prey
Paris.
The balcony is barely wider than a ledge, three dusty tiles in a row hemmed in by a wrought iron balustrade. He leans over the railing, wrists dangling, and looks out into the narrow street below. On the opposite patio, a few miscellaneous shirts and socks dry on a clothesline. There are potted herbs clustered on decks and windowsills, lace-lined white curtains swaying behind slightly ajar windows. The breeze, when it fans across his cheek, carries the scent of baked bread. The boulangerie three floors down must be closing soon. The sun has nearly set, the last vestiges of daylight following workers home for dinner.
His job here is technically done; the information’s changed hands. But his flight isn’t scheduled for another two days, and Zeke’s in no rush to leave. He likes it here — not so much the paved avenues strung with lights and flocking with tourists, but the residential back alleys and hole-in-the-wall cafés. The leisurely pace of life, the good food and wine.
He turns a pack of Gauloises the previous tenant left behind over in his hands, studying the warning label: Fumer nuit gravement à votre santé. It’s horribly incongruous with the otherwise glamorous packaging. He thinks it’s a bit pointless to include. People will remain willfully oblivious when confronted with their own mortality. Or maybe even run headlong towards it.
Judging from its weight, the box is still half-full. On a whim, he shakes out a cigarette and holds it between his teeth, unlit. The mock-smoke quickly loses its appeal. He may be bored and restless, but smoking wouldn’t sate that.
Zeke returns inside and drops the box on the coffee table. Perhaps the tenant after him would find some use out of it.
The second it slips out of his fingers the doorbell sounds. He moves to answer it, buttoning up his open dress shirt with one hand. He skips a few buttons to save time, unbothered by the slivers of skin that peek out. Surely it’s warranted in his own (temporary) home.
As for the guest. At this hour, the list of possibilities is short for a stranger in a foreign land — a neighbor, the landlord, police or…
The frown sets in before he’s aware of it, a minuscule dip between the brows. The door swings inward on well-oiled hinges, without fanfare.
Speak of the devil and he doth appear.
The man standing at his door is devilishly handsome and immaculately dressed in a burgundy three-piece suit. The tailored cut and richly woven fabrics clue him in to the outfit’s price. Any ignorant passerby might’ve pegged the man a model, or actor — not a particularly rare sighting in the City of Lights.
But Zeke knows better. Face wiped of expression, his gaze falls to the things the man carries. (The price of admission, Cain likes to joke.) In one hand, an oversized bouquet of red roses, stems bunched with a lace ribbon. In the other, a brown paper bag topped with groceries. He spots a bottle of wine and a baguette from the boulangerie downstairs.
“Been a while, huh babe?” Cain grins toothily.
Zeke closes his eyes and envisions shutting the door in his face. It’s only a fancy. He pulls the door open wider, a wordless invitation, and turns his back, stepping away.
“You’re too conspicuous, honey. Shouldn’t people in your line of work blend in?” He doesn’t bother turning on the lights, slumping down on the sofa instead. Cain shouldn’t expect much from his hospitality.
His guest seems content with his reception regardless, ambling to the kitchenette with the same dumb smile. The refrigerator light flickers on, and Cain makes himself right at home, unpacking groceries.
“Ah, you don’t have much in here.”
I eat out. “What’s with the get-up?” Zeke asks, ignoring the comment.
“It’s a special occasion.” From the noise, Cain is opening and closing cabinets, looking through drawers. A frenetic, celebratory ruckus.
“What’s with the flowers?”
“Same deal.”
Zeke has nothing else he wants to know. He shuts his eyes again, fingers curling into the cushion. He opens them when the nape of his neck starts tingling, gooseflesh rising. Cain’s eyes are on him. The other’s stripped off his jacket, reclining casually against the doorframe between the kitchen and living room. Arms crossed, Cain watches him without a trace of mirth left on his lips. His pupils are dilated to catch the fleeing daylight from the open balcony, features outlined in half-shadow. His stare never wavers — predatory.
Unflinching, Zeke holds it, even as his knuckles whiten and his fingers grow numb. The shadows deform like putty. Somewhere a door slams.
Cain breaks first. Innocuously, he asks: “Have you eaten yet? I can whip something up real quick.”
Zeke’s mouth twists. “I’m not hungry. You can cut the bullshit.”
“I’m serious.” Cain pushes off and takes one step forward, and another, slow and measured, as if Zeke might skitter away.
Yes. That’s the problem.
