Mello opened the door halfway, enough to only see the man's face. He kept his Beretta behind his back.
The man who stood at the other end of the door bowed slightly. He didn't have a name tag.
"Good evening, sir," he said, looking back up. "Sorry to disturb you so late at night. There were several noise complaints about this floor."
Mello stared at him blankly, straining his ears. The only sound in the hotel room was the noise of the TV behind him. It ran so low that Mello couldn't even make out the words.
"Oh, is that so?" Mello asked, slipping his gun back into his waistband as he opened the door wider. The concierge's eyes darted, over Mello's hair and his clothes, settling on his scar.
"Yes, there was," the man responded.
Mello shook his head. "I didn't even hear it."
The concierge shook his head, smiling to himself. "Sorry to disturb you, sir," he said, bowing again. "Maybe I was mistaken."
"No worries," Mello said.
The man had strong Sicilian features. Thick eyebrows and a square jaw.
"Actually," Mello said, stopping him as he turned. "I have something I need help with."
The concierge's facade dropped, only slightly, as he looked back. His eyes widened. "Oh?"
"Yes," Mello responded, walking backwards. The concierge stepped ahead as to not let the door fall against him. He had just one foot past the golden barrier of the room.
"I've been having some issues with the internet here," Mello continued, taking off his sunglasses as he passed the TV, tossing them onto the table. He sauntered over to the desk, pushing the swivel chair out of the way in front of the bed, and crouched down to pick up Matt's cables. "Do you know how to fix it?"
The concierge stood at the door awkwardly, his body language growing unsure. "Oh—oh, I don't know," he stuttered, scratching his head. "I guess I can send a guy up to help you. Yeah, how's that?"
"I've already gotten someone to help," Mello replied, shaking his head. "They were useless."
"Well, I'm not sure, I don't know much about—"
"Look at this," Mello said, holding up two wires with his hands. "Which one is the internet cable?"
"Huh?"
"The ethernet. The LAN?" Mello tilted his head, beckoning him over. "Come here. The last guy who helped me couldn't even tell them apart."
The concierge stared at him for a second longer before he nodded, his other foot crossing the doorway. He took another step onto the carpeted floor.
The door swung shut behind him and locked.
Mello dropped the cables from his right hand and pulled out his gun, watching as the man's eyes widened in fear, whipping his head around to look at the door. Mello stood up, walking towards him.
When the man looked back, he had one thing written all over his face: I'm screwed.
"Nevermind," Mello said, stopping at the entryway, a few feet away from the man. "I think I've fixed it."
"Sir," the concierge said, putting up his arms. "Please don't point a gun at me, or I'll have to call secu—"
"Cut the bullshit," Mello interrupted, and pointed at the wall of the hallway. "Hands over your head."
"Sir, please—"
Mello's arm shot out to grab him by the shirt, dragging him to stand against the wall. Before the concierge could react, he raised his arms and patted him down.
Clear. He turned him around and patted him down again.
There was a gun underneath his vest, tucked in the back of his waistband.
Mello pulled the man's dress shirt free from his pants and grabbed it, ungluing it from the concierge's sticky skin. He held his Beretta to the man's head as he inspected the model.
A revolver. Full chamber.
He tossed it onto the bed. "You brought a gun to check a noise complaint?" he asked.
"Look, man," the man said, dropping whatever was left of his facade. "Let me go."
"Come on," Mello said, pushing the barrel against his tightly slicked hair. "Hands over your head. I won't hurt you."
The soldier put his arms up, linking his fingers over his head.
"Turn around."
He turned, his expression hard, his eyes glued to the scar. Mello held the gun to his forehead and nodded to the swivel chair.
"Sit."
The soldier marched into the netted seat. Mello followed close behind, gun aimed.
Mello rounded the back of the chair as the man sat, grabbing the zipties from his boot. He gripped the man's arms, dropping his gun.
The man yelped as Mello pulled his wrists back, pushing the tight cuffs up from his dress shirt and looping the ziptie around his gold watch.
