A Word of Praise

Chris was mad. No, not mad. He was livid. He had been ever since he laid eyes on the recently restored family jewel on the ring finger of that damn thief. Things only escalated when he reached his childhood room and found the top drawer of his desk unlocked.

He rummaged through the jewelry, trying to grasp if anything else was missing, but without the specific pattern he arranged the items, he couldn't be sure. The most valuable pieces were still there, but maybe she only got the ring because it was the easiest one to carry.

She had probably fled the scene by now, and he looked around the room to find evidence that could lead him to her. A black bag on the floor caught his eyes. Her bag. He smiled wickedly, wondering if she would go back there to get it. No matter how long it took, he would be patiently waiting for the criminal to return to the crime scene. She wouldn't leave without all her stuff, would she?

He almost ripped through the duffel bag when the zipper stuck in the middle, but luckily the old thing caved under brute force. The bag was a mess, and he shuddered with the view. Clothes and makeup cluttered inside like they held no value. They probably didn't but the way she took care of her things - or rather didn't - showed him just the kind of person she was. Careless. Chaotic.

He emptied the contents of the bag on his bed, fighting the urge to sort it out and straighten it up. A hidden side pocket caught his eye, and by the weight distribution, there was something small inside. When he opened it, a sly smile crept onto his face. A cellphone! It was the best thing that happened since that damned woman set foot in his old house.

Well, that was not entirely true. Before he acknowledged the fact that his mother hired a punk, he had a fucking artistic orgasm with her performance. The woman was so utterly alluring he almost ran after her when the show was over. But that was all busted now that he knew what she really was.

Too much time passed, and the woman was still not back, meaning she fled indeed. He gritted his teeth at the thought and scanned the room again for more leads. Something was odd about his action figure's collection. And his books. 'You have got to be kidding me!'. The girl was fucking Goldilocks, coming into his house, messing with his room, and stealing the fucking ring. The vein on his neck was almost popping and the poor bedroom desk must have drawn the short straw out of the room's furniture. His fists slammed it so hard it almost broke the old thing down.

He pondered over his options now that he had her phone. She would want to retrieve it, and he could arrange something to make her pay. Maybe tie her up with her presentation tool, that giant red fabric. Preferably still on that see-through costume, so he could add a few more tears and slits. By the end, she would beg him to...

"Son, what are you doing?" His train of thought ended abruptly, causing him to open his eyes and close his slightly parted lips that were breathing a little heavier than before.

"You have that same face you got whenever I caught you masturbating. Same room, too."

"Jesus Christ, Mother!" The woman could pass as royalty most of the time, but there were moments her filter simply went out the window. He liked her better when it happened, but definitely not in that particular case. "Your room is a mess" Back to her regular self, then.

"Wasn't my fault" He shrugged, hating the need to explain to his mother why his room, his old room, was untidy.

"Was it the girl? Oh my, she made a real mess. Perhaps she didn't have time to tidy things up, I should have requested her presence a few hours earlier" "Where is she?"

"That is the odd part! I think she left. One of your father's friends was eager to congratulate her on the performance. You know the one, Frank, the one with that beautiful young wife... Anyway, I digress. A servant said she left already."

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Chris knew Frank well enough to guess why he wanted to congratulate the beautiful, young, and flexible performer. He was used to the feeling of his blood boiling in situations such as these but felt mad at himself for feeling that way about her. She didn't deserve protection.

"She left?"

"That is what the servant told me. Some sort of family emergency. Doesn't matter, I'll call her agency tomorrow and have her things delivered to her"

"I can handle it, mother. Just give me the agency's number."

"Are you sure? I can just ask Michelle, she's the one who booked her in the first place. Wonderful job, don't you think?" His mother's assistant was an angel for running such petty tasks, but he had other plans for the duffel bag delivery. "Yes, mother. I'll call Michelle in the morning."

"Good. Now come, I want to introduce you to Felicia"

"Who?"

"Daughter of the Jacksons, son. Where is your head at?"

"Right. It's nothing, let's go back"

Chris was reluctant to leave the room, but there was no point in waiting there if she was gone. He could always come back later to get her stuff.

Soon after they left, a sweet little servant got into the room and began to organize the scattered pieces of clothing and makeup. 'Her show was amazing, but she is one messy woman!' thought the oblivious girl. Even her cellphone was carelessly thrown over the nightstand.

The bed was also a bit messy, but that was probably not her fault. It wasn't as disheveled as she thought it would be when the artist told her a couple had been there doing nasty things, but it wasn't neat either. She opted to change the bedding altogether, unwilling to touch much of what others have played upon.

When she was done, the room looked good as new and she let out a satisfied smile. She grabbed the freshly packed duffel bag and got out, closing the door behind her. The kind artist would be happy to get her things back, and she hoped they could be friends. She always wanted a famous friend. Was she famous? She sure deserved to be.