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

Five

Stella

Everything was perpendicular, and I preferred things to be parallel.

Ever since Nathan ran away from me three years ago, I made no mistake in thinking he wouldn't do it again. What was he hiding? What could possibly be so important that he didn't want me to know? Why me, out of all people? Was I not good enough for him? After everything we did together?

I remembered a time when he and I, after a proper session of lovemaking (which, to this day, I still haven't forgotten), would lie in bed and tell each other of our plans for the future ahead of us. He wanted to get out of this place and see the world, live in the Caribbean, and drink cheap coffee and expensive liquor. All I wanted to do was give him that.

He said he'd always be there for me, and he never broke his promises. I felt like a bit of a school girl believing in such things, but he had never broken a promise before, and I didn't expect him to do it now (I do recall promising to buy that sweet flavored gum for him and went on to forget, which earned me the silent treatment for a few days.)

Michael did not smell like that sweet flavored gum or cologne. Michael smelled like a boy scout-minty, mixed with a hint of maple- and often reminded me of an enthusiastic child running door to door trying to sell cookies or maybe that was a girl scout? However, that child would sit on his couch after the end of each day and repeat the words, "I could've done better".

Last night was the first time I'd seen Michael in action, and I had to say that he was rather good at this fake cop thing he did. At first I thought he was purely a joke but I quickly came to appreciate his straightforwardness and ability to act upon what he felt was right. I theorized his actions as such:

One: He was a very multi-talented person that was a tad bit of a klutz.

Two: He was far too concerned with what other people thought of him.

I fully believed in the first one- there was no way Michael was actually kidding about how clumsy he was.

I came to my conclusions after accepting the fact that he didn't really care what I said about him. The police chief, media, and the fans had an influence upon him, and he was too busy trying to impress them to actually do his job. He was a good guy- that much could be said without lying.

I got out of bed and made my way into the living room after taking a shower and brushing my teeth to see Michael hunched over his chunky laptop and scribbling notes down onto multiple pieces of paper he had scattered across the dining room table. He was eating a bowl of cereal.

"Morning," I called. He looked up, scowled at the sight of me in a big t-shirt, and then returned to his work. I scratched my head and made my way over to him, trying to make out what he had written. "Jackson, I'm going to have to get contacts soon. I'm short-sighted-"

"Oh, right. Sorry about that. We'll get some today. Hey, I've pulled some info together, but I can't seem to get anything about Priestly. Do you think Mason was lying to us?" he asked, turning the computer screen towards me and consciously trying to divert his stare from my pants less legs.  He went over to a bag and pulled out a pair of glasses-my glasses- and handed them to me. I promptly put them on and directed my focus back at the screen.

The file was clean; had anybody looked at it, they would've thought he was just some regular multibillionaire that owned a hotel in Vegas.

"Do you have access to any other files?" I asked, sitting in front of the laptop and cracking my knuckles.

"Other files?"

"Yeah, like the FBI, CIA...do you?"

"Of course not! I'd have to-Stella, don't," he warned. I smirked and continued typing anyway. "Stella, I'm serious. We could get charged for hacking into government files-"