Megan was on the prowl. Not for trouble-- not just yet, anyway-- but for a date.

A date? Yes. A date. Contrary to virtually everything she'd ever believed in, the twenty six year old had stuffed herself into a slinky black dress, tossed her hair up into a high, messy bun, and hopped onto her bike with only the barest of makeup-- all in order to hunt down a date so she could go to a fancy party.

A party? 

Yes. The party of the year. Hosted by New York City elite, in one of the most glamorous houses in the state. The Thaddeus Hubert House. One might wonder how Megan had managed to acquire a ticket to such an event in the first place; She effectively robbed it off of its previous owners unconscious body. Why? For sh*ts and giggles, mostly.

Going depended on having a date, though. No arm candy meant no entrance. This little bit of knowledge meant that Megan's standards were currently very low. How low? Hobo-low. The first three she'd found reeked just a little too strongly of booze, and the last two had started screaming profanities at her before she could even open her mouth. One had even thrown a shoe.

Time was growing short, she was pretty damn desperate, and she still needed to stop somewhere and pick up a tux for her date-to-be. Whoever that unfortunate man was. These circumstances were what led to her stopping her bike with a squeal of tires, pointing at someone man-shaped on the sidewalk beside her and barking quite loudly "Hey you! Climb on, shut up, and hold on!"

She vaguely wondered if pointing at him threateningly with her helmet still on was a good idea. Meh, 20/20.

Mat ducked just in time. The mouldy, hole-ridden shoe flew over his head, the laces whipping him in the face. Out of spite, Mat picked it up and tossed it up, up, onto the overhang of the store next to him. Not before flipping the other man off.

"Hey, if you wanted more than one shoe then you should have thought about that before you threw it! I mean, who throws a shoe? Honestly? You're giving the rest of us a bad name, ya bum!"

It only took one hobo to make all the other hobos look like crazies.

Although it could be said that all the other hobos were crazy.

Not Mat. He was awesome. And totally sane.

He didn't know where he was walking to. There was no destination in mind for Effigy tonight. But sitting was dull, and with little else to do Mat figured he might stumble across something interesting. So he walk, walk, walked. After all, it was New York City. Sure enough, it wasn't long until he heard the sound of screaming tyres pulling up on the road beside him. Curious, he glanced over. A helmet in a evening dress. Atop a motorbike. Yelling at him.

>>>"Hey you! Climb on, shut up, and hold on!"

He stared blankly for a moment. Somewhere in the back of his mind, memories from when he was a child and his mother had warned him away from cars and strangers. He took a moment to eye this person up and down, gaze pausing at chosen intervals. A devilish grin began to cross his face. Common sense dictated that he should keep walking. It would be the wiser, safer course of action.

"Take the helmet off, and we'll see..."


He had heard of this. It was a legend amongst hobofolk. A myth. A tall tale. Every story he had heard of it happening generally involved a limo and some wealthy but unappealing and often elderly dowager. The motorbike pointed to a more optimistic outcome.


The wiser, safer course of action was for chumps.

Her fingers drummed on the handles of her bike, and she bit back a sigh of irritation. Take her helmet off, hmm? Okay, fine. With a twist of her wrist her ride bolted forward. She jerked the handles to angle herself up and onto the sidewalk, and came to another jerky stop directly before him. In one swift, practiced motion she sat back and yanked her helmet off, glowering at her chosen bum with red lips pursed in a dissatisfied frown.

"Alright, helmets off. Now get on if you want free booze and food. Otherwise I've got a city to scour, and precious little time to do so." Now that she was closer, and her helmet was no longer shading her vision, she got a better look at the guy. Dirty, disheveled; check. At least he had a good face though. Maybe she wouldn't be suffering as much as she'd first thought, with this one.

Squinting and leaning a little closer, she took a hesitant sniff, and was then satisfied. At least he didn't smell like poo or anything. Sitting back again, she tucked her helmet between her legs, crossed her arms and waited with all the patience she could muster for his answer.

As the helmet came away he couldn't help but smirk like a fool. It would seem, he had hit the hobo jackpot. Here he was, being propositioned like some sort of streetwalker, and it wasn't a creepy old guy, another hobo, or a grandma with too much cash and not enough looks. This chick was actually pretty smokin'. Punkish, despite the formal dress. She spoke with a voice whose husky tones told a history of booze and debaucherous fun. A voice that, truth be told, send a shiver down his spine.

She most certainly was not a meek and delicate little flower.

