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

Seven

Note: I hope you've noticed most of these chapters will remain mostly intact with some added lines or small changes and not full blown changes as I go through republishing this.

Stella

I woke up to the scent of mint and pine needles. Half-asleep, I nuzzled my face into whatever it was and grasped tighter to what I was holding onto. It wasn't until I felt unconscious fingers interlock with mine that I realized it was Michael.

I propped myself up on my elbow and watched him sleep. The rise and fall of his body under the ugly bed sheets, paired with his messy black curly hair spread out on the pillow, the sunlight burning through the shabby window curtains, and the little particles of dust illuminated by the rays of light, made for something you'd see in a romantic movie during a 'morning after' scene. I lay my head down and thought hard about last night.

He was a good lay. I'd give him that much, but admittedly, the only person-partially-I thought of when Michael was fucking me wasn't actually Michael himself. I thought about Nathan. I thought about how I would've reacted to his touch, if he touched me like that again. I thought about what Nathan and I used to do when we were upset with each other. God, I loved him so much.

Michael was merely a distraction. A free escort.

I wasn't the type of person that felt any degree of guilt because I knew the choices I made wouldn't have irreversible ramifications, otherwise I wouldn't make them. I did things for myself and myself only. Sleeping with Michael was no different; no matter how I tried to change the scenario to find blame in either of us; the fact of the matter was that we used each other. We were in it for the thrill and at any rate, this was goodbye. Once we were back in California we would part ways and he would no longer be a part of my life, nor would I be a part of his.

Michael was a nice guy, but I didn't want a nice guy-I wanted Nathan. I wished I could've kissed him longer. I missed the sound of his heartbeat when it raced against his chest and reverberated into my own.

But even after making it clear to myself that I wanted the guy in Prague, I still pulled myself closer to Michael. This had to stop. I carefully untangled my legs from his, then slowly pulled my fingers out of his grasp, and finally pulled myself away from him. An emptiness surfaced in me; for the first time in a very long time, I felt unsure. I sat up and rubbed my face, trying to snap out of whatever daydream I was currently preoccupied with. It's just Michael, I told myself.

I got up off the bed and tiptoed around the room to find my clothes. I put on my underwear last night, and helped Michael find his underwear too, but the whereabouts of my other clothes was still a mystery. I made my way over to the lamp, where my shirt had landed, and then saw my pants over by the floor near the bathroom. It was a miracle that my shirt hadn't caused a fire on the lamp in this god-awful place.

"Stella?" a sleepy voice called from the bed. I turned to see Michael rubbing his eyes with his hands; his hair was a mess and his boxers had shifted a bit from where they were supposed to sit-he still looked quite gorgeous.

"Hi," I replied.

"Hi."

He smiled at me, and I smiled back. I watched as he combed his fingers through his hair and attempted to smooth out the tornado on his head. He squinted as he looked to the window, then to the clock, and finally back to me.

"You hungry?" I asked. "I think they have a free breakfast in the main area. I can get you some for you if you'd like."

"Okay," he agreed. "Can you get me some cereal? I like frosted flakes."

I knew what he wanted before he told me. He had a...peculiar liking for frosted flakes cereal. It seemed to be all he ate for breakfast. I went over to grab my jeans, put them on, and then promptly left the room to grab food for us.