by SE Jakes
“Want me to roll you?” Tom asked.
“Not funny.” But Prophet was rock hard. Tom stalking over to him and crowding him wasn’t helping.
“You still have that duct tape?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Come on, bebe. Let’s play gator.”
Prophet hated the way his body responded yes—eagerly—to that question.
“Think you wanna. ’M’I wrong?” Tom’s drawl was thick as hell, went right down Prophet’s spine, as the man’s hand snaked around Prophet’s waist and pushed his own hard cock against Prophet’s cargo pant-clad one.
“Yes.”
“’S’okay to admit you were turned on by it,” Tom murmured.
“You’re turned on too,” Prophet pointed out, wanted to tell him to stop talking all Cajun-like, too.
“I’m not the one denying it.” Tom ground his pelvis into Prophet’s. “You can’t lie for shit.”
“Only around you.”
“Good to hear you admit it.” His hands curled around the back of Prophet’s neck. “Wanna know the secret to wrestling alligators?”
“Yeah, sure, tell me, cher.”
Tom smiled at Prophet’s use of the affectionate word. “It’s desire. The one with the most desire wins.”
“Then I’m winning this one, Tommy.”
“That’s what you think.” In one swift motion, Tom had him down, and they were rolling together, fast, with Prophet’s back pinned to Tom’s chest. They bumped the wall and rolled across the room again, and he didn’t know what end was up.
When the world stopped spinning, Prophet was faceup, staring at the ceiling, and in the same position the gator had been in.
“Hand over the duct tape,” Tom told him with a smirk in his tone. He pushed a hand down Prophet’s pants.
And Prophet couldn’t help but groan at the touch. “Jesus, T. How the fuck?”
“They don’t teach you shit like that in the military?”
“Thinking they probably should.”
“Tape,” Tom ordered again, and Prophet reached into his pocket and handed Tom the roll. “Good. Put your palms together.”
“You know, the alligator didn’t have to listen to you.”
Tom stroked his cock with quick, hard strokes that made Prophet jolt. “The alligator didn’t get to have any fun, now, did he?”
“Fucker.” Prophet did as Tom asked. Watched Tom wind the tape around his wrists twice. More for show than anything, but it was just enough to make Prophet know they’d be playing this game again.
Tom dropped the roll of tape, reached around Prophet’s waist, and undid his cargos. Then he hooked his feet against the insides of Prophet’s ankles and slowly spread his legs wide, holding them there.
“Told you duct tape has its uses,” Prophet muttered, glancing at his immobilized arms.
“Gonna keep a roll on me at all times,” Tom promised. “Just for this.” He palmed Prophet’s cock and started a rhythm that made Prophet try to escape and move into it at the same time.
Prophet groaned. “Now he listens to me.”
“Never gonna forget that, right?”
“No,” Prophet ground out.
“Next time, we’ll do your legs too. Easier to position you.”
“Next time, you’ll be the one taped and bound,” Prophet promised. “And over my goddamned knee.”
“Proph!”
Tom’s strangled cry sounded surprised, made Prophet close his eyes and shoot against his stomach and chest, hitting his goddamned chin because he came so hard.
But Tom groaned then, bucked his hips up, and rode his climax against Prophet’s ass. After a few minutes, he laughed once. Then again, and said, “You’re such an asshole. Can’t even let me win. Have to call this a tie.”
“What does this mean?”
“Means our desire’s equal.”
“That’s not a bad thing,” Prophet said. “But I still can’t believe you never told me about this gator shit. There’s a hell of a lot you haven’t shared.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Be sure to send out invites to the pot-meets-kettle show you’ll be throwing.”
“I’m sensing sarcasm. I think being in Cajun country’s given me some of your voodoo.”
“You are an idiot,” Tom informed him.
Prophet stared at the duct tape around his wrists. “I have no argument against that at the moment.”
A shared shower and a meal later, Tom lay stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head, feeling pretty damned good.
Which meant, of course, the other shoe was bound to drop. And Prophet’s ringing SAT phone sounded like the harbinger of doom.
“It’s Della,” Prophet said.
Yeah, same thing. “You take it. Tell her I’m fine.” When Prophet raised a brow, Tom told him, “Just lie.”