He tightened it. The plastic cut through his wrists, bleeding them white.
"Ow," the mole groaned. "What the F, dude?"
Mello grabbed the gun from off the carpet and stood up, whirling the seat around to face him.
Sweat stained the soldier's forehead, glittering in the lamp's light. His chest was expanding and deflating underneath his tight shirt. Breathing heavily, his mouth held into a snarl.
Up close, the soldier looked no older than twenty.
"Who sent you?" Mello asked, taking a step back.
"No one."
Mello pointed his gun at his head. "Who sent you?" he repeated.
"No one."
"I'll ask one more fucking time," Mello said, chilling his voice harshly, flipping the safety of the gun down. The boy's annoyance faded into fear.
Mello pressed the barrel between his eyes, pushing up the folds of skin of his sweaty face.
He leaned close. Close enough to smell the boy's cheap cologne. Dug the barrel into skin, hard enough to hit bone.
"Who." The soldier squeezed his eyes shut.
"Sent." Held his breath.
"You?"
"Baptist," the mole breathed. "Baptist. Leon Baptist."
Mello slid the gun across the boy's skin, pushing his head aside as he pulled away. He flipped the safety back on, taking a few steps back as he stared at him.
He knew a Leon by another name. Too young and too smart to be in the casa nostra back when Mello was in New York City.
He must have taken over after his godfather's death.
"What'd they send you up for?" Mello asked, wiping the sweat off his gun on his shirt.
"They wanted me to see if you were here," the boy answered, opening his eyes again. A small circle where his gun had pressed was imprinted on his forehead. "To find your room."
"Where are they?"
The boy gulped, looking down at his shoes.
"Downstairs?"
He nodded roughly.
"Waiting for you?"
Another nod.
"How'd they—"
The door behind them opened.
Mello whipped around. Matt was standing there at the entrance, a bucket of ice clanging against the wooden door as it slammed shut behind him.
Matt stared for a second, the sight sinking in. Then he stomped down the entryway, his eyebrows pulling into a frown.
"What the fuck?" Matt demanded. "What the fuck's going on?"
Mello opened his mouth to answer when Matt's eyes widened at the hostage. "Danny?"
Mello turned back to see the soldier staring at Matt openly, his wide eyes dancing in shock and fear. Back at Matt, who had dropped the bucket of ice in the hallway, pacing over.
"What?" His eyes darted to Mello. "What's going on?"
Mello narrowed his eyes. "You know him?"
"I don't know him," Matt answered quickly. "He brought me to the phonebooth to call you today, that's all."
"Oh, Jesus fucking Christ."
Chinatown.
Little Italy.
Matt's eyebrows shot up in horror as he realized his mistake, his eyes darting back and forth between Danny and Mello.
Mello glared at him, gnashing his teeth against his words. "Pack your shit."
"Okay," Matt replied quickly, slipping away out of sight.
Fucking Matt. They had to get out of here.
He'd deal with this Danny later.
Mello scanned the hotel room. Matt was grabbing his wires, shoving them into the duffel bag with breakneck speed. They hadn't packed much on the way over, which meant easy departure.
Out in five minutes. Baptist's men would be none the wiser.
They had to dump the car when they were safe, find a new ride, and keep driving. As far as they could until Hal reestablished contact so that he knew where to go next.
Fuck. His head was starting to pound. The pills were wearing off.
Matt yanked open the bedside drawer, mindlessly shoving things into the bursting duffel bag. Mello could escape without being picked up on CCTV. He had his coat and his sunglasses. But Matt.
Danny knew what he looked like. Baptist's men probably had a description.
He'd only packed his fucking vest.
"Matt."
Matt's head shot up. Danny looked over. Mello jerked his chin, gesturing to the soldier with his gun.
"Strip him."
Matt made a face. "What?"
Mello's head pulsed. "Strip him."
"No," Matt responded, scandalized.
