Rhymes With Prey Read Free Page A

wasn’t ruined with fruit juice. Beer was for kids, wine for the bedroom after fucking.
    Mona looked in his direction once again. But didn’t lock eyes.
    He was getting angry now. Who the hell was she talking to?
    Another scan. Little black dresses were a coward’s choice—worn by women afraid to make a statement. But in Mona’s case, he forgave her. The silk plunged and hovered just where it ought to and the cloth clung like latex paint to her voluptuous figure.
    And what hands! Long fingers, tipped in black nails.
    Hair was tough to duplicate, but hands were the most arduous of sculptors’ challenges. Michelangelo was a genius at them, finding perfect palms and digits and nails in the heart of marble.
    And James Robert Verlaine, who knew he was an artistic, if not blood, descendant of the great master, created the same magic, though with metal, not stone.
    Which was much, much tougher to accomplish.
    The crowd in Rasta’s, Midtown, was typical for this time of night—artsy sorts who were really ad agency account managers, nerds who were really artists, hipsters pathetically clinging to their fading youth like a life preserver, players from Wall Street. Packed already. Soon to be more packed.
    Finally, he caught Mona’s eye. Her gaze flickered. Could be flirt, could be fuck off.
    But Verlaine doubted the latter. He believed she liked what shesaw. Why wouldn’t she? He had a lean, wolfish face, which looked younger than his forty years. His hair, a mop, thick and inky. He worked hard to keep the do in a state of controlled unruliness. His eyes were as focused as lasers. Thin hips, encased in his trademark black jeans, tight. His work shirt was DKNY, but suitably flecked and worn. The garment was two-buttons undone with the pecs just slightly visible. Verlaine humped ingots and bars of metal around his studio and the junkyards where he bought his raw materials. Carried oxygen and propane and acetylene tanks, too.
    Another glance at Mona. He was losing control, as that familiar feeling rippled through him from chest to crotch.
    Picking up his Basil Hayden’s, he pushed away from the bar to circle Mona’s way. He tried to get past a knot of young businessmen in suits. They ignored him. Verlaine hated people like this. He detested their conformity, their smugness, their utter ignorance of culture. They’d judge art by the price tag; Verlaine bet he could wipe his ass with a canvas, spray some varnish on it, and set a reserve price of a hundred thousand bucks—and philistines like this’d fight to outbid themselves at Christie’s.
    L’art du merde.
    He pushed through the young men.
    â€œHey,” one muttered. “Asshole, you spilled my—”
    Verlaine turned fast, firing off a searing gaze, like a spurt of pepper spray. The businessman, though taller and heavier, went still. His friends stirred, but chose not to come to his defense, returning quickly to a stilted conversation about the game.
    When it was clear Mr. Brooks Brothers wasn’t going to do something stupid and get a finger or face broken, or worse, Verlaine gave him a condescending smile and moved on.
    Easing up to Mona, Verlaine hovered. He wasn’t going to play the let’s-ignore-each-other game. He was too worked up for that.He whispered, “I’ve got one advantage over who you’re talking to.” A nod at the phone.
    She stopped speaking and turned to him.
    Verlaine grinned. “I can buy you a drink and he can’t.”
    Tense. Would she balk?
    Mona looked him over. Slow. Not smiling now. She said into the phone, “Gotta go.”
    Click.
    His index finger crooked for the bartender.
    â€œSo, I’m James.”
    Playing it coy, of course. She said something. He couldn’t hear. The music at Rasta’s was a one-hundred-decibel remix of groups from twenty years ago, the worst of CBGBs.
    He leaned closer and smelled a luscious floral scent rising