Chapter Text
Bellamy Blake was released from prison on a Tuesday -- by Thursday he had found his next score.
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In all fairness, Bellamy had every intention of going straight when he bid his tiny shoe box of a cell goodbye that morning. Had been nothing but truthful when he promised the guards they wouldn't see him again while collecting his meager collection of personal effects and shrugging back into the clothes of a free man.
(It wasn't normal for men to be incarcerated wearing expensive tuxedos so he was forced to endure a few cat calls on his way out -- but who gives a fuck. He wasn't going to see any of these nut jobs again anyways, right?)
To be honest, the only thing on Bellamy's mind when he emerged from that shit hole of a prison was going home pronto.
The second thought came to him when he was standing on the edge of the gravel road just beyond the prison gates, hand raised over his eyes in a feeble attempt at blocking out the mid-afternoon glare -- how the fuck was he supposed to get there?
(In case anyone ever wondered if wearing a tux would help them score a ride faster while hitch-hiking, Bellamy can attest that it doesn't. But it does trigger some very colorful comments to be shouted out of windows whilst passing by ... so there's that.)
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He was still committed to the cause on Wednesday. Though that may have been due primarily to the fact that he didn't really do anything on Wednesday other than catch up on a lot of shitty TV and lounge around in his boxers.
But hey, he didn't steal anything -- so he still counted it as a victory.
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The thrall of reality television evaporated around 3 am as other urges took hold, causing him to slip out of his apartment in search of a convenience store to stock up on the essentials: liquor and smokes. Bellamy wasn't one to pass up a deal, however, so he added Slim Jims to the collection when he saw that they were on sale.
"A guy's gotta eat," he joked when he dropped his collection of treasures onto the counter.
He earned a grunt from the clerk as she began scanning the items, which he supposed meant he was on his way to making his first new friend on the outside. Feeling even more justified in indulging in a little party for one, he threw a packet of M&M's on the counter with a grin.
The clerk angled a glare of death his way as she slowly dragged the candy towards her side of the counter. The pinch of her mouth hinted all at kinds of lovely thoughts bouncing around in her head and Bellamy's shoulders hitched upwards at the severe fucking creepiness of it all.
He wasted little time tossing a wad of cash onto the counter before gathering up his little assorted goodies and nudging his way out of the store. His haste meant that he dropped the freaking M&Ms on the sidewalk just beyond the doors and he cursed his luck while trying to readjust his bundle in order to bend down to retrieve the candy without losing everything else with it.
If asked later, he would admit that he probably would've lasted another couple of weeks before falling off the wagon if he hadn't caught a glimpse of the front page of the paper.
But he did.
And so the wagon rumbled on without him.
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He called his parole officer from the pay phone outside of the airport and made sure to say all of the right things -- Yeah, looking for work in the morning. Nope, not planning on leaving the state anytime soon. Yeah, I'll be at our meeting on Monday. -- before slipping inside and finding his way towards the nearest counter.
He had the misfortune of being seated next to a Chatty McChatterson on the plane and spent the next five hours torn between the intense desire to commit murder or slit his own wrists. But at the end of the day, Bellamy was neither a violent man nor stupid enough to actually hurt himself, so he sat there and took it like a man.
(He pouted like a baby. And then bolted off the plane when it landed.)
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It took little effort to obtain a taxi and soon enough they made their way out of the airport and onto the highway. And promptly slowed to a crawl.
Craning his neck to peer out the front window, Bellamy took in the sea of brake lights surrounding them with a huff.
"Welcome to LA," the cab driver said, mouth quirking into a wry grin as he caught Bellamy's eye in the rear view mirror.
"Yeah, right." Bellamy grunted in response, turning his head to study the car next to him. It was a BMW, which caused him to sneer, and it only got worse once he caught a glimpse of the businessman's awful dance moves as Taylor Swift leaked out of the cracked window.
"Christ," he sighed as he sank further in his seat, wiping a hand over his face.
His sister always did have a thing for cities with god-awful traffic and rich idiots.