Long Time Gone (Hell or High Water )

by SE Jakes

  “Let’s go.” Lew pulled him out of the car roughly, nearly hitting Tom’s head on the edge of the door. He’d also put the cuffs on him so damned tightly that Tom’s hands had gone numb, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Bad loque,” he heard one of the cops mutter as he was pulled along. Lew walked him down the steps to the overcrowded cell in the basement. Lew gave a hard tug on the cuffs before he took them off and shoved Tom inside, saying, “Guys, this is Tom—he’s a former sheriff’s deputy. Treat him as such.”

  There was an immediate buzz through the jailed men—a couple of catcalls, mixed with rumbles of the kind of violence that sprang up fast and uncontrollable. Violence he understood.

  Bad luck. Bad news.

  He flexed his hands to get the blood flowing now that the cuffs were off and put his back to the wall in the far corner. He didn’t need training to tell him to do that; he’d learned at a young age that if his daddy was coming for him and there was no escape, he wouldn’t get as hurt this way. Because at some point, his father would hit his fist against the wall instead of Tom and, if he was lucky, that would stop him. If he wasn’t, Tom would at least get one less blow.

  He pulled himself back to focus on the situation at hand. This wasn’t the time to be dragged into the past, not when he was locked in this cell with fifteen other men, all in various states of intoxication and aggravation. The only air came from the large fan positioned overhead toward the open bars, but it barely moved the sticky air.

  “Cop, huh?” one of the men said, his tattoos unmistakably those of a gang member.

  “Not anymore,” Tom said.

  “So what, you’re just like one of us?”

  Tom didn’t answer, felt the fight build inside of him, wouldn’t be surprised if smoke started coming out of his ears. It had nothing to do with the men surrounding him. They would simply be the unfortunate ones to suffer the brunt of his anger.

  He stared straight ahead, willed himself to stay calm. Made a mental note to ask Prophet how exactly he managed to do so.

  “So, cop, what do you want us to know about you?”

  Tom smiled and surrendered to the inevitable. Because you couldn’t escape your fucking past, so why bother trying? “I’d rather show you.”

  Prophet waited in the back of Etienne’s car, in the lot across the street from the police station. While he waited, the radio he’d lifted blurted out the news that there’d been a brawl in the downstairs cell.

  And no surprise that Tom Boudreaux was involved.

  “Fuck, Tommy,” he muttered, punched the door of the car with the side of his fist. Watched tensely as an ambulance came and took away four men. None of whom were Tommy, which made his stomach unclench. So Tom had started—and finished—the brawl, apparently. And all he’d have to show for it would be an entirely new crop of enemies and some bruises. It also meant that there might be some assault charges pending. Which he’d find out if Etienne ever got the fuck back out here. He pondered storming the station but figured he’d make things worse.

  Speaking of worse . . .

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket when he heard the beep of a text that he recognized from his personal phone. Hoped it was from Tommy—like maybe the asshole could’ve made Prophet his one phone call—but knew it wouldn’t be.

  Cillian asking, How’s the bayou?

  Bayou’s fine. I guess they didn’t kill you.

  They certainly tried. I hear your partner’s in a bit of trouble.

  “How the hell does he know that?” Prophet muttered. How the hell do you know that?

  Don’t bother searching your phone for chips.

  Then how do you know?

  Prophet, I know everything.

  Fuck him, Cillian did. Yeah, and? You gonna help him?

  I don’t think I’m his favorite person. He’s not exactly mine, either, since I know you stood me up for him. Although I know as well as anyone that work comes first.

  Prophet nearly typed, Tom’s not work, but something stopped him. Maybe it was for Tom’s protection, or something else, but he simply answered, Figured you’d understand.

  Seriously, anything?

  Got it covered.

  Good to know. Speaking of cover, please, tell Tom that, although I can appreciate his watchdoggedness, I prefer not to be investigated. Especially not by amateurs.

