The sound system is the only thing working in this shit vehicle, so Matt cranks up the volume to brain-bleed.
The radio reception in this stretch of L.A. highway cracks and shivers. The static warps the music, mutating the electronic beats into something sinister.
I'm a hustler baby — That's-what-my-daddy's-made-me —
"Seriously, Matt, you listen to the gayest stuff." Mello slouches into the dirty beige seat, hoisting his right foot onto the dashboard. The blond's body betrays him, though; his torso subtly undulates to the static-snarled rhythm, and his lower stomach gleams in the indifferent sunlight. "Fuck, when does this song end?"
"Four minutes, about." Fixing his gaze on the road, Matt leans over with his right arm and smirks when his fingers brush taut leather.
The music drowns out Mello's gasp, but Matt can feel it, just the same. "What are you — oh"
Multi-tasking has always been Matt's forte. He steers and rubs and teases, humming all the while.
Mello comes by the last verse.