It's raining. The water pelts down against Matt's face, stinging the bits of revealed flesh. Even his leather jacket proves to offer little protection from the deluge. It's as though the entire world has turned gray, from the sky to the earth, this never-ending stretch of desolation.
No one else is out. His motorcycle roars down the small side road, catching and skidding in spots where the road dips down and the water rises up. He's going too fast to be safe but cannot bring himself to care. Anger, frustration, and confusion mingle in his chest, leaving him feeling like he's choking.
Days like this, riding is the only thing that keeps him breathing.
Days like this, he just wants the road to stretch out forever, to never have to stop moving.
Of course, the backwater road doesn't last forever. It's quick to turn into a highway. The lights are bright, even through the rain. Thunder makes the road shake, and the lightning is almost blinding.
Matt loathes highways. They're too cluttered, too packed, and too overrun, just like the cities with their backwater alleys and crowded corner clubs. And, of course, highways always lead into cities. Cities stretch out, sprawling messes filled with cockroaches and insects; one or the other has two legs, and it's ridiculously hard to figure out which.
There's a party being held at the Ritz Hotel out on twenty-second street. As far as he can tell, the Moreau family is staying at the same place. Well-paid sources reveal they're in rooms twenty-eight and twenty-nine, up on the second floor.
Matt tears into the parking lot. He wedges his back between two slicked up corvettes. Water drips off his hair and into his eyes, this flooding, wet sort of thing. His boots squeak and squelch when he storms towards the front lobby; a flash of a knife and three twenties gets him in the front door.
The air conditioner is turned on high. It makes the hair on the back of Matt's neck stand on end. He's soaked straight to the bone, in a spine chilling sort of way. “All right,” he mutters, slipping into the elevator. “Let's get this over with.”
He hits the button for the second floor. Soft, lilting piano music floods into the brightly lit elevator. It smells strongly of flowers and powder.
It takes hardly any time at all to get to the right room. The door is large and dark. Everything about this place looks rich. It's the sort of thing he’s always hated because no one needs this much spritz; no one needs this much ritz.
Matt slams his fist against the door. “Open up, Tori. I know you're in there.”
Music clicks off inside. Soft footsteps flood the air. The door opens but just a bit. Wide, blue eyes stare out at him. “Matt? What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you,” he says, pushing his way inside. The room is just as lavish as the rest of the hotel. Blue, lace curtains hang on either side of a wall-length window, and there are at least four doors on either side of the main sitting room. A full kitchen is pushed off to one side, but it clearly hasn't been used during the entire duration of her stay in North Carrieina.
An extravagant couch takes up the center of the main room. There's a flat screen television built into the wall across from it and a silver platter sitting on the coffee table. It's filled up with eggs benedict and toast and a separate tray of assorted meats. Victoria has set a bowl of mixed fruit off to the side. She's picked out all of the grapes and discarded them into the trashcan sitting next to the couch.
“Matt,” gasps Victoria, scrambling away from the door. She's wearing a strappy silver nightgown. It hangs low on her chest. Pert nipples press against the satin like fabric. From the knee down, the skirt is nothing but sheer, see-through fabric.
Just the sight of those long, shapely legs makes Matt's pants feel too tight.
“Tori,” he says. “Or should I be calling you Victoria?”
She frowns. Her fingers clasp around one of her wrists, nervously rubbing at the smooth skin. It's so strange to see him here, sopping wet and dripping rainwater from hem of his leather jacket. The patch from the Horsemen – his motorcycle club – is starting to peel away.
“What are you doing here?” demands Victoria. “You cannot be here!”
“I am, so buck up and deal with it.”
“You cannot be here,” repeats Victoria, shaking her head. One hand threads through her soft, golden hair. The nails have been painted pale green, covered up in a coat of clear glitter. “Matt, you cannot be here! Why are you here?”
“I'm here to talk to you,” snaps Matt. “What do you think?”
“I think you shouldn't be here! If my mother finds out—”
“She'll what? Put you up with another man?”
Victoria's eyes narrow. “Are you jealous? It was one night! It was…a hook-up, that's what people call it, right? A hook-up?”
“It was a hook-up before I realized you were knocked up!”
Furious at the crass language and upset over the interruption of her one morning alone for the week, Victoria slaps him. The sound of skin on skin is almost deafening. It resonates through the otherwise quiet room until Victoria's heart seems to be pounding in time with the leftover sound.
“How dare you?” she hisses. “How dare you come here and say such things? You don't have any idea what's going on!”
Matt's fingers press against his reddening cheek. His lips twist into a scowl. “Then tell me!”
“Go away,” says Victoria, voice raising just slightly. Her eyes dart towards the door, as if she's expecting someone to come barging in at any moment. “Go away, Matt. I cannot do this. I cannot talk to you!”
“Why not?”
“I'm not allowed!” Victoria's eyes are starting to burn. This is bringing up too much at once. She's never had to do anything like this before, never had to confront her demons. When she makes mistakes, there's someone to help clean them up. When she finds herself lost and wandering, she ends up turning to her nanny or one of the others that linger in her castle, in her home. “My mother will kill me if word gets out! I'm a princess, Matt! I cannot go around sleeping with strangers.”
“Is that why you're marrying this duke?” Matt waves one hand like he might be able to gesture towards the Duke himself.
The thought is silly. A pointless laugh bubbles out of her throat. Victoria feels like she's about to cry; her eyes are itching, and her throat is burning. It's ridiculous and she cannot even pinpoint why. Her palms press against her eyes, like that might somehow hide the tears.
It doesn't. It just makes her cry that much harder.
“It's not like I want to marry him,” she says viciously. Just like when she's arguing with her mother, the words end up sliding out of her mouth, falling into existence against her own regards. “I don't! I've never even met him! But this…I left that night because my mother wanted me to wed a stranger, and I ended up just pushing myself farther into that own fate. I'm never going to be able to be myself. I'm never going to be able to be with someone like you!”
The silence that follows is strangely heavy. Victoria's chest is tight. Her skin is crawling. Ghost fingers stroke against her jaw, run down her bare arms.
Matt's eyes are wide. His mouth opens and closes, but the words don't come out right away. Finally, he asks, “You would want to be in a relationship with me?”
Victoria pauses. She rolls the words around in her mind. Then, finally, she gives a small nod.