  Ah, fuck. Should’ve known Tommy would do something like that. An odd part of him stirred, though, at the thought of Tommy doing shit like that for him. I’ll tell him, but I’m not his mother.

  No, definitely not that, Cillian responded. After several moments of nothing, Prophet was ready to put the phone away when Cillian texted again. Answer me one question, though. Have you lost any sleep wondering what I was going to do to you once I got you on that couch?

  Prophet snorted, then stilled. He waited the appropriate amount of time that wouldn’t trigger any of Cillian’s psychological tendencies and typed, How do you know I wasn’t going to be doing that shit to you?

  Ah, yes, well . . . that’s enough to make *me* lose sleep tonight.

  Prophet closed the phone because Etienne was strolling back to the car, an hour after he’d gone inside. He got in behind the wheel and started the car.

  “Aren’t we going in for Tom?” Prophet asked.

  “They already released him. He took off.” Etienne tightened his hands on the wheel and blew out a breath.

  “Either your family works miracles, or Lew really was busting his chops when he arrested him,” Prophet muttered.

  “Yeah, well, it’s a lot of both, with a bit of sometimes the truth prevails. The ME says that Miles OD’d and cut his wrists. They’re calling it a suicide.” Etienne slammed the wheel with the butt of his palm.

  “And you don’t buy that? I saw the AA book in his room.”

  “It wasn’t just an OD. He’d been clean for six months—the longest he’d ever been clean since he was a teenager.”

  “Addicts slip all the time,” Prophet said. Refused to add, They can’t help themselves, because he didn’t always believe that everyone couldn’t curtail their behaviors.

  “There’s no lost love between me and Miles. None. So if I don’t believe it . . .” Etienne paused. “I can’t fucking believe I’m still dealing with this shit. Should’ve pulled up stakes like Tom warned me to.”

  “Seems like he’s got problems staying away.”

  Etienne stared at him in the rearview. “You can handle him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “I’m here, right? Can we go fucking find him before he finds more trouble?”

  Etienne sighed, pulled keys out of his pocket and tossed them back to Prophet. “Those’ll let you in to where he went—bet my life on it. I’ll drop you off.”

  “I can get there on my own.”

  “I’m sure you can, but . . .”

  “But?”

  “I’m not going to be responsible for any more loss, all right? Tom needs you.” He started the car and then paused. “Miles was deep into his recovery.”

  “What aren’t you telling me? Beyond what you and Tom did when you were together that has someone threatening the hell out of you.”

  Etienne ignored the last part. “The rumors started after Miles’s last few AA meetings.”

  “The meetings that are supposed to be confidential?”

  “Yep. And then Miles calls me. When I didn’t answer, he wrote me a letter.”

  “Do you have it?”

  “I almost burned it, but I didn’t want the bad karma.”

  “You people and your curses.”

  Etienne glared at him but didn’t say a word. “He also wrote Tom a letter. I’m guessing the basics are the same. I wasn’t going to pass it along to Tom but . . .” He reached into his back pocket as he drove, nearly running them off the road, and handed Prophet a sealed envelope with Tom’s name on the front. Prophet stared at it, then put it into his pocket.

  E
tienne frowned. “Aren’t you gonna read it?”

  “I’m going to give it to Tom.”

  “You really don’t know what happened to us.”

  “No. Want to share? Because I’m guessing you didn’t bother to share with Lew.”

  All Etienne would say was, “It’s a mess—and Lew knows all about it. The story’s something that should come from Tom, not from me. But Miles confessing opened a whole can of worms. Probably for Donny too.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Miles’s best friend. Well, former. They had a falling-out years ago. He probably got a letter too.”

  Prophet understood Etienne’s instinct to protect Tommy by not giving him more details about Miles—couldn’t fault him for it, actually, since he’d been trying to protect Tom since he’d met him. Then again, it wasn’t like Tom asked for it or wanted it. Which is probably why Prophet and Etienne did it. “Can I see those texts again?”

  Etienne handed him his phone. “I had a friend trace them. Couldn’t, because they’re from a throwaway.”