Prophet rolled his eyes and answered. “Hey Della, things all right? What? Okay, slow down . . .” Prophet listened intently, then mouthed a silent curse. “You’re sure? Yeah, okay. Yes, Tom’s here. We’re fine. And no, I won’t tell you where we are . . . I promise I’m taking care of him, Della. Thanks.”
He hung up. Stared at Tom and said without preamble, “Donny was found dead in his house about an hour ago. Same MO as Miles.”
“Suicide?”
“I think the police are starting to revise their theory.”
“Which isn’t good for me.” Tom sat up, slammed his feet to the old wood floor and leaned his elbows on his thighs. Any tension that he’d managed to work off in the past hour was rushing back.
Speaking of tension, he noted that Prophet had paled. “Proph, you all right?”
“I told Etienne to call Donny. To warn him.” Prophet’s voice was hoarse.
“Shit.” Tom grabbed his phone off the nightstand and dialed Etienne.
Prophet’s pocket rang.
“Shit.” Prophet pulled out Etienne’s phone. “I took it to trace the threats he’d been getting.”
“Were you planning on sharing that anytime soon?”
“We’ve been a little busy,” Prophet shot back. “Try the shop.”
Tom did, but there was no answer. “Could be that the phone lines are having trouble, post-storm . . .” He trailed off, because he didn’t have to make excuses to Prophet. “Can I see his phone?”
Prophet handed it to him, and Tom scrolled through the anonymous texts. Several pages of them, going back a couple of months, and all of them making Tom’s blood run cold.
“Just like him not to call and tell me about these,” Tom muttered. “Trying to goddamned protect me.”
“I’m guessing you’d have done the same for him,” Prophet pointed out as he dialed the SAT phone. “Hey, Della, just do me a favor and get in touch with Etienne? Maybe send Roger to his shop or his house, then call me? Thanks.” He hung up, waited a beat and then said, “Etienne said . . . he gave this to me.” He pulled an envelope out of his pocket, and Tom stared at it. And then Prophet pulled out a plastic bag with a syringe in it. “This was at Miles’s house. I think someone drugged him, OD’d him on purpose, and cut his wrists.”
“Whoever did it must’ve known the suicide theory would wear thin after Donny.” He paused. “You gonna pull Etienne from one of those pockets?”
“I wish,” Prophet said. “You think something’s wrong?”
“Yes.” He took the envelope with his name on it, opened it quickly, and skimmed it. It was handwritten, and God yes, it was all there. Apologies for what happened under the bleachers. Apologies for their intentions that night in the bayou. Apologies for everything that happened afterward . . .
He glanced up at Prophet, who was watching him carefully but not asking any questions. “Etienne told you what this was?”
“Said it was an apology from Miles to you. Part of his making amends, as per AA. But he didn’t tell me for what, just said it had something to do with you guys when you were growing up. I think it’s time for you to put it all on the table, T.”
/> “Yeah.” He stared between Miles’s handwriting and Prophet. “What else aren’t you telling me?”
Prophet predictably cursed, “Fucking voodoo,” then, “Della said . . . rumor is that your fingerprints were found on knives at both scenes.”
Tom blinked.
“I tossed Miles’s house—there wasn’t any knife, T.”
“Like I’d be stupid enough to leave one behind.”
“Still doesn’t negate the fact that men are dead and that things are pointing to you. You sure those guys aren’t exes?”
He laughed hollowly. “Not even close. They made my life hell growing up. Things hadn’t improved when I came back as a deputy.”
“So the reasons you’d want them dead?”
“Too many to count.”
“Shit, T.” Prophet grabbed a soda, walked over to the bed, and sat down next to him. He popped the can open, handed it to Tom and asked, “What’s really going on here?”
Tom took a long sip before telling him. “Bad loque.”
“I’m supposed to know what that means?”
“I’m bad luck,” he managed.
“Well, yeah, I picked up on the translation, T. But I’m still alive.”
Tom raked a gaze over him. “Yeah. You broke the curse, Proph. Or I thought you did.”
“Jesus, Tommy. You can’t get rid of me that easily—haven’t you figured that out by now?”
