Long Time Gone (Hell or High Water ) (25 page)

Prophet grunted and took another drink. “Why can’t we move faster?”

It went on like that for an hour, until the sun went down, the boat pulled into a slip, and Mick opened the tent, motioning for them to come out. Together, they moved quickly into a house on stilts hidden behind a mass of cypress trees and moss.

“Where’s this?” Prophet asked.

“Two parishes over. More of a vacation spot,” Tom told him.

Prophet shook his head, looked around in disbelief. “Who the fuck would want to vacation here? People keep trying to kill people.”

“Don’t let him drink anymore,” Mick told Tom.

“There was nothing else to do,” Prophet defended himself as he walked through the front door, then fell onto the couch. “Going to sleep this off.”

“You do that,” Mick said, then stared at Tom. “You all right?”

“Better than yesterday, yeah.”

“Blue and I are going to head back to your parish to try to figure this shit out. Call if you get into trouble.”

“Will do.”

Blue dropped a large bag in front of Tom. “Supplies.”

“Thanks.”

Mick put a hand on his shoulder. “And Tom? Even drunk, Prophet can do more damage than anyone can imagine. Just keep that in mind.”

Tom would add it to the stack of things to keep, because everything
was
on his mind, so much so that, once Mick and Blue left, he had no idea what to do with himself and his nervous energy. He checked Prophet’s phones and his own—no calls from Della or Etienne. Or Remy.

Jesus, E, where the fuck are you?

He and Prophet had avoided talking a lot about Etienne being missing, because they both knew what it meant. Based on what had happened to Miles and Donny . . . fuck, the chances of Etienne being found alive were slim.

The past was never really dead—Tom was living proof—but there was a difference between being haunted by it and facing judgment for it. And because he couldn’t stop his mind from racing, he at least tried to stop his body, because he was about to collapse from exhaustion.

He ended up squashing himself into the corner of the couch, hoping that being close to Prophet physically would calm him.

It didn’t. Too overtired to sleep, he squirmed and shifted so much he woke the guy. He looked down as Prophet maneuvered himself so his head was in Tom’s lap, and he was staring up at Tom.

“Are they gone?” Prophet asked.

“Yes.”

“I know they said they were going, but are they really gone?”

Tom slid his hand gingerly through Prophet’s hair. The knot on the side of his head had gone down a little, but he could tell by the way Prophet moved that he was in pain. “I heard the boat.”

“So we’re like, stuck here?”

“Looks that way.”

Prophet sighed. “I can’t believe you came back here to work.”

“Figured I could make a difference.”

Prophet’s hand came up to stroke his cheek. “Did you?”

He’d come back to stop the sheriff’s son from continuing to run that same survival shit he’d barely lived through—and to stop him from torturing any young kids who were different. And he’d succeeded in the former, but the latter . . . that had been an everyday challenge, and not just with the sheriff. The community at large hadn’t changed much. Maybe it had always been a losing battle, but at least Tom could look back with pride on some of the kids he’d mentored here, kids he’d made sure to help get out of the bayou and off to college—or at least to a city where they could meet like-minded people. “Yeah,” he said now. “I did. But I wanted to do more. The sheriff who tortured me . . . his son Rob and I worked as deputies under a different sheriff. When he decided to retire, I didn’t want to think about what would happen if Rob took office.”

“And that’s why you ran against him?”

“Three years running, after I saw that I couldn’t change anything being his right-hand man.”

Prophet raised a brow. “Robin to his Batman.”

Tom snorted. “He wishes. He hated me as much as his old man had.”

“How the hell did you keep your job?”

Ah, don’t go there, Proph.
“I did what I had to do in order to help the kids around here.”

“Five years, T,” Prophet said gently. “You stayed here five years and lived with this shit. Like you were punishing yourself.”

When he didn’t answer that, Prophet stared at him quizzically, and then sighed. “Shit, T, I didn’t mean . . .”

But Prophet had hit the bull’s-eye with his original question, because what had happened in the bayou was exactly the reason—the only reason—Tom had been allowed into the sheriff’s department in the first place. “Look, the old sheriff made me keep a secret. The guy’s son knew it—the only other person who did. It was like we were blackmailing each other. He knew I couldn’t say anything, no matter how miserable he tried to make me. But he also knew he couldn’t ever fire me. I figured my happiness shouldn’t matter, as long as I was able to make a difference in some kid’s life.”