They had no fucking time to play games. Mello shook his head and bent over to lift the hem of his pants, grabbing a dagger from his sheath.
He stormed over and hooked the blade underneath the plastic, yanking. The zipties broke free, and Danny lurched ahead.
Mello was faster. He pressed the gun against Danny's temple again before he could escape, clicking the safety off.
Danny stopped, panting.
Mello threw the knife down onto the carpet and twirled the chair around until Danny was face-to-face with him again. The soldier swallowed, staring up into Mello's face.
"You heard me," Mello said, shoving the swivel chair back.
It crashed into the TV table, rattling the TV set. Danny fell to the ground, landing on his hands and knees.
Matt was staring at them, his jaw hanging, his hands fisting the handles of his duffel bag. "What the fuck?" he muttered.
"Are you done packing?" Mello snapped.
Matt looked away, pursing his lips. Mello turned back to Danny, his gun still trained on his face. He was unbuttoning his vest in haste, his fingers fumbling.
He flung the vest off, his fingers working to unbutton his shirt. He peeled it off and tossed it into the floor.
His hands were shaking as he looked up at Mello, his eyes wide.
Mello pointed the gun down. "Pants."
Danny's eyes bugged out of his sockets. He looked away.
He unbuttoned his slacks. Unzipped them and dropped them onto the floor, kicking them away.
Mello nodded when he stood in nothing but his undershirt and underpants, his hands folded over his groin.
"Hands over your head," Mello commanded. Danny put them up slowly, his embarrassment creeping over his face as he looked to his shoes.
Mello glanced back at Matt, zipping up the bag. "Are you done packing?"
Matt looked up, trying to hide his shock. "Uh, yeah."
"Take his clothes and change into them," Mello said.
"What?"
"Do it now."
Matt scrambled over to pick up the limp pieces of clothing all over the carpet, hugging them to his chest. He looked around the room before scuttling off into the bathroom.
With Matt changed, he could go down first. CCTV and Baptist would think he was the concierge. He could get the car and wait by the door.
That would give Mello a few more minutes.
Matt would have to drive them to safety in his car. Mello wasn't sure if he could trust him with his life.
He'd done it once, and he wasn't eager to do it again.
"Are we done here?" the soldier asked suddenly.
Mello looked at him.
"You can let me go now," he said, shrugging his muscular shoulders. "Like, you don't need me anymore."
Mello looked at him.
"I got a dog, you know?" He smiled, feigning coolness. "So just let me go now. I won't say nothin'."
"Sure," Mello said. He flipped down the safety of the gun and shot him.
The boy collapsed into a heap against Matt's bed face-down, his white undershirt colored red. Blood flecked the TV screen. Some on the wall, dripping down the wallpaper.
The bathroom door burst open. Matt's shirt was buttoned up messily and his pants were pulled halfway up to his thighs. "What the fuck happened?" he yelled.
His fingers freed his underwear from the fly and zipped the slacks up. Matt's eyes flickered over the dead body on the carpet.
His mouth fell open. "Dude, you fucking shot him?!" Matt shouted, staring. "What the fuck?"
They had less than five minutes now that the gun had gone off. No more time.
"Take off your goggles and grab one of your bags," Mello responded. "Go."
Matt blinked and shook his head, swearing under his breath. He tore the goggles off of his face and pushed past Mello into the bedroom, running to get his things.
His boots left wet marks over the carpet, darkening the red to maroon. Mello looked down.
The blood had pooled around his feet, seeping into the carpet. Mello lifted his shoes one by one, looking at his soles.
Drying blood caked the ridges.
Matt reappeared with the duffel bag in tow. Fully dressed. The shock had left his expression now.
He was ready.
"Go downstairs and take the car," Mello commanded, shoving his gun into his back. "Meet me at the fire exit in Stairwell C in four minutes. Quick."
Matt paced out the front door without another word, slamming the door behind him. Mello took a step over the body and looked around the room.