And as she spoke of free food and booze, Mat tilted his head back, and gave a silent thanks to whatever deity may have been listening.

"Sold."

He noticed her check him out. Noticed her lean forward and give a not-so-discreet sniff. He supposed it should have stung his pride, but the truth was he didn't care. Not if things tonight were going the way he was suspecting they would. Besides, she hadn't commented, so he took that to be a good sign. "Caught me at a good time, love. I'm one of the fresher ones." He made his way to the bike, and swung his leg over. His hands rested on the woman's sides, before sliding down to hold onto her hips.

After all, he didn't want to fall off.

"So... Where you wanna take this party?"

A not so discreet eye roll was all she needed to comment with in regards to his 'fresh' comment. She waited for him to saddle up, re-helmeted herself, and turned the front wheel of the bike back towards the road.

"A tux shop. I'm not dragging you anywhere dressed like a broke lumberjack." Her engine hummed quietly as she got ready to move again, but she paused. "You may want to hold on tighter."

That was all the warning she gave before putting the proverbial peddle to the metal, launching her bike off of the sidewalk so fast an oncoming car was forced to swerve into the opposing lane in order to miss hitting them. Megan paid little attention to it, checked her wrist watch for the time, and then sped up another ten miles or so.

She flew through a handful of red lights, stop signs, and intersections, before finally slowly down again. Her trusty bike pulled to a stop in front of a small clothing store, who's owner was just getting ready to close. "C'mon, let's go get you some new threads." She slid off her seat, plopped her helmet down, and reached for the Hobo's arm.

Swiftly dragging him with her (quite the feat in six inch heels), she barged in through the door of the small shop and greeted the startled shop owner with a devious smile. "Uh.. Sorry, ma'am, we're clo--"

"This-" She pushed her hobo forward, and pointed at him. "Make him presentable for a fancy party." The man moved to protest, but she was quick to draw out a bundle of cash, which she waved at him unashamedly. "I'll pay you one thousand in cash, right now."

That... changed the man's tune right quick. The store was still locked and the sign switched to closed, but the elderly man ushered Megan's date back into the dressing room to pick out clothes. What he ultimately ended up with was an all black suit, with matching leather shoes and a black silk tie.

Megan gave it a once over, before handling the man her cash, and bidding him a goodnight. She dragged her hobo back out onto the street, climbed back onto the bike, and slipped her helmet back on.

"You can put your clothes under the passenger seat. There's a storage compartment there." She checked the time again-- they would end up late, but at least it'd still be considered fashionable. "Oh, right... My names Charlotte. What's yours?" Once he was back on the bike and holding on, she started off again. This time, though, at a much slower, legal speed. She needed to clue him in on who he was supposed to be tonight.

He opened his mouth to reply to the woman's 'lumberjack' remark, to give her the run down on the benefits of wearing flannel shirts while homeless, when she warned him to hold on. With barely enough time for him to taker her advice, the words were snatched from his open mouth, stolen by the rushing wind and air. Crazy woman drove like a madman! Mat's heart leaped up to hide in his throat as a car swerved out of the way, and they began their hell-ride down the road. Once the initial shock passed, Mat found himself smiling like a madman, the adrenaline kicking his excitement up. He felt....daring. Like a teenager again. Like his days in Australia, when old friends were not scattered across the globe, or dead.

A numbing, intoxicating sense of recklessness was growing, growing.

In what seemed the blink of an eye, the woman slowed in front of a store, and without giving him time to think, grabbed him by the arm and dragged him inside, quite a feat considering the shoes she was wearing. She thrust him before the shopkeeper, and demanded that he be dressed accordingly. Feeling somewhere between a mannequin and a roast dinner, Mat stood awkwardly as she demanded he be dressed. Mat's brows rose in unison with the shopkeeper's when she pulled a grand in cash out. As the shopkeeper herded Mat towards the back of the shop, he glanced over his shoulder, trying to get a better look at his 'date' for the evening.

This was all getting very...involved, for what he had assumed would be a fairly simple transaction. He supposed that she might be looking for some sort of...'boyfriend experience.'

Did she say 'fancy party?'

As he was ushered into the dressing area, he noticed that the shopkeeper had procured a measuring tape from somewhere. Like it had materialised in his hand. Before he knew it, the man had sized up his arm length, leg length, and chest width so fast, that Mat was sure he could see little dollar signs in the man's eyes. Shoving the suit, shirt, socks, shoes and tie into Mat's arms, the man gave him a quick once over, before adding a new pair of silk boxer shorts on top of the pile.

