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

Twelve

Nathan

I took a long, lazy drag of my cigarette, letting it swirl in my lungs and my throat before letting it escape into the air. I snapped my fingers and my guard of nearly three years, Henri Hergé, turned on the lights. I dropped the cigarette to the ground and crushed it with my foot, clad with a fancy dress shoe.

I didn't believe Hergé when he told me that Stella was in the building- let alone that she was sitting in second row with a male accomplice- but here she was, a little dazed, completely confused, and groaning on the ground, clutching her ribs from the impact of her fall.

"Aidez-le, Hergé," I instructed. Hergé bent down and extended his arm towards Stella, but she swatted his hand away. Hergé's hand, out of reflex, curled into a fist, but before he could strike, I said, "Arrêtez."

"Mais Monsieur-"

"Hergé, fermez votre bouche," I snapped. He pursed his lips and silenced himself.

"What the fuck, Nathan?" Stella growled, picking herself up and staggering to her feet. I crossed my arms and watched her-my old flame- as she scowled and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

"That's not the hello I was expecting," I frowned.

"Neither was this," she spat. "Look, I don't want anything to do with you anymore."

"Is that why you broke out of jail?" I challenged with a thick tone of sarcasm. "Because you don't want anything to do with me?"

"I...well things have changed. Circumstances have changed and I'm not going to sit around and watch you run away from me again."

I could hear the hurt in her voice. Her eyebrows knit in a grimace, her eyes darting around to observe her surroundings before raining them on me. It came back to me in Technicolor- the image of her and me, aged twenty two and twenty three, on the run again after a very successful con in Salem, when I got down on one knee, my hands slightly shaking, my lips parched and my vocal chords trembling, and pulled out a very impressive diamond ring and asked her what every guy said that every girl wanted to hear.

Well, almost every guy.

After thinking about it, there was no way I could stop and settle. This was who I was. I wasn't going to just give it up for Stella regardless of how much I cared about her.

"I still love you, Stella. I've thought about you every single day since I left."

She kept quiet. I didn't feel angry as much as I felt jealous. We were the mightiest lovers, bearing a likeness to Antony and Cleopatra, Bonnie and Clyde, Jack and Rose- I was her Casanova-but now it seemed the tables had turned, and she was no longer my Henriette. Stella's features softened and gave me a bit of sympathy.

"I care about you," she replied, her head hanging slightly, "I really do. I've missed you a lot."

"But you don't...you only care?"

"Things have changed, Nathan. You can't run away from someone after you propose to them, with no reason at all, and expect them to be the same person," she sighed and explained calmly. I always liked that about her; she was always so collected and rarely lost her temper. "I...I kept the ring. Didn't return it or sell it or anything. It's...well it's at the prison, but-"

"Would you like me to propose to you again?" I asked.

She paused for a moment, deciding upon truth or honesty, and then let out a feeble, "I don't know."