No time to wipe for fingerprints. It was Matt's fault for not wearing gloves.
Mello pulled the drawer out of the bedside table, turning it upside down. The contents scattered over the bedspread. That was all he had.
He unzipped Matt's duffel bag and shoved all of it in, tossing the goggles in, too, as he moved through the hotel room.
He grabbed everything else. Matt's clothes, his sunglasses, his Silvadene, his laptop.
He popped the pill bottle open and swallowed a few pills dry, glancing over at the time. Two minutes had passed.
He had to leave now.
Mello shoved the pills into the bag and dropped it at the entrance as he tore open the closet doors, shrugging on his coat. He flipped up the hood and whisked the bag with him, opening the door.
Nobody was outside.
He paced down the hallway, pushing open the bar to the fire escape. The door groaned shut behind him as he barrelled down the staircase, jumping down the steps.
Seventy-two seconds. He made it to the ground floor. The CCTV footage couldn't capture him with his hood up. Nobody had followed him down.
He slammed his shoulder against the emergency exit door, opening it into the night air. The fire alarm screamed.
The emergency exit was at the side of the hotel. Mello spotted Matt's car idling across the street, waiting for him, the headlights shining bright in the night.
Mello stopped.
There was another car parked in the distance further along the street. Mello couldn't see the make clearly, but he could see enough.
Black and sleek. It was a mob car.
Mello didn't let it out of his sight as he crossed the street. It didn't move, still idle.
He opened the passenger door, throwing Matt's duffel bag onto the mat. Matt looked over, his face tense, a lit cigarette clenched between his teeth.
"Drive," Mello barked.
"What the fuck happened?"
"No time," Mello answered, peering back. The mob car's headlights flashed on, illuminating the foliage ahead of it. "Shit. Go."
Matt glanced over at him in annoyance but listened, shifting gears to ease up the road. Mello sat up, pulling his body up to take the gun from his back.
He flipped the safety trigger off, rolling down Matt's window in a rush. The car was pulling away from its parking spot, trailing after them.
"Get on a main road," Mello said.
"I don't fucking know my way around here," Matt responded irritably, turning on his blinker.
Mello squinted at the black car. The passenger window rolled down slowly.
Mello ducked. A bullet sailed through the rear window, cracking the glass.
"Jesus!" Matt exclaimed, looking back. "What the fuck was that?"
Mello gripped Matt's headrest, glaring out the bullethole as he popped back up. "Do you get it now?"
Matt turned, shifting gears. Mello held onto the seat tighter, watching as the car followed them past the turn.
They emerged on the main road.
Matt pressed down on the gas pedal and accelerated, steering with his elbow as he unbuttoned his cuffs.
The roads were clear at this time of night. They were pushing the speed limit without anybody noticing them.
The black car sped, catching up to them. The headlights were bright and blinding.
Suddenly, another black car turned a corner. Mello turned around, staring down at his Beretta.
"Who are they?" Matt asked, cutting between cars, threading through them with ease.
"Just keep driving."
Matt readjusted the rearview mirror, throttling the gear as they accelerated even faster.
The mob cars kept up.
Mello looked up at the open road ahead of them. Matt sped through a red light, snarling around his cigarette. The cars around them honked.
There. A small break in the concrete median ahead of them. They could lose the tails that way.
"Do a U-turn up there," Mello said, pointing over.
Matt nodded, cutting through the lanes to inch up to the median. It was right ahead of them when Matt jerked the gear back and twisted the wheel at full tilt, tires squealing.
Gravity slammed Mello against the door, his shoulder hard against the glass.
The car vibrated as they sped over the bumps of the torn road. Mello pushed back and leaned out the window, the glass sharp against his ribcage, and pointed his gun.
The first car was close to them, on the other side of the median. The passenger hung over the top of the car with a shotgun.
The bullets rang loud against the metal of the cargo bed. Matt squeezed the wheel, mumbling, "Shit."
Mello aimed with both hands around his gun. They were pulling away.
