Long Time Gone (Hell or High Water ) (31 page)

“Fuck you very much,” Tom growled. “I don’t need this shit.”

Tom’s head ached under the weight of Prophet’s words. They’d hit the mark, the dart in the bull’s-eye, and while Prophet meant them, he hadn’t completely said them to wound.

He’d spoken the truth and that made Tom’s world spin. Because he’d never trusted himself enough to be an effective partner—and that’s exactly what Prophet had been trying to show him the entire time.

But that familiar anger rose up, and he couldn’t get a handle on it fast enough. “Go home, Prophet. You still have one of those, right? Go to your spook or Mal or Doc and fuck your way through whoever you need to.”

“Right. Me leaving like this clears your conscience. Makes all this so much easier on you.” Prophet leaned in. “I’m staying. Gonna watch all your secrets tumble out onto the floor. Watch it get messy and ugly. And you know what? Afterward, I’ll still be here, because I’m done running from us.”

After spending two days in Etienne’s studio feeling sorry for himself, Tom manned up and emailed Phil. And then he showered and dressed for Etienne’s memorial service.

He wasn’t invited, so technically, he’d be going after the fact. And it was hot and crowded and horrible. And he swore he saw Prophet there, but when he blinked, he couldn’t find him again in the crowd.

When he’d visited Remy in the hospital, the kid had sworn Prophet hadn’t been there, but Tom knew better. Remy had been released that morning, but he’d heard rumbles that Remy’s mom wouldn’t let him come to the service.

Tom needed to keep Della involved in that. He’d given Remy Della’s number—and he’d make sure Della knew it. When she was speaking to him again.

Now, he said a prayer for his old friend, his heart heavy for the way this had ended. For being the only one to escape. But Etienne would’ve forgiven him, because the man always had. It was time for Tom to forgive himself.

He stopped at a bakery first, then drove to Della’s. Prophet’s truck was still in the driveway. He was still there, as promised.

When Tom walked through the front door, the house was warm and smelled like paint. He followed the scent, walked through the kitchen and back into the rarely used formal dining room. Prophet was painting—rolling the walls, the fan lazily blowing the hot air around the room. Prophet was caught up in the mindless work, his shirt soaked with sweat, his hair caught in a green bandana, the muscles in his arms standing out with the slickness of his skin.

What Prophet was thinking was anyone’s guess.

“How long have you known I was here?” he asked finally, and Prophet froze.

He hadn’t known.

Fuck.

Tom didn’t hesitate to move forward. Prophet still hadn’t turned around. Tom pried the roller from his hand, put it down on the tray, and turned Prophet around.

His eyes were glassy, and he was probably headed down the dehydration route. Of all people, he had to have known he was pushing it.

Which is exactly why he was doing it. Keeping busy. Refusing to give himself time to think. Or to feel.

Tom shoved a glass of iced tea into his hand, and Prophet drank greedily. Tom got a towel from the kitchen, soaked it, and brought it over to Prophet. He started by wringing it out over Prophet’s head, then wiped down his face and neck.

“’M’ fine,” Prophet rasped.

“Yeah, as fine as I am.”

Prophet glanced up at him. “I’m supposed to order you the fuck out of the house if you show.”

“You can try.”

“You like taking care of me,” Prophet murmured, like he’d finally come to terms with it.

“Could say the same thing about you.” He paused. “Phil said he didn’t give you the choice. If he had . . .”

“I don’t think I would’ve been able to let you go,” Prophet admitted. “And I’m not the type to hold anyone against their will. Problem is, I’ve got a lot of past. It’s never really going to be over. And you were relieved that I walked away.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said hoarsely. “I didn’t want that, but fuck, Prophet . . . my luck . . .”

“Fuck that—has nothing to do with luck.”

“Guess we both ran.”

“I ran toward you,” Prophet said indignantly.

“Took you months.”

“I know,” Prophet said, his voice softer.

“Don’t do that again. It’s too late to pull any more of that shit,” Tom said fiercely and Prophet lifted his head to gaze at him.

Finally, he said, “What shit?”

“The ‘I don’t want a partner’ shit. You don’t have to work for EE, but that doesn’t matter. I’m helping you from now on. Got it?”

Prophet stared at him for a long moment. “So what, I’m stuck with you?”

“Looks like it.”

Prophet shook his head almost sadly, like he felt sorry for Tommy now. “Just don’t look under the tarp in the office and you’ll be fine.”

“Trust me, I have no interest in going near it. But I’m not letting you go. I mean it.”

“I know that.”

“Do you really believe it?”

“Yes.” He glanced over at the donuts Tom had brought. “You trying to seduce me with those?”

“Yes. Is it working?”

“Yeah.”

Prophet’s smile wasn’t big, but it was enough.

“Fucking love making you smile, Proph.” He stroked through the man’s wet hair. “Love the fact that you came here for me. Weren’t ordered to. You just came. For me.”

Prophet didn’t deny it. Ran his tongue over his lower lip before biting it, like he was trying to hold something back.

He straddled Prophet and tipped the man’s head up with a hand under his chin. “Been waiting for this.”

He kissed Prophet, and Prophet groaned against his mouth, hot and sweet. He curled his hand around the back of Prophet’s neck as he tongued the roof of Prophet’s mouth. It was slow and sensual, unrushed. Hot, wet, and sticky. When he pulled back, he held into Prophet’s lower lip between his teeth for just a second before letting it go. Prophet moaned softly, then noted, “You’ve got a lot of making up to do with Della. She’s really pissed at you.”

