Free Prey by Andrea Speed Page B

to fit in with a crowd he had either outgrown or simply wanted to take advantage of. Either way, he probably had a sheet of minor crimes as long as his forearm; not a major-league bad guy, just a loser that teenagers would think was “cool” for about three years, then they’d wake up and see the crabs and smell the spilled bong water.
    “Can you give me something more to go on? Address, phone number, guy’s real name?”
    Nose Ring just shrugged, looking past him as if he was already bored with the conversation. “I dunno, never really thought about it. It’s like at the end of Noble and Westerly.”
    He was vaguely certain of the location. The East End was actually relatively rural, and the only Westerly Road he knew of was a couple miles down from his place, so that would have put Tweak at the butt end of the East End, closer to him than to the church. But that part of the East End was—no shock—a haven for meth houses. “Like, thanks,” he said, with a sarcasm that seemed to miss Nose Ring entirely. If he had said
    “like” one more time, Roan would have punched that kid in the stomach.
    Paris was still hogging the dance floor with his harem of admirers, but Roan shoved his way into the inner circle and simply stood there, enduring death looks from teen girls in too much lip gloss, until he finally caught Paris’s eye. He simply jerked his head toward the door, then turned and fought his way through the crowd, leaving the auditorium. Roan went 50
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    out a side door, so he didn’t have to run into Rainbow or Smithers again.
    He realized he hadn’t gone to see Eli, but fuck it; he could always come back and kick his ass later.
    He was out in the car, using his laptop to figure out exactly where Noble and Westerly met (there were so many people using Wi-Fi connections in their own homes, you could just borrow anyone’s connection for Web surfing), when Paris finally got out to the car, slipping into the passenger seat, panting and breathless. “Damn,” he gasped, lifting up the hem of his T-shirt and using it to wipe his sweaty face. “I forgot what a workout that is. Got a lead?”
    “Yeah, a kid thought he recognized Danny as one of the kids hanging around a crash pad owned by a burn-out named Tweaks. I’m just confirming the address.” After a moment, and a peek at Paris’s wonderfully flat stomach out of the corner of his eye as he continued to use his T-shirt to mop up sweat, Roan asked, “You didn’t brush off your jeans, did you?”
    He pulled his shirt down, and looked at him curiously. “No, why?
    Should I have?”
    “Yeah. That girl who grabbed your ass left glitter all over the back of your pants.”
    Paris tried to raise up enough in his seat to look at the back of his jeans, but couldn’t quite manage. Once he’d settled back down, he looked over at him with the slyest of smiles. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?”
    He sighed and shut the laptop. “No, I just don’t like trying to get glitter out of leather seats.”
    Paris’s wry look didn’t go away; in fact, it was starting to get really annoying. “It’s kind of cute, you know. To know you actually have some kind of insecurity somewhere.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” He tossed the laptop in the backseat, and suddenly regretted asking. “No, forget it, we have to—”
    Paris reached over and grabbed his chin, turning Roan’s face toward his. He scooted closer on the seat too—boy, these Mustangs had more seat room than you’d think. “You are so funny. You do know I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone, right? Well, admittedly, I never really loved anyone before, but saying that blunts the impact. I know you’ve got the whole hard-boiled detective thing going on, but I know what you’re really Infected: Prey

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    like. I know that under all that armor you’re the most decent man I’ve ever met. You’re my hero.”
    He slid Paris’s hand off his face, and looked out the