The Con Artist (A Michael Jackson fanfiction) (Completed)

Four

Michael

Spending spring break with Stella wasn't exactly the best thing in the world but I knew I had to go with her to Vegas since I agreed to help her in the first place. I knew I had to postpone my tour prep for this....this mission we're going on.

"Hurry up, we have to make on our way on the road if we want to get there a decent time." Stella pulled off my covers and I quickly curled up into a ball to keep some warmth.

"Why are you up at this ungodly hour, Stella?" I mumbled while I turned away from the sun coming into my eyes.

"To wake your ass up, you sleep like a dead man."

"What time is it?"

"6:00 am"

"6? Jesus, Stella, why do we need to leave so early?" I roll back around to face her and look at her widened eyes. She can't be serious.

"So we can cover more ground in Vegas. Now, please kindly get your ass out this bed and clean yourself up." I roll my eyes, hopping out the bed to head for the bathroom. I come back out from the bathroom fully dressed and see that Stella was waiting on me.

"You're not wearing that, are you?" She asked, looking at my outfit with obvious distaste across her features.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" I look down at myself, I'm wearing my usual clothes which consisted of a button up, black slacks, and loafers.

"The fedora is fine but everything else needs to go. You dress older than you are."

"I'm 25."

"Well, you sure don't dress like that. Have you even seen a pair of jeans?" She asks me with a bit of a laugh in her voice.

"If we are going on this trip, you are buying a new wardrobe while we're there." She states as she walks out the room.

We head out and I let her drive the car since I'm too tired to function and could possibly drive us up a tree.

"What other names did Nathan go by?" I asked, scanning my eyes through his file quickly. Nathan seemed fairly good at this job and didn't leave a trace at all. The police were lucky to even catch his decoy, otherwise their probability of finding Stevens would be the same as catching smoke with their bare hands.

"Raymond Wells, Liam Thompson, and Jack Devereaux. You won't find those in his files because they're clean identities," she replied, her eyes glued to the road in front of us.

"Cut that shit off," Stella snapped, reaching over to the radio and shutting off the music, "God, you're butchering my ears."

"This is my car," I retorted, turning it back on.

"Yeah, but I'm the one driving," she replied as she turned it off again. I didn't see how anybody could drive without music on, but apparently she could.

We had been driving a few hours at that point and I could barely get a single second of sleep. I didn't know it was possible, but I think our hatred for each other escalated. Everything that came out of her mouth was specifically said to piss me off.

"You know what should be a crime? Driving this ugly car."

"Typical. You packed your whole old man closet."

"You didn't put our toothbrushes in the same bag, did you?"

"I really hope you went to the bathroom before this."

She was horrid. She was literally a three years old trapped in a twenty-two year old woman's body. The ride was filled with nothing but crude remarks for the most part, and I wondered how anybody who knew her personally could have found her the slightest bit attractive.