“I can’t fault you for that.” Prophet ran a hand through his hair, his expression tight. He didn’t say anything else for a long time.

“Did
you
make a difference?” Tom asked.

Prophet must have known exactly what he was asking, because he said, “I hope so. Hard to tell when you can’t fix everything.”

“Maybe we should stop that shit.”

“Yeah, you first, Voodoo.”

“I like that better than Cajun.”

“I’ll note that for when I order the T-shirts.” Prophet’s smile was small, but it was there, and fuck, the man was beautiful when he smiled. “Did Phil send you to the shrink?”

“You know you wouldn’t call Sarah that to her face, right?” Prophet shrugged, a half grin on his face and Tom conceded, “Yeah, I saw her a few times a week for a couple of weeks before I left for Eritrea. She’s pretty cool. You ever see her screensaver?”

“Two guys in leather? I sent it to her,” Prophet said.

“Fucking figures.”

Prophet narrowed his eyes. “So, you’re into leather?” Tom cursed, and Prophet continued, “Did Sarah tell you what you needed to hear?”

“I guess so. You and EE make me feel like I can do anything.” Prophet gave him a slightly drunken grin, but the blush told Tom everything. He decided to push his luck a little. “The jobs you took . . .”

“Yeah?” Prophet changed from smiling to wary at warp speed.

“More dangerous than EE?”

“Ah, Jesus, T. Compliment me and then use it to get stuff out of me? That’s . . . a good technique.” He shook his head. “Okay, fine. Regarding the danger—I’m used to flying without a net.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means I took black-ops jobs in between EE jobs all the time,” Prophet told him. “Some Phil found out about and some he didn’t.”

“You need to be spanked.”

Prophet paused to consider this, asked, “Will you be wearing leather while you do it?” and then his stomach growled. Loudly.

“Way to break the mood. Wait here.”

“I wasn’t going to get up and cook,” Prophet called after him. “Check for leather in the bag.”

Tom shook his head as he rifled through the supplies Blue brought . . . and dammit all to hell if he didn’t find a pair of leather cuffs in there. He pocketed them, pulled out a couple of sodas and sandwiches, and brought them back to the couch. Prophet sat up next to him, started eating.

“Are you going back to EE?” Tom asked.

“No,” Prophet said sharply.

“I know Phil regrets letting you leave.”

“Yeah? Did he tell you that or put it in the company newsletter?”

“EE has a newsletter?”

Prophet glanced at him sideways. “Just a Christmas one. Make sure to get him the picture of you in your Santa boxers.”

“You’ve got a Santa kink?”

Prophet stared at the ceiling and mouthed a silent prayer. “I’m not going back to EE.”

“And I’m guessing you don’t want to talk about what happened.”

“You are correct, sir.”

Tom frowned.

“Fine,” Prophet huffed. “Look, out of everyone, Phil knows me. Knows who I am and what I do. He can’t promise to be okay with that and then suddenly turn around and punish me for it. I’m too old to change. And too old for broken promises, T.”

Tom didn’t say anything, just stroked a hand through Prophet’s hair. The betrayal was evident, from the set of Prophet’s shoulders to the look of cool granite in his eyes.

“Don’t,” Prophet warned.

“Okay.”

“You’re thinking it.”

“But I did the same fucking thing Phil did, Proph.”

“No, you didn’t,” Prophet said evenly. “You didn’t sign on for me.”

“But I wanted to after I met you. That has to count.”

“It does,” Prophet told him. “And I don’t want to talk about me and EE anymore.”

“I get that, but . . . I thought you were supposed to take over?”

“Things change.”

“So you really didn’t come to my aunt’s house because Phil asked you to?”

“He didn’t ask me. Even if he had, I did this for you, T. Get that straight—for
you
.”

Prophet paused. “Your aunt put me in her will.”

“Yeah, right.” But he didn’t discount that possibility, because Prophet had a way of getting under your skin. And Tom had stopped minding it, because embracing it was much easier.

Prophet rubbed his palms along his thighs, and his expression was one that Tom was beginning to understand all too well. The man was restless. Caged-lion restless. But the problem was there was no place to go.

But there was something to do. He pulled the leather cuffs out of his pocket and Prophet’s eyes widened. “You don’t want to talk, this is your other option.”