  “Mind if I check their work?”

  “Knock yourself out. Just get me the phone back when you can.”

  Like Prophet didn’t have enough phones already, and all of them seemed to bring him nothing but trouble. Still, he pocketed it and asked, “How can I get in touch with Donny?”

  “You can’t.”

  “Okay, Etienne, enough with the cloak-and-dagger shit. I’m guessing you can get in touch with him and tell him to lay low, then? It’s not like I have a lot of time to travel down the rest of Tom’s memory lane here.”

  “Donny’s not my favorite person, but yeah, I can.” Etienne paused. “Tom’s past is gonna come out, and it’s gonna get ugly. You sure you’re up for this? Because up ’til now, I’ve tried to keep you out, like Tom’d want, but you’re a stubborn son of a bitch.”

  “Yeah, I know that,” Prophet muttered. “And I’m not sure of anything.” Etienne glanced at him in the rearview again, looked like he was going to say something, but changed his mind, shut his mouth, and drove Prophet through the flooded streets that turned to pure mud back roads of the bayou that was the source of all Tommy’s pain.

  Prophet let the door swing open to the small cabin, tucked deep in the bayou, that Etienne called his studio. But he didn’t walk through it. Not immediately.

  He’d made Etienne drop him off down the road so Tom wouldn’t hear the car coming, and obviously his voodoo-ometer was off, because he whirled around, surprised. Drew his weapon.

  For a second, he kept it raised between them. Prophet stared at it and then at him, and Tom slowly lowered his arm and rested the gun back on an old table that was covered in paint, like the floor.

  The little shit just stood there, surrounded by canvases in progress, looking at him defiantly. His face was bruised, his knuckles bloody, and it was hard to imagine that not more than eight hours ago, they had been fucking. And closer to common ground than Prophet could’ve ever hoped for.

  Prophet strolled in, closed the door behind him with a slam. Grabbed a chair, turned it around, and sat, his arms folded over its back. “So . . . you and Cope.”

  Tom furrowed his brow. “Me and Cope?”

  “You’re getting along, then? You spent a lot of quality time with him.”

  “He’s straight, you know.”

  “Did you hit on him without realizing that?”

  “God,” Tom snarled, “I want to hit you when you act like that with me.” And yep, the brawl had made his anger worse. The place reverberated with it.

  “Business as usual,” Prophet said quietly. “Good to know nothing’s changed.”

  “Right. Nothing’s changed.”

  “Emphasis noted.” The silence stretched between them like a lonely road. “So, did you kill your ex-boyfriend?”

  “Jesus H. Christ, Prophet.”

  “It’s a legitimate question.”

  “Only from an asshole. And Miles is not my fucking ex-boyfriend.” Tom ran a hand through his hair. It was longer than Prophet was used to. A couple of months in EE did that to most operatives.

  He also noted that the bracelet he was used to seeing on Tommy’s wrist was gone. He glanced at the table, where Tom’s gun and wallet were, and the bracelet lay there, most likely taken off when he was booked, but not put back on. “I’m supposed to call my watchdog off,” he said quietly.

  Tom blinked. Comprehended faster than he’d pretended to. “Is that what you’re doing?”

  “It’s better if you stop following him.”

  “You’re into doing what Cillian tells you to?” Tom’s voice was low and dangerous.

  “I’m into people not being in my business.”

  “Right. Just a select few are allowed in.”

  “I don’t want anyone in more danger because of me than they need to be.”

  “Right.” Tom’s drawl was as thick as the tension.

  “I didn’t kill your ex,” Prophet said, in part to change the topic. And, in part to piss Tom off. “But he did call me. Wanted me to meet him.”

  Tom’s hands fisted, then opened. “About what?”

  “You.”

  “Are you making this shit up?”

  “Why would I do that? Figured Etienne and I should pool our knowledge and figure out why the fuck you were almost framed.”

  “I know why.”

  “Want to share with the class?”

