Her hand brushed against the soft interior of Rick's trench coat, still draped over her shoulders, and she decided there was no going back now.
"Here we go," she muttered under her breath.
The luxurious surroundings—the gilded chandeliers visible through the glass doors, the soft murmur of high-society chatter—felt like a world away from the small apartment she'd left earlier.
"You alright?"
Rick's voice broke her thoughts as he opened her door for her before the valet could.
She blinked and nodded quickly, taking his offered hand.
"Yeah. Fine."
As she stood, guided by his strong grip, she was close enough to catch the scent of his cologne. Michonne's cheeks flushed as she stepped onto the carpeted sidewalk keeping her eyes down to avoid the stares of the other valets.
The grandeur of the lobby was overwhelming. Michonne walked slightly behind Rick, trying to match his calm, confident stride. Her heels clicked against the polished marble floor, and she was acutely aware of every glance from the finely dressed guests lounging by the bar or seated in conversation.
Rick glanced back, his brow furrowing slightly at her nervousness.
"You don't have to be so tense," he said, his tone lower than earlier.
"I'm not tense," she replied, straightening her back.
Rick smirked but didn't push the point. As they approached the elevator, he glanced at her again, studying her closely.
"So," he started, pressing the button for the penthouse.
"What made you decide to join me tonight?"
Michonne stiffened, her fingers clutching the strap of her bag. Struggling to maintain the flirty persona she laid on in the car.
"Why wouldn't I?"
Rick leaned casually against the wall, his blue eyes unreadable.
"Most people would've walked away when I asked. But you didn't."
She hesitated. Her mind raced for the right response.
"I'm not most people," she said finally, lifting her chin.
"No," Rick murmured, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "You're not."
"So," she said, her voice low and playful.
"What happens next?"
Fully taking in his handsome face for the first time realizing that maybe Rosita was right, this wouldn't be so bad.
The penthouse suite was even more intimidating than the lobby. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of the city, and the furnishings looked like they belonged in a museum.
Michonne lingered by the door, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place she felt.
"Make yourself at home,"
Rick said, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it onto a leather chair.
She hesitated, her eyes darting around the room.
"This… this is nice."
She said trying and failing to sound unimpressed.
Rick chuckled as he poured two glasses of champagne.
"You don't have to pretend. Most people are impressed by the view."
"I'm not pretending," she said quickly, taking a tentative step forward.
Rick handed her a glass, his fingers brushing hers. She looked down at the bubbling liquid, unsure what to say next.
"So," Rick said, settling onto the couch and watching her closely.
"What do you do?"
Michonne froze. The question hung in the air like a challenge. She took a quick sip of champagne to buy herself time.
"I… do a lot of things," she said carefully, avoiding his gaze.
She didn't want to scare him off but she'd eventually have to close the deal soon if she wanted to be able to go home in peace.
Rick nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful.
"Like what?"
Her heart pounded. She hadn't expected him to ask so many questions.
"Odd jobs,"
She said vaguely, her voice shaking slightly.
Rick leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"You don't have to be nervous, you know. I'm not judging."
"I'm not nervous," she said too quickly, her fingers tightening around the glass.
Rick tilted his head, studying her again. He could see the tension in her shoulders and the way her eyes darted around the room. He suspected there was more to her story, but he didn't press. Instead, he smiled and gestured for her to sit beside him.
"You can relax," he said softly.
"Why me? You could've gone into that bar downstairs and gotten any woman you wanted " she asked, her voice quieter now.
Rick's smile faded, replaced by something more serious. "Because you seemed like you wanted the company as much as I did."
She looked at him, surprised by his honesty. "And if I'm not the kind of company you think I am?"
Rick's expression didn't waver. "Then I'm the lucky one."
Michonne sat curled into the corner of the plush sofa, Rick's trench coat still draped over her shoulders. She held her glass delicately, swirling the bubbles as she stared out at the city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Rick was by the minibar, pouring himself a whiskey needing a real drink to chase the champagne, his movements slow and deliberate as he tried to calm his racing thoughts.
"So," he said, breaking the silence, "you just wander the streets of Hollywood, offering directions to lost cowboys?"
Michonne smirked, glancing over at him. "Only the ones who look like they need saving."
Rick chuckled softly and walked toward her, whiskey in hand. He eased into the armchair opposite her this time, his eyes never leaving her face. "Well, I guess I should thank you for rescuing me. I'm not sure how much longer I could've taken listening to that engine scream."
"It's not your fault. That car deserves someone who knows what they're doing," she teased, taking another sip of her champagne.
Rick tilted his head, watching her intently. "You seem to know a lot about cars. Most people wouldn't have a clue what to do with a Lotus."
"I told you, My dad taught me," she said, her voice softening. "He was a mechanic back in Georgia. I guess some of it rubbed off on me."
Rick caught the flicker of something in her eyes—a mixture of pride and pain. "You're not from here, then?"
"No," she said, shaking her head. "But I don't really think of Georgia as home anymore. Hollywood's not exactly welcoming, but at least it lets you dream."
Rick nodded, setting his glass on the table. "I get that. Sometimes, a dream's all you've got to hold on to."
For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Rick leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Michonne," he said, his voice low and earnest, "I'm going to be honest with you. I don't know why I picked you up tonight. I didn't even know what I was looking for. But… sitting here with you feels like I've found it."
She blinked, caught off guard by the vulnerability in his words. "Rick… I—"
He raised a hand to stop her. "I'm not asking for anything you're not willing to give. I just… don't want this night to end."
Michonne's heart raced. She didn't know whether it was the champagne, his piercing blue eyes, or the weight of his words, but something about him disarmed her.
"You're smooth, Mr. Grimes," she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
"I'm serious," he said, leaning back. "Let me pay you to stay."
Her breath caught in her throat. "Pay me?" She couldn't believe he beat her to the punch.
Rick hesitated, sensing her nervousness. "Not like that. I just mean… for your time. To keep me company."
Michonne studied him, trying to read the sincerity in his expression. "What if I say no?"
"Then I'll still sit here and drink this whiskey," he said, his lips curving into a small, self-deprecating smile. "But I'll be wishing you'd stayed."
Michonne's fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. She needed the money—desperately—but something about him made this feel different. He wasn't like the men Rosita had warned her about.
"How much are we talking?" she asked, her voice steady but her heart pounding.
Rick leaned forward, pulling his wallet from his pocket. He slid out a few bills and placed them on the table between them. "Five hundred," he said. "For the night."
Michonne took a deep breath.
"Alright," she said, setting her glass down.
"But let's be clear. You're paying for my company, Rick. Nothing else."
Rosita told her to make sure she said that, in case the guy turned out to be a cop.
Rick nodded. "Understood."
The tension in the room thickened as their eyes locked. Slowly, Rick stood and moved to the sofa, sitting a respectful distance away from her.
"So," he said, his voice softer now, "what would you like to talk about, Michonne?"
She smiled, leaning back into the cushions.
"Cars. Lost cowboys. And maybe… what a man like you is doing all alone in a city like this."