In the dressing room, as the new threads were slipped on, Mat couldn't help but admire himself in the mirror. The tailor knew his work, that was for sure. The suit fit like a glove. Apart from the light stubble on his face, and his dishevelled mess of greasy hair, Mat felt like he could almost pass for a real person. Not just a hobo in a suit.

He had to admit, he hadn't looked this sexy in a long time.

As he walked back into the front of the store, standing much straighter than he had walked out, he watched as the tailor and his date settled the bill. Their attention was taken, and for the moment he was forgotten. The shopkeeper was too busy gaping at his new found wealth. Which was good. It meant that the brand-new bowler hat Mat was swiping off a shelf probably wouldn't be noticed as missing until they were long gone. Indeed, just as he had put it on his head, the woman grabbed him by the arm again and dragged him outside.

On the woman's instruction, he stashed his bundle of raggedy clothes, before hoping back onto the bike. One arm around the woman's waist, the other holding down his new hat, Mat prepared himself for another death dash. He was moderately surprised when she started driving normally, legally.

>>>"Oh, right... My names Charlotte. What's yours?"

"Mat," he shouted over the engine noise. "Name's Mat." He paused, unsure of what he was supposed to say. "So... What's this party you were talking about?"

"Kay. Now, here's the lowdown. Tonight your name's not Matt. It's gotta be something snobbish. Like... Stuben... Stuben von Bizmark or something." That sounded snobby, right? Those rich people always had strange, hard to spell names. "You aren't from here, either. You're from somewhere far away... is South Africa far away? Whatever, sure. You're from South Africa." She rolled to a stop at a red light, taking at peek at where she was to make sure she was still on track.

"You're rich, too. So rich that flying here for one night to hang out with a bunch of old coots you don't know is nothing to you, understand? You're some kinda exporter. Like... blood diamonds but less known. More rare.... Blood Cashews? You get what i'm sayin'."

She honestly didn't know if she was making sense anymore, but didn't really have the time to pay attention to what was coming out of her face hole. She was busy eyeballing street names and addresses as they rolled ever closer to their destination. "This party is hosted by Thaddeus Hubert. He's some bigwig who has a lot of stock, or something. You can expect this place to be fancy.... God, I hope your good at improvising, because I'm your arm candy for tonight, so you will do most of the talking."

As in on cue, they pulled up beside the curb at that very moment. The mansion sat back across a sprawling lawn, behind a large gate, directly in front of them. Megan whistled lowly, adjusting the bust of her dress after peeling her helmet off again.

"Alright, loverboy... here we are. You ready to schmooze with the best of New York City?" A grin curled her lips and she glanced back at him, icy eyes catching the light from a streetlamp at just the right angle that they glowed ever so slightly.

His brow rose as Charlotte began giving him the run down on what his cover story should be this evening. He had no qualms about that, obviously whoever this woman was, she didn't want it known amongst New York's finest that she'd picked up a hobo escort. Fair enough, he reckoned. Her idea for a cover, however, were not exactly what he'd been thinking. Blood cashews? South Africa? Stubert? Exports?

"Are you sh**tin' me? Stuben von Bizmark? That's the worst alias I've ever heard... Have you even used a fake name before?" Was she being serious?

Mat noticed that the buildings and houses in the area all seemed to be rising in worth, size, and bearing. Wherever the hell he was, it was a nice neighbourhood. Definitely not one he had found himself in before.

It was far too nice for him.

>>>"This party is hosted by Thaddeus Hubert. He's some bigwig who has a lot of stock, or something. You can expect this place to be fancy.... God, I hope your good at improvising, because I'm your arm candy for tonight, so you will do most of the talking."

"Baby," Mat started, a cocky confidence in his voice, "My improvisation is so good you'll think I'm Louis-bloody-Armstrong!" And if it wasn't, well, that was an issue for later. After all, it's not like he couldn't bail if things went south. She would just have to find her hobo jollies elsewhere.

They pulled up to the gate, and Charlotte removed her helmet before looking back at him. The light caught her eyes, and for a moment he found himself hypnotised with blueblueblue. So much so that the mansion remained unnoticed by him.

>>>"Alright, loverboy... here we are. You ready to schmooze with the best of New York City?"