Despite the trepidation in his gut at having to spill everything about his past in this parish that he’d never wanted Prophet to know, what Prophet said warmed him. He smiled, in spite of everything. “Starting to.”
“Good. Because staying away from me might’ve ensured we’d both be fine, but we weren’t happy. And I’d take happy over safe any day.”
“You did that already.” He set the soda down and played with the bracelet, unable to look at Prophet when he said, “I’m the seventh son of a seventh son.” And then he braced for the man’s reaction.
“Does that really mean something?” Prophet asked carefully.
“On the bayou, it does.”
“Is another alligator going to walk in here?” Prophet demanded.
“No wonder you couldn’t get a partner,” Tommy muttered, finally looking at him.
“Didn’t want,” he corrected. “Did. Not. Want.”
“Thanks for the reemphasis. Where I come from, we don’t get much schoolin’,” he said, deliberately slowing and drawing out his drawl.
Prophet didn’t say anything. His face was set into serious lines even though he’d tried to lighten the mood a little. “So it runs deeper than just the partner thing.”
Tom nodded. “Started before I was born.”
“That’s why your mom’s in that graveyard.”
“Yes.”
“I know there’s significance to the seventh son thing. It’s a big deal, isn’t it? I think there were some famous people who were seventh sons?”
“Yeah. Perry Como. Len Dawson.”
“So it’s a good thing, right?”
Tom laughed bitterly and threw his hands up. “Obviously, that depends on the circumstances. Depends on who you ask.”
“I’m asking you. And wait, you have six brothers?”
“I have six stillborn brothers,” he said, his throat tightening. He barely got out, “I’m built on the dead. Bad luck, Proph.”
Prophet put a firm hand on the back of his neck. “Not for me, Tommy. Just breathe, okay?”
Tom did that, because it was easy to follow Prophet’s orders, especially because they’d always kept him safe. When he’d bothered to follow them. “Sorry. Just hard to talk about.”
“You were punished for something that was completely out of your control.”
“Combined with the fact that I could see things, people were convinced I was bad luck. And I was. My mom, then our house burned down. Dad started drinking . . .”
“How is any of that your fault?”
“Because it can’t be proven that it’s not,” he said fiercely. “That graveyard is where they put the disgraces. I’ll be buried here.”
Prophet shook his head no, his eyes blazing as his free hand went to Tom’s.
Tom continued, “They say that the cemetery’s built on ancient ground. That it’s haunted.”
“Better than alligators,” Prophet said, and Tom felt the corner of his mouth pulling up into a grin despite himself.
“Asshole.” Tom twined his fingers through Prophet’s. “The bayou around the cemetery’s where kids in my day were taken for a sort of twisted version of an Outward Bound program.”
“As in, punishment?”
“Yes. Me and Etienne, Miles and Donny . . . we were sent in there together, but we were put in the cemetery, instead of outside of it. I know that was a special touch, just for me. It was supposed to be for one night.”
“What the fuck did was supposed to happen from that?”
Tom glanced at him, then looked straight ahead. “My dad told me, before he let the sheriff take me, that if I survived, I was bad luck. Only evil survived evil.”
“You tell me you believe that bullshit and I’ll have to kick your ass.”
“Someone tells you shit day in and day out, and a lot of it comes true . . .” He trailed off, then repeated, “A lot of it comes true.”
“You ever think about the fact that you help more people than you hurt?”
Tom’s head swam—he wavered between desperately wanting to believe Prophet and knowing he couldn’t. Not about this. “Etienne and I . . . I took him to hell and back.”
“He looked fine when I saw him,” Prophet pointed out.
“Etienne’s always fine. Like you.”
Prophet let that go and moved his hand from Tom’s neck, dropping it down to his shoulder, pulling him into a side embrace. Tom sagged against Prophet and stared into space. They were still holding hands. “Things got bad, Proph. Really fucking bad.”
“Before or after the Outward Bound thing?”
“It started before. And afterwards, everything was just so much worse. For me. For Etienne. Even for Miles and Donny.”
Prophet’s phone rang, and Tom didn’t need Della to tell him that Etienne was nowhere to be found.