For the briefest of moments, he swore Prophet would say no, was even beginning to curse himself for bringing up binding Prophet’s wrists. But then Prophet’s eyes darkened, and his cheeks flushed a little when he said, “Jesus Christ,” and then, “Use me, Tommy.”

It was part order, part plea. Watching Prophet carefully, Tom opened the cuffs, the ripping sound of Velcro reverberating around the room. Prophet swallowed hard as he stared at the bindings, but then he moved his gaze up to Tom’s eyes and stood his ground. Tom’s cock hardened in a rush, piercings rubbing against his jeans. Prophet glanced down between his legs, but he was waiting—so still, maybe the most still Tom’d ever seen him.

“Stay there,” he told Prophet, and the man gave the briefest of nods, trusting him. He moved behind Prophet and tugged at the bottom of his shirt, murmuring, “Take this off.”

Prophet did, without turning around, kept his hands at his sides. Tom ran a hand over his back, tracing the muscles, planning tattoos he could put over the smooth skin. Prophet usually shuddered whenever Tom did that, and this time was no exception.

He grabbed one of the man’s forearms and brought it behind his lower back. Wrapped a cuff around it and closed up. The metal chain between the cuffs clinked softly in the quiet room, as he did the same to the other wrist, then pressed a kiss to the back of Prophet’s neck. He walked back around and faced Prophet for a long moment, before putting a hand on his shoulder and pushing down. “On your knees.”

His voice sounded husky to his own ears. Rough too, and his throat was thick—with lust, with a million other emotions that only intensified when Prophet sank down as ordered and tugged at Tom’s zipper with his teeth.

Tom threaded his hand in Prophet’s hair and pulled him back. Pulled his own zipper down with his free hand, slowly, exposing his piercings one by one as he freed his cock. “That what you’re looking for?”

“Yeah, Tommy,” Prophet murmured. “Fucking let me.”

Tom guided Prophet forward by his hair, and Prophet licked the head of his cock, then sucked it into his mouth up to the ridge, swirling his tongue around and down, just enough to flick the first piercing.

Tom jolted, because Prophet had taken him in several creative ways, but not like this, on his knees. And what made it hotter was the way Prophet watched him, submissive, and yet the look in his eyes told Tom he was still in goddamned charge. Tom was more than happy to let him be right, even as he showed him how wrong he was.

Prophet pulled back a little, a wicked look in his eyes as he looked up at Tom. He licked slowly along the ladder of piercings, and then he paid special attention to each one, tugging the barbells between his teeth until Tom hissed or groaned and tightened his grip on Prophet’s hair warningly. Each time, Prophet would comply, letting his dick go, and he’d wait patiently, and each time Tom brought his mouth back to his cock, he was rewarded with the tug and pull, lick-suck-twist motion. His pain-pleasure center intertwined to where Tom could barely pick out which was which. He knew he just wanted more.

Prophet’s tongue cushioned the piercings as he took Tommy down his throat, as far as he could. Tom’s hand slid into his hair, then tightened, holding Prophet there, and he moaned at the sucking, wet heat, his hips jerking with zero rhythm. Prophet hummed around his dick—or maybe he was laughing at how Tom had almost lost it, and that didn’t matter because
oh yeah
, that tingled up his spine. Watching Prophet’s lips stretched around his cock, knowing they’d be red and swollen afterwards, and that he’d still kiss the shit out of him made him moan.

God, he needed this release—they both did. Because as much as this was about sex and pleasure, it was also about need. And they both showed their need for each other so well this way.

He held Prophet in place, using the man the way he’d asked. Thrusting into his mouth, fucking it, and when Prophet groaned around his cock, Tom held fast to his hair, bucking harder.

And Prophet was bound. For him. He wasn’t fighting the cuffs at all, and the sight of this strong man surrendering, watching him with an unrelenting gaze even as he took everything Tom had was too much. And when he came in a hot rush, he didn’t even consider pulling out of Prophet’s mouth—and Prophet’s mouth sucked him in too tightly anyway. He clutched Prophet’s hair as he shot down the man’s throat, and Prophet kept his eyes looking upward at Tom the entire time. Locked and loaded by his gaze, like the goddamned first time they’d met.

“You always have to have the last word,” Tom croaked, after his body stopped shuddering. Mostly.