They cruised up the driveway, and Mat found himself chuckling to himself. It was, after all, not exactly the evening he had envisioned. It was about...fifteen times better. "Born ready, m'dear." They pulled up before the entrance, to the stares of the valets who had been more accustomed to luxury cars and limousines. Mat stood, swinging his leg free, and offered his arm to Charlotte. As she took it, he strode confidently towards the front door, taking the moment to run his hand along the brim of his hat.

Despite everything, the woman was right about one thing. He would need to act the part.

"Gentlemen! I do hope we are not too late! I insisted that we take the Rolls, but this lovely thing here," he nods to Charlotte, "insisted that being chauffeured around was a dull affair." He took a moment to flash a sickly-sweet smile at her, before turning his attention back on the doormen. "And who am I to disappoint such a vision?

The lead doorman, a burly looking man in a very nice tuxedo eyes Mat up and down, seemingly unimpressed.

"Dorian van Tripton," he announced himself haughtily, clipping his natural accent into a vague semblence of a South African accent. He supposed himself lucky. Chances were there weren't many who'd be able to tell the difference. "And my lovely companion, Charlotte. Did you bring the invites, dear?"

He bloody well hoped so.

Because he was fast committing himself to the amusing task of playing the wealthy snob.

Her nose wrinkled, and she rolled her eyes again. "Okay, fine whatever! I'm not good at thinking up things on the spot!" Yeesh... apparently beggars could be choosers. It didn't matter to her what name he chose, so long as he didn't blow her cover before her fun had been had. Then he could get sloshed and do a jig in the punch bowl, for all she cared.

She committed his alter ego to memory, smirking to herself at his comment about fake names, as she pulled them up through the gate toward the mansion. Once she'd dismounted her bike and adjusted her dress so the valets weren't getting free peeks anymore, she dropped into a haughty, elegant posture and looped her arm through Matt's. A lazy smirk settled on her lips as she allowed herself to be led toward the waiting doorman.

"Gentlemen! I do hope we are not too late! I insisted that we take the Rolls, but this lovely thing here insisted that being chauffeured around was a dull affair. And who am I to disappoint such a vision?"

She squeezed his arm as would an affectionate partner, and smirked. "Of course I do, love." With frshly manicured nails, she withdrew two crisp slips of paper from within the bust of her dress. The urge to wink at the doorman was great, but she managed to restrain herself.... for the time being. Instead, she handed the invites over, while the greeter eyed Matt Dorian van Tripton and herself curiously.

"Thank you, Ma'am." He checked the invites, staring for a few tense moments before he handed them back. "Everything looks to be in order, Master Tripton. You will find the other guests in the parlor." With a polite bow, he escorted them inside.

Megan, clutching her dates arm, clip-clopped along. Once past the foyer, however, the splendor that truly was the Thaddeus Hubert Mansion fully hit her. The door man bowed once more, before leaving them alone.

"... Holy@#%$..." The room they were in was easily larger than her living room and dining room combined... and it appeared to only be a place to store coats, bags, and... was that a bowl of business cards? From carpet to ceiling everything inch of the room was decorated in late Victorian fashion. Pale blues, yellows, and greens. Silk drapes and crystal vases. Gold detailing lined the wooden trim along the bottom and tops of the walls.

... It was like she'd stepped into the motherF%$#in' white house.

Pulling herself together, she reached up to tuck a flyaway strand of hair back into the rest of her messy bun. Little did she know that the rest of the house matched the foyer and coat room perfectly.

The hum of voices echoed down the hall directly in front of them, while a soft clanging issued out from a dark hallway to their left. The parlor lay directly head, the kitchen off to the side. Dozens of other rooms, both upstairs and on the main floor, were scattered about. Megan, not having the slightest clue where any room lay other than the one she was standing in, made a note to herself to send a few spiders off when she could find time. Knowing the mansion from top to bottom would only prove beneficial, she was absolutely sure of that.

Glancing sidelong at her date, she wiped the astonishment off her face, slapped a smirk back on in its place, and squeezed his arm again. "Lead the way, dear."

Dorian van Tripton, nodded curtly to the doorman, before making sure not to waste much more attention on the man. After all, this guy was 'the help'. And a self-respecting South African kajillionaire does not waste more time on the servants any more than was necessary. Pointing his nose snobbishly to the sky, Mat took his date and strolled through the door.

"Holy &#^@..." he muttered to himself, before throwing a sideways glance at Charlotte. Seemed even she was overwhelmed with the splendor and extravagance of the place. A squeeze on his arm took his attention.