Mello shot. Front tire.
He shot again.
Back tire.
The car swerved, smoke bursting. It missed the opening in the median and skirted along the concrete, the tires sparking in the darkness of night.
Mello watched as the car flew out into the intersection and crashed into the traffic light, and Matt whooped.
The second car followed them through the U-turn, closing the distance.
"Fuck," Mello said, pulling back into the car.
It was too far. He only had three mags. He had to make them last.
Another shot rang through the metal of their car, vibrating the seats. Matt swerved before Mello could react, merging into the narrow bike lane. Their tires dragged against the side of the road, shaking the seats as they soared past the traffic beside them.
The mob car followed, easing into the tight space.
Matt looked into the rearview mirror, tsking to himself.
An underpass was approaching. It led to the highway, which meant less traffic. More room to run.
"Head to the FDR," Mello said, looking down to reload. "As fast as you can."
Matt nodded. "Got it."
Matt swerved again, cutting through into the next lane. Mello slammed the mag into the handle, looking back up as the streetlights faded to a bright, fluorescent white.
The wind stopped whipping through the windows. A hush fell over the car.
They were in the tunnel.
Matt threaded between the traffic, his speed constant. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, his neck glinting in the white lights.
They were fast, but not too fast. Matt pushed his sleeves up over his elbows, his knuckles white over the steering wheel. He drove like he was playing a video game on the easiest setting.
No fear at all.
The tunnel exit was up ahead. The highway opened up to two lanes, wider than the tunnel. There weren't any cars in front of them for another long while, and Matt stepped on the gas pedal, accelerating.
They were out of the tunnel in a flash. The wind started whipping through the windows again and Matt's hair was dancing. He lit another cigarette with the car lighter, releasing a plume of smoke into the car.
They pulled next to a host of transport trucks and sixteen-wheelers. Matt cleared a path between them, the speedometer pushing 120 mph, the throttle vibrating as the car neared its maximum speed.
Mello glanced at the rearview mirror. The mob cars were approaching again, getting closer and closer.
Speed wasn't going to beat them.
Mello cocked his gun, yelling over the wind. "Where's your gun?"
"My vest pocket," Matt yelled back.
Mello shoved his hand into Matt's suit vest, Matt's heat radiating from his torso even past two layers of fabric. Mello ran his tongue along his teeth as he spun the gun around in his fingers, grabbing the butt tight.
Matt swerved into the divider, gunning it down the line. They were hitting 125 mph, gaining speed.
Mello held both guns as he watched as the mob car grew closer and closer.
Now.
Mello twisted his body out the window. His hair whipped around his head in the bursting wind as he held out both his arms and shot.
The mob car's windshield shattered. Bullets took out the headlights and damaged the hood. He peppered the car until he ran out of ammo, and turned around.
He ducked back into the car, running his fingers through his hair and he reloaded again. Last two mags.
Matt's car slowed, turning onto a ramp, and Mello looked up. A green street sign sailed past them: Brooklyn Bridge. Exit Only.
Mello scowled. "Are you fucking crazy?"
The mafia had backup in Brooklyn. If Matt got on the bridge, there would be no way out.
"Trust me," Matt shouted, his eyes glittering on the road. His voice was sharp, certain.
Mello glowered. He had no other choice.
The Brooklyn Bridge loomed beside them, the on-ramp speeding away from its iron supports to turn and merge with the lanes running through its center. The heavy bricks and high arches of the bridge towered over the car.
Matt squeezed along the median, accelerating until they were sandwiched between two large, colorful tour busses. The tour busses moved slowly, adhering to the speed limit.
Through the window, Mello saw sleeping faces, their heads leaning against the window. Further down, somebody stared down at them, awake and frowning.
Matt pushed harder. The mob car was gaining on them again, close behind one of the tour busses. The entrance to the bridge was getting closer up ahead.
The mob car swerved to the leftmost lane, out of sight.
