Prey by Andrea Speed Read Free Book Online Page A

might accidentally kill and eat them—there was no therapy to cover a trauma like that), they kept the appliances. Paris would often get in the spirit of it, baby talking to the Infected: Prey

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    toaster and stroking it like a cat. “Would Snookums like an English muffin?” It was times like that that Roan worried he had warped Paris in some fundamental way, but a sense of humor was never a bad thing.
    He idly wondered if Paris had kept any of the numbers he got at the software expo. Although he was working and not actively flirting, over the course of the two-day conference he’d ended up with eight phone numbers, mostly men. Paris could be dangerous if he aimed his charm square at you.
    After a moment, Paris stopped laughing, and got strangely sober.
    Roan knew what was coming, and didn’t look forward to it. “If you think this kid really did run off to get infected, you know where you hafta go.”
    Roan sighed, painfully aware of where and who he was referring to.
    “I know. I was trying to work up to it. You know I have the insatiable urge to beat that bastard’s face in with a tire iron; it takes me a while to rein in my homicidal impulses.”
    “Ro, come on. I know you hate him—”
    “Hate? That’s too mild a word. I despise the drunken episode that led to his goddamn conception, and I despise his brother for not bashing his head in with a fucking shovel when he had the chance.”
    Paris sat back and stared at him, bemusement clearly visible in his expression. “And you don’t think that’s a bit… dramatic?”
    He knew Paris was just trying to tease, but he wasn’t in the mood.
    “You’re not gonna tell me you can actually stand that fucker, are you?”
    Paris frowned at him, like he should have known better. “Of course not. I’m not sure anyone sane likes Eli. I mean, how could you? He’s like a television evangelist without a show.”
    He wasn’t sure he completely followed that metaphor, but okay. Eli was Elijah Prophet, aka Eli Winters, leader of the cult that called itself the
    “Church of the Divine Transformation,” the premiere kitty cult. (Roan thought that was a perfect name; it sounded great in the sentence “The FBI raided the Church of the Divine Transformation today….”) It was well-known, and it was more blatant than any other kitty cult, mainly because Eli was an heir to the rather large Winters real estate development fortune, which he split with his more respectable and notably embarrassed brother Tom. Anyone who said there was no such thing as 32
    Andrea
    Speed

    class distinctions in America was living in a dream world, and Eli was living proof: not only were the rich different, they apparently had different laws applied to them. Eli had a taste for underage girls, everybody knew this, and his cult seemed to attract quite a few of them. But oddly enough, in spite of rumors and a police investigation, he’d never been charged with a damn thing. Roan had always wanted to nail that smug fucker with something—anything—but had never been able to do so.
    Until now?
    Paris slid off his stool and said, “Why don’t I go change? I’ll come with you.”
    “No, it’s fine. I can handle this myself.”
    “I’m sure you can, but I think I’d better come along, if only to keep Rainbow distracted.” He then leaned in close over Roan’s shoulder and smiled, turning on the full wattage of his charm. This close it was almost palpable. “Besides, if it comes down to it, I can always say he threw the first punch.” Paris then gave him a kiss on the forehead and walked away, so confident in his ability to sway him that he didn’t even look back.
    Roan sighed and shook his head at his own pathetic reaction. He should go by himself, but he already knew he wasn’t going to. He idly wondered if things would have been any easier if he’d been heterosexual.
    His cell phone buzzed impatiently in his pocket, and he dug it out and checked the number to decide if he should