>>> "Lead the way, dear."

Sucking a breath through his teeth, Mat took a moment to try and puzzle things out. Truth was, he had no idea what constituted a party in the books of the obscenely wealthy. Did they get messy drunk and make fools of themselves? If so, he figured he'd have no trouble playing that part. Holding his head smugly high, Mat began to walk forwards. Sooner or later he'd figure out where he was supposed to go. It wasn't long until he spotted a foppish-looking chap in a cummerbund, carrying a tray of champagne flutes. Holding up a hand, Mat clicked his fingers to get the boy's attention.

"Garcon! Oi! Wine boy! Thought you'd get away from me, didn't you?" He took two glasses from the tray, downed them both in two gulps, replaced them on the tray, and then took two more. One, he offered to Charlotte.

"Now then," he began to ask the server, "Where do I find a real drink?" The server pointed off to a room where most of the noise seemed to be emanating, before muttering something about a bar and retreating into a hallway. Chuckling to himself, he turned to Charlotte. "Sooooo.... What the hell happens at these rich guy parties? Do we get pissed, or do we discuss foi gras? Or, you know....do coke in the bathroom? What happens at these?"

Because, honestly, he wasn't sure?

Watching her hobo-date down to flute of bubbly, before them handing her one, was both massively amusing, and annoying at the same time. She stifled a giggle with a sip from hers, casting her eyes around the room. If she was in the mood to swipe a bunch of stuff, she couldn't think of a better place. Unfortunately, such thoughts would have to wait until after she accomplished her main task.

"Sooooo.... What the hell happens at these rich guy parties? Do we get pissed, or do we discuss foi gras? Or, you know....do coke in the bathroom? What happens at these?"

Megan nearly choked on her champagne. Swiveling her head around to make sure no-one has heard the very distinguished Dorian van Tripton say such a thing, Megan leaned in close enough to him that her breath danced along his neck and responded.

"I swear to god, if you make me shoot champagne out of my nose in front of a bunch of snobs, so help me i'll deck you." She spotted a pair heading toward them, an elderly couple, and smiled. "As for what happens... wait and see, will you?"

"William, what do we have here?" The woman raised a pair of gold rimmed spectables to her eyes, squinting at Megan and Matt. William, her husband, cleared his throat and adjusted the bow tie that was barely holding back a fine double chin. "I don't know, Mildred. I say, have we met before, chap?"

Megan pulled away from her date as if she'd been whispering sweet-nothings into his ear, and forced a timid smile and a blush.

She leaned in so close that Mat felt a shiver of anticipation run across his skin. It didn't last long. She said it so calmly, so pleasantly that for a moment, Mat wasn't even sure she had actually said it. But she had. She'd threatened to deck him. And honestly, he had no doubt that she wouldn't actually do it. Maybe not here, at the party, but somewhere.

Wasn't his fault he was such a funny bloke...

Still, her threat gave his smirk reason to grow that bit extra. She was a fiery one. And in Mat's experience, the fiery ones were always the ones that turned out to be the most fun. Besides, from the sounds of it, the fun wasn't going to start until later. So he would be patient. Hobo patient.

"Fine, fine. I'm sorry about the champa--"

>>>"William, what do we have here?"

Mat paused mid-sentence, turning to see just who had interrupted him. Giving the couple a quick once over, Mat let his expression fall into one of cool, yet polite appraisal. After all, Dorian van Tripton was not a man to be looked down upon.

>>>"I don't know, Mildred. I say, have we met before, chap?"

Letting a smile cross his face, Mat extended a hand for the man to shake. He would take care that when he did, he would apply a firm grip, to show this rich bastard that even though Dorian van Tripton was new money, he was still worth twice as much as every person here in both character and net worth. He let the semi-convincing South African accent tinge his voice.

"I cannot say that I have had the honour, sir. Dorian van Tripton, originally of Johannesburg, though I must confess I seem to spend more time in Australia these days!" He gave a snobbish titter, and put an arm around Charlotte's back, letting his hand rest comfortably on her hip. One of the perks of being a fake jillionaire. "Charlotte, dear, I would like you to meet..." He left the sentence open for the man to introduce himself and what Mat assumed was his wife.

"William Johansen, and this is my Wife Mildred." The woman sniffed indignantly, and offered a flat, curt. "How do you do."