Matt was speeding, overtaking the tour bus. They passed the driver, oblivious to the car race.
Matt kept going, pushing back up to 100.
They passed the tour bus, almost rounding the corner to the foot of the bridge. The arches of Brooklyn Bridge were ahead, coming closer.
Mello saw the mob car again, emerging on the other side of the tour bus, the passenger window rolling down.
The passenger climbed out, shotgun pointed.
Bang.
The bullet missed, hitting the hood of the car. Mello gripped his gun tight, pulling himself up to the window.
Matt's hand shot out from the gear shift and held Mello's arm back before he made it out. Another bullet rippled over the metal, this time in the driver door.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Mello roared.
"Don't," Matt responded, pulling him back. Matt merged into the next lane, drifting away from the mob car.
Matt was slowing down, the speedometer falling to 60.
"What are you—"
Matt didn't answer. He moved his hand back onto the gear shift, his face focused. The speed continued to fall.
50.
The mob car was getting closer, merging into the lane next to them, slowing down to match them. They were taking aim. They were going to shoot.
Matt wasn't going to make it out alive.
40.
The foot of the bridge approached in front of them, cars easing along into the traffic jam ahead. The wires danced above them like open arms.
Mello was fucked.
30.
"Hold tight," Matt said gruffly, and turned his head back, lounging his arm over the back of the seat. He jerked the gear shift.
Suddenly, the car flew backwards.
Mello flew into the dash, almost hitting his head against the windshield. They were reversing down a ramp. Mello held tight onto the dash, looking up.
The tour bus had blocked the ramp they left off of. There was no way for the mob car to follow them with it in the way.
Matt's head was turned, manoeuvring them backwards. The speedometer stuttered.
50... 60... 70...
80.
They landed on the back wheel, the car jerking as it skidded onto the main road. Cars slowed and honked as Matt shifted gears again, gripping the wheel tight.
Their tires squealed as Matt drifted. They flew through a red light ahead to another barrage of honks and swears.
Mello's heart was hammering. He couldn't believe it.
They slipped into a smaller lane across from the ramp, and Matt followed the small, empty street.
Mello pushed himself back upright, breathing hard. The street led them to a small underpass directly underneath the Brooklyn Bridge. Closed for Construction.
Matt ignored the sign and headed into the site, turning into a parking lot of junked cars and debris. There was nobody else there. Matt looked back again and shifted gears, slowing to a crawl as he pulled in beside a transport truck, its white trailer scrawled over with graffiti.
The area bordered the East River, closed to the public.
Matt braked.
The car jerked to a halt. No car behind them.
Mello's heart was pounding.
The two of them sat silently as the engine ran idly, their headlights shining in the dark underpass. The sound of distant traffic rang through the night. Police sirens were a ways away.
Mello's ears were ringing with a high pitched scream as the adrenaline settled in his veins.
They did it. They made it out alive.
Matt turned off the engine, grabbing a cigarette from his pocket, and lit it with his car lighter. He leaned back onto his seat, his chest rising and falling.
He exhaled a cloud of smoke, unbuttoning his vest with his other hand and shrugging it off into the seat. It lay there limply by his waist.
Mello glanced to the shattered rear window.
They were safe.
They sat in silence, willing their breaths slower. Matt had finished his cigarette, lounging there on the seat like he was going to fall asleep.
Mello decocked his guns, tossing Matt's gun in his lap, and rolled up the windows. Mello replaced his own Beretta into his waistband, one mag left over in his pocket.
It was over. It was over.
Matt saved his life.
"Come on," Mello said, sitting up. "Let's go. We have to ditch the car."
"No," Matt responded firmly, turning to look at him, his hair messy over his eyes. "I'm not dumping her, man."
"They'll find—"
"I'll change the plates," Matt answered, shaking his head. "I am not torching this fucking car."
Mello shook his head, looking away.
The sound of the car latch unlocking alerted him. Mello looked back to Matt leaving the door.