  Tom threw himself into a seat. Based on his expression, the answer was a solid no, but Prophet never let that stop him. “Not really, Teach.”

  “Sarcasm’s my domain, not yours,” Prophet informed him seriously. “Who the fuck was Miles to you?”

  “Someone who made my goddamned life hell when I was growing up. Just like ninety percent of the fucking parish. Happy now?” Tom stood so fast the chair fell behind him.

  “Thrilled,” Prophet said dryly. “Now sit the fuck back down, because Teach isn’t done.”

  Tom fought the urge to say make me, because that would make everything so much worse. His temper was already tipped and it wouldn’t be hard to slam him back over that edge.

  Please, Proph, don’t push me there, he begged silently, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. His stomach recoiled at the look in Prophet’s eyes. Eyes, between the color of slate and granite, liquid steel, a black-bellied cloud, low and dangerous enough to make Tom’s throat tighten.

  So he sat, because he couldn’t hide from Prophet’s gaze.

  Finally, Prophet stood. Shoved the chair out of the way as he slowly closed the distance between them. “You separated from me back there. That’s a lot different than disagreeing on which way to go. You don’t fucking separate from me. We work together.”

  “Thought we weren’t partners.”

  “We were working together today. Christ, T, do you do this on goddamned purpose? Push your partners away so you can prove no one listens to you?”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “And now you’re hiding out here—”

  Tom stood and shoved his chair out of the way too. “I’m not hiding.”

  “Really?’

  “Lew knows I’m here. The sheriff knows I’m here. The whole fucking parish does.”

  “Is that why I wasn’t informed, because I’m not part of your fucking parish?”

  “You don’t need any of this shit coming down on you because of me,” Tom said.

  Prophet’s jaw clenched, and he paused, like he was taking a moment to acknowledge the painful irony of those words. But then, “Did you lose it in the fight today?”

  Tom winced internally. “I don’t remember.” His voice sounded hollow, even to his own ears.

  “Let me guess—Lew put you in a cell with fuckups. Maybe even told them you used to be a deputy, right?”

  Tom refused to answer, so Prophet continued, demanding, “You do know where the cops were planning on putting you if you hadn’t been released, right? General population, right? Letting ev
eryone know you were a cop and a Fed.” Prophet sucked in a deep breath and growled, “And maybe, just fucking maybe, if you’d waited for me, you wouldn’t be in this goddamned mess.”

  “Because you would’ve stopped me from running into a house with a body on the floor?”

  “I think you’d have more goddamned sense, considering the reputation you apparently have in this shithole.”

  That definitely hit the mark Prophet had to have been aiming for. Tom placed a hand over his chest because it felt like Prophet’s words had pierced his goddamned heart, and Prophet looked pleased. But he was apparently far from done.

  Tom backed up as Prophet advanced toward him. But he ran out of space and hit the wall. Prophet didn’t stop, his gray eyes boring into Tom’s, so dark and angry and somehow freaking exquisite at the same time. His hair was longer, fell across his forehead, and Tom remembered holding Prophet in place by it earlier. When he’d been in control.

  Semi-control.

  He wasn’t in that position now if Prophet’s predatory stance was any indication. And the man moved fast, grabbing him, picking him up, and Tom struggled for just a second before Prophet growled, “Don’t you goddamned fight me. Not now. Not fucking now.”

  Tom stopped. Prophet dumped him unceremoniously onto the bed, and Tom struggled to get a grip on anything, including himself, but then Prophet straddled him.

  “I don’t know what the fuck to do with you, T,” Prophet murmured. “Don’t know how to get through to you.”

  “Don’t people normally say that to you?” Tom wiseassed back and instantly regretted it. Because the look on Prophet’s face told him two things—he’d been right, and he’d given Prophet ideas about how to get through to Tom. He saw it in the flash of anger before Prophet’s expression settled into the calm of a man who knew he was in charge and planned on keeping it that way.

  Which meant that Tom was completely at the mercy of Prophet’s impending wildness, could feel it shaking the space between them like a stampede of wild horses.