“You. Drive me. Crazy.”

Prophet gave a smile. “Short trip.”

Tom opened his mouth. Closed it. Then, resigned to his fate, leaned in and kissed the hell out of Prophet, letting Prophet’s mouth work its magic, until all he could think about, all he wanted, was reduced to the man he held.

The man who held onto him just as tightly. And after they’d exhausted themselves kissing, made lazy by the heat and the reunion, they were both content not to rush into ripping each other’s clothes off.

Finally, Tom pulled back. He was still holding one of Prophet’s hands, and now he turned it over and traced a few of the lines he found.

“What, you’re a fortune-teller now too?” Prophet teased.

“I’ve been to enough of them. It’s a rite of passage around here.”

“Do you know if they’re bullshitting you?”

“I like to think so, but I don’t know for sure.”

“The one I saw next to Etienne’s shop . . . she told me everything was great.”

“And it’s not.”

“Did anything great happen since I saw her?” Prophet demanded.

“This isn’t bad,” Tom reminded him. “I haven’t visited one for a long time. When I was thirteen, that same woman told me I’d end up with a man whose name began with E.” He stopped cold when he saw Prophet’s face. He’d schooled it quickly, but not quickly enough. “What?”

“Nothing. Just dizzy,” Prophet lied, and Tom let it go for the moment. “Did you know you were gay then?”

“Long before that, but I didn’t go around telling people. I was surprised the fortune-teller saw that. And I already knew Etienne, had a crush on him—and then, by the following year, he was the guy I thought I’d be with forever, like you do when you’re in love for the first time.” Prophet actually growled a little, and Tom couldn’t lie that a little jealousy on that end was completely satisfying. He was about to continue when something stopped him, and he stared at Prophet for a second before asking, “What’s your real name?”

Prophet stared back at him.

“Name,” Tom repeated.

“There go those orders again.”

“You said it makes you hard.”

“No, mine make you hard,” Prophet corrected, his mouth quirked slightly to the side, like he was holding back a smile. And failing. “Name’s not a big secret.”

“Then why can’t I find it on any EE paperwork?”

“Why were you searching through my stuff?” Prophet demanded.

“For the record, I couldn’t find a single trace of your personal files in EE’s offices.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“You haven’t answered mine either.”

“Fine,” Prophet huffed. “My name’s not anywhere for security purposes. When I was in the military and the CIA, I got banned in some countries under my official passport name.”

“How many people know your actual first name?”

“It’s not a secret.”

Tom glared at him. “Then who calls you by it?”

“No one.”

“Does anyone know it?”

“My mother, I think.”

“Proph, seriously?”

“What’s it going to change? If it doesn’t start with E, what’s it going to change?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Tom told him.

“It’s Connor,” he said, and Tom grabbed him and kissed him. Because it didn’t fucking matter. All that mattered was that Prophet was here with him.

As if in agreement, Prophet kissed him back hard, then tugged Tom’s lower lip with his teeth, sucked it hard, and dragged it away before sliding his tongue along Tom’s.

“You can really get off on just kissing, can’t you?” Tom murmured when he pulled back.

“Oh yeah.” Prophet ran a thumb along his bottom lip, brushed knuckles over his cheek, and suddenly, just like that, he knew Prophet was lying.

He pushed off Prophet’s lap and stared at him. He fisted his hands to stop them from shaking.

Prophet pulled his wallet out. He handed Tom an ID card, and Tom shook his head. “I can’t find a single instance of your first name anywhere and the entire time it’s been on your driver’s license?”

“You’re all so busy digging, you forget the obvious.” Prophet still held out the license to him, and Tom still refused to take it. “You wanted to know, babe. Not the time to freak out about it. Especially when your voodoo shit turns out to be right.”

“Fuck,” Tom whispered, finally grabbed the card. He stared at it through a sudden haze of tears even as he muttered, “Son of a bitch.”

You’ll end up with a man whose name starts with E. And he’ll rip through your life like a tornado. Then again, a tornado can handle a volcano.

Prophet’s real name was Elijah. Elijah Drews.

His own fucking personal tornado.

Tom blinked. “Yeah, so Prophet works.”

“That’s only part of where it came from.”

“What’s the other half?”

Prophet’s smile lit his face. “Maybe I’ll tell you after you fuck me.”

Tom’s breath caught. “Fair enough.”

The police department unexpectedly cleared Tom and Prophet to leave the state twenty-four hours later. Just in time for a message for Tom from Phil himself, demanding his presence in EE’s offices first thing the following morning.

In sixteen hours.

“We’ll make it,” Prophet told him.

“I’m gonna need Dramamine,” Tom grumbled. But true to his word, Prophet pulled into the EE lot four minutes before Tom’s scheduled meeting with Phil. They’d barely stopped, they looked like hell, smelled like fast food, and Tom was changing his shirt on the walk into the building.

They hadn’t really discussed anything about this on the ride. They’d listened to music, talked about movies and other things unrelated to killing and shooting, and now Tom realized he was nervous. And it wasn’t about what Phil would tell him. It was because he and Prophet were back where they started . . . at EE.

It’s different now
, he told himself firmly. And he forced himself to believe it, because Prophet did.

If Prophet didn’t, they wouldn’t have made this drive together.

“What do you think the New Orleans police told Phil?” he asked Prophet now, stopping him from opening the doors to the main floor.

“Whatever he did, he owes someone there now,” Prophet noted. “And there’s going to be a hell of a lot of paperwork. But hey, we didn’t do anything totally illegal.”