Prophet waited, Tommy still pressed against his side, his hand slung over Tommy’s shoulder, and pictured the dreamcatcher tattoo under his palm. For once, he knew goading wouldn’t help—Tom would kill for that kind of distraction, and that’s precisely why Prophet wouldn’t do it.
Tom finally continued. “I knew the punishment existed. Everyone knew, but the thing was, no one ever admitted to being a part of it. It was a big stigma, you know? And I thought that maybe it was just a rumor started to keep us out of trouble. It was supposed to be like, an Outward Bound for fuckups. Sheriff would turn guys loose into the bayou, the west end. Had twenty-four hours to show up on the other side. It was supposed to make you a man.”
“Or kill you.”
“Yeah, well, you can’t help but know the bayou like the back of your hand when you grow up here. But not the cemetery—not as much. But I knew my way around it. Etienne did too, because he’d visit my mama’s grave with me.”
“So it was you. Etienne. And the two dead guys?”
Tom nodded. “Donny and Miles were fuckups. Etienne was there because he’d just come out to his parents—and the whole school.”
“Donny and Miles must’ve had a field day with that.”
Tom opened his mouth, then closed it. Pressed his lips together tightly, and Prophet shifted, because he needed to see Tommy’s face. “I’m here, T. Okay? Nothing you tell me’s going to change that.”
“You sure?”
“Is there anything I’d tell you that’d change it for you?” he asked before he could stop himself.
“No, Proph. No way.” Tom swallowed hard. “Jesus, is this what it took to get us here?”
“Wouldn’t have expected it to be easy.”
“Don’t think I
don’t remember you have some sharing to do later,” Tom warned him, then cursed some in Cajun French before saying, “No lies, no half-truths. Starting from the beginning.”
He could’ve been talking about either one of them. But for right now, Tommy was the one telling the story.
“The four of us all went to the same small high school. Came up through elementary. Etienne and I weren’t friends with Miles and Donny—Etienne and I stayed to ourselves. Me, for all the reasons I told you, and Etienne because he had a fuck-you, in-your-face attitude.”
Prophet snorted. “Had?”
Tom smiled a little, even if it didn’t reach his eyes. “He’s toned it down a lot. He’s also been an artist for as long as I’ve known him. He has that kind of soul.”
Prophet didn’t want Tom thinking about any part of Etienne’s . . . soul. “You’re an artist too.”
“I draw a little.”
“I saw the originals of your tattoos at his shop.”
Tom’s expression shuttered, and he stood, putting distance between them as he gave up. “I don’t want to do this.”
“If I don’t know the background, I can’t help.”
Tom closed his eyes for a second, shoved his hands into the pockets of his old jeans and rocked a little on the balls of his feet. Then he stopped dead. “Miles and Donny . . . they tried to rape Etienne.” He cursed again, shook his head hard, but his gaze never left Prophet’s. “They did rape him, under the bleachers at the high school. He came out, but that’s not why they did it. It’s because he defended me, so it was the best way to teach me a lesson.”
Prophet’s throat tightened. He wanted to stand up and go to Tommy, but he didn’t want to break his momentum, so he stayed put as Tom drew in a shaky breath. “Etienne reported it. But no one did anything, not even Etienne’s parents. Della was the only adult who pushed the issue. The court wanted mediation—”
“Mediation?”
“Yeah. There wasn’t even talk of prosecution. But since Etienne wouldn’t drop it, and I wouldn’t either, that’s why we were sent on the Outward Bound thing—to work it out. See, if it’d been me they raped, it wouldn’t have mattered. But with Etienne, the sheriff had an image problem. Even though Etienne’s parents wanted him to drop it, he wouldn’t, and so they couldn’t just ignore their son’s wishes so blatantly like that. And then the sheriff couldn’t just sweep the complaints of the son of a judge under the rug—especially not if he ever wanted his cases before the court to get a fair shake. Didn’t matter that Etienne’s parents weren’t happy that he came out—weren’t happy that he was gay—even tried to tell him to stop ‘embarrassing himself.’ And even though Miles and Donny denied everything and Etienne didn’t go to the police or the hospital right away—hell, he didn’t even tell me until a couple of days later—the sheriff had to do something to put an end to all of it.”