William ignored her for the most part, even though she tugged at his arm impatiently. It wasn't everyday he happened into bright young faces such as this, especially ones who'd received invitations to events such as this. "Good to meet you, Mr. Tripton. Would you humor an old man in his curiosity for a moment?" His wife huffed, tugging harder. "Oh William, Please! Not everyone wants to stand and chat all day about finances and stock."

He waved a hand flippantly at her, "Fine fine, i'll make it quick. Go on out to the car. I'll be but a moment."

Megan, who'd been busy batting her eyelashes and counting how many expensive jewels Mildred had on, bit back a snicker with everything she had as the woman harrumphed haughtily, excused herself, and stomped past. William, the brilliant man he was, waited until she was out of earshot before speaking. "You'll have to excuse her, menopause and all that, you know."

Megan nearly choked on her drink again.

"Now, back to business. What brings a dapper young lad such as yourself to one of Hubert's parties? He's usually such a stick in the mud when it comes to the company he keeps."

Mildred, it had to be said, was a shrew. Sour-faced, rude, tactless. The exact sort of person Mat had been expecting to meet at this shindig. William, for the time being, seemed like a halfway decent fellow.

>>>"Good to meet you, Mr. Tripton. Would you humor an old man in his curiosity for a moment?"

"Well, if you could find me an old man, I'd be happy to!" Mat made an exaggerated gesture of looking around the room, before grinning and offering a conspiratorial wink to William. He figured it wouldn't hurt to appeal to the old man's vanity. Mildew, having decided that she didn't want to be here, excused her self before leaving in a huff.

Stuck up cow.

>>>"You'll have to excuse her, menopause and all that, you know."

"Oh dear..." he said sympathetically. "The way this one nags me sometimes, you'd think she was due sometime herself. He laughed and offered Charlotte a grin, knowing he would probably pay for that remark later. "No, no, I kid. I would be lost without my Charlotte. Isn't that right, darling?" he asked his date.

>>>"Now, back to business. What brings a dapper young lad such as yourself to one of Hubert's parties? He's usually such a stick in the mud when it comes to the company he keeps."

"Ah, but Mr. Hubert also knows that if he wants the finest deals on his art pieces, that I am the man to see. And let's not kid ourselves," Mat began, gesturing around the room they stood in, "Mr. Hubert does have very expensive taste."

At least he hoped so.

He didn't know the first thing about this Hubert fella.

"Oh dear... The way this one nags me sometimes, you'd think she was due sometime herself. No, no, I kid. I would be lost without my Charlotte. Isn't that right, darling?"

If looks could kill...

William chuckled, tucking his thumbs into the pockets of his fine vest. Megan didn't miss a beat, while she batted her eyelashes at Matt. "One could say you'd be in the gutter without me, dearest~

"A woman with a fine sense of humor! Be still my beating heart, were I only forty years younger." William's brow wrinkled in mirth, and he fished in his pocket for something. "My, yes my dear Mr. Tripton. Hubert does fancy himself quite the collector, but he isn't the only one you know! Anything that stuffy old squirrel finds worthy, is at least ten times too good for him. I on the other hand, am... If you are perhaps willing to do business with me, of course." Out from a pocket he pulled a small white business card with his name and company logo swirled elegantly across the front.

"My Mildred may not seem it at first glance, but the woman has an eye for fine art. Unfortunately, she lacks patience, and if I delay much longer I will be the one sleeping with the dogs tonight!" He winked at Megan and held out his business card to Matt. "Give me a ring if will, Mr. Tripton. I'm very interested in seeing what you've got." He tipped his hat to Megan politely, shook Matt's hand once more, and excused himself to what had to be a miserable car ride home with his shrew of a wife.

Megan peered at her date for a moment, before shrugging the whole interaction off. It didn't matter in the grand scheme of things since the old bat and her husband had left. Setting her drink down on the tray of a passing butler, she tugged Matt's arm toward where the bar had been pointed out.

As it turned out, though... the bar wasn't what Megan was typically used too. There were drinks, of course, instead of just bubbly. But there was also a huge dance floor, complete with people waltzing around.

... This had not been a part of her plans for the night. Frowning slightly, she peered around for anything that resembled a punch bowl, or shrimp platter. Unfortunately, her and Matt were approached by a middle-aged couple straight off the dance floor.

"Madam, may I have this dance?" The male questioned, hardly waiting for her to even reply before he'd already started trying to pull her away. His female counter part was already reaching for Matt, ogling him up and down like he was an appetizer. "Let's dance, sugar!"