The car dipped as Matt slammed it shut, ambling into the construction site in nothing but his white button-down and his black slacks.
He kept walking, his figure growing smaller and smaller. Down to the East River, a cloud of smoke following him as he hopped over the median and disappeared from sight.
Mello narrowed his eyes, getting out of the car and following. He stormed over to the riverside until he saw Matt again.
He was pissing.
Standing beside the river on a strip of sand by the riverside. Mello heard him zip his fly up before he lit another cigarette, his hair so dark in the night it looked black.
Mello crawled over the median, jumping off onto the sand. His shoes sank with every step he took towards Matt until they were side by side.
They stared at nothing but the water, rippling quietly in the cool night. Alone. Just the two of them for miles in all directions.
On the Brooklyn Bridge above them, sirens wailed. The cars were heavy and loud as they drove over the underpass, rocking against the brick.
Minutes tolled. Mello could feel his blood thrumming still. His headache gone.
The thrill of the chase cold in his bones.
Matt looked over, his hair out of his eyes, the reflection of the river flickering over his face. Their eye contact felt heavy and harsh without Matt's goggles.
"So," Matt said first. "You wanna tell me what's going on?"
Mello swallowed, shifting his weight over the sand. "What do you want to know?"
"Who the fuck were those guys?"
Mello looked away. Lights of all colors littered the island of Brooklyn across the water. Sharp and jagged buildings faced them on the other end.
Matt was still watching him from his peripheral vision. Blurry from out of the corner of Mello's damaged eye.
"I used to be in the mafia here," Mello answered finally, dropping his gaze onto the sand.
"Oh."
"I left for LA a year ago. The mob called a hit on me, for half a million dollars."
"Oh."
"So I can't move around." Mello looked up, watching Matt's face for a reaction.
His eyes were wide but empty. He stared at him like he didn't know what to say.
"Jesus," Matt mumbled finally, breaking their gaze. His cigarette burnt down between his fingers, the ash scattering into the wind limply. "You must have pissed a lot of people off."
Mello shrugged in response. "Probably."
Matt snorted suddenly. He looked away, shaking his head to himself as he raised the cigarette to his lips.
"Fuck," he muttered quietly, running a hand through his mussed hair.
Mello frowned. "What?"
Matt looked back, his eyes warm now. Warm and sweet.
"You're really fucked up," Matt said softly, in a way that sounded like it was a joke they shared, a smile playing over his bruised lips. "But I guess… I knew you'd be like this."
Mello was speechless.
It hurt to breathe, like Mello's chest had been crushed. It came on like an old memory. A feeling he thought he'd lost a long time ago.
Matt was staring at him, waiting for a response. Mello had to say something.
Mello swallowed, running a hand through his hair to disperse his thoughts. "Where'd you learn to drive like that?" he asked, nonchalant.
"In Las Vegas," Matt answered. "I used to do a lot of street racing. I did some in Phoenix too. Nothing big, just, like… Saturday night stuff for a few extra bucks."
Mello tilted his head. "Is that why you have your Camaro?"
"Yeah, I bought that with my Wammy's severance money. First check." Matt chuckled to himself, shaking his head at the memory. "The thing was worth piss before I fixed her back up. I've been driving her since."
"Did you fix a lot of cars?"
"It used to be a hobby of mine," Matt answered, squinting out into the river as he exhaled smoke from his nostrils. "Not that I really do it anymore."
The wind picked up, crying as it blew through Matt's hair. The night was quiet and cool. Matt's white dress shirt glowed in the moon, almost too bright to look at directly. His expression warm and defenceless, his freckles light, the color of earth in the dark night.
He was beautiful.
"That was fun, though," Matt said softly, cutting through the silence of the night. "Glad we didn't die."
"Well," Mello said.
Matt looked back at him, his dark eyes shining. Waiting.
"You should be my getaway driver from now on," Mello finished, daring to smile.
Matt laughed. "No, please," he responded, shaking his head. "Let's hope this never happens again."