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

Seventeen

Stella

We were on a different plane when I woke up. The last one was small and not-so-cozy, with rickety seats and a very chilly draft that lingered around. This one was a little more spacious and had comfy accommodations-much better than falling asleep on the bathroom floor.

I looked over to my left after pulling myself from the weariness that seemed to drag on and on no matter how much I slept to see Nathan hugging his knees to his chest, staring out the window and chewing gum. He always chewed when he was nervous.

My chest hurt a lot more than it did when I was awake last, and I could feel the palpitations getting worse. At times it would beat like an uncoordinated drummer-thumthun-thum-thum-thum-pause-thumthum-and I feared what would happen next. I hadn't sweat my fever out yet either. The serum was magnesium based, meaning it would directly affect my immune system, my nervous system and my heart. Some people were lucky and survived-if they got to a hospital in time; others were also lucky if they died.

I tried to keep my coughs down, but Nathan was next to me in a matter of seconds as soon as he heard the dreaded sound of me trying to clear my throat.

"We're arriving in California in an hour or so," he whispered, suddenly donning a look of concern. "It's five thirty in the morning right now. We have to get to the pop star's place-"

"Michael," I corrected.

"Right. We have to get to his place as soon as possible. We're landing in Santa Barbara, so I'll have to drive to his place-Encino, right?"

"Yeah, that's the place."

I saw him purse his lips and nod, sitting back down after our brief interaction. I thought back to last night- the look on his face when I pulled him down to me and he finally relaxed his shoulders after being so tense-and wondered why he was doing this-why he was helping me get back to Michael when I knew he still cared for me. I wanted to shake Nathan and tell him that it wasn't as if he didn't matter to me because the reality was that he would always matter to me, no matter how distant we were.

In the hour we were in the air, my cough became significantly more alarming; Nathan spent half the time rubbing my back and patting my forehead with a towel while I was hunched over the sink and spitting blood into the basin. I didn't want Michael to see me like this; no matter how much I wanted him back, I couldn't bear for him to forgive me out of guilt or pity. I felt like if it got any worse, I'd end up vomiting my own organs out. Nice.

I saw Nathan shell out five-thousand dollars (how the hell did he have that much cash on hand?) to the pilot before putting a pair of glasses on his eyes. We landed not long after on a farm that belonged to the pilot's late father. He called a taxi and supported me as we made our way to the edge of the stretch of dirt road.

"6:45 in the morning in California. I missed this," Nathan noted, looking around and taking in the sweet air as the sun made things seem a lot better than they were. I could hear the calls of birds just to the east and wondered why I hadn't noticed it before, despite all my years-other than New York- spent in this state.

"Nice isn't it?" I asked, wrapping the blanket Nathan's pilot friend had donated to me tighter around myself. My fever was getting worse, my limbs were sore, and it was far too cold for me to feel comfortable at the slightest.

"You don't really get to appreciate peace and quiet until you're constantly surrounded by noise, you know?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's true."

The peace and quiet didn't last long, for my coughing acted up again. I leaned against the fence behind me, heaving my gasps out the best I could. Something in my chest felt so constricted, almost as if someone was pulling my lungs out the back of my body. It was to my relief when the taxi arrived fifteen minutes later. Nathan told the driver where to go ("Step on it; I'll pay you an extra hundred if we get there before 7:15,") and all I could do was hope for the best. Michael was my first priority. Nathan let me call him with his phone.