Long Time Gone (Hell or High Water )

by SE Jakes

  “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.

  “I didn’t say anything,” Prophet protested with a smirk, sitting back on his heels. “And you’re still hard.”

  Tom sank to his knees and kissed Prophet, tasting himself, reaching between their bodies to pull down Prophet’s pants, just enough to get to his cock. He kept Prophet kneeling as he palmed the hot skin of his cock and stroked, swallowing his surprised groan.

  He kept his mouth on Prophet’s, muffling the cursed protests that really weren’t protests at all. Jerked him harder until Prophet stiffened and shot between them, biting Tom’s lower lip in the process. Even after he released it, they stayed together like that, foreheads pressed together, lips touching, the sound of their ragged breaths filling Tom’s ears.

  Prophet shivered slightly and said quietly, “Get them off, T.”

  Tom wasted no time in ripping the cuffs off and throwing them aside. He rubbed Prophet’s wrists for a few seconds, before Prophet brought his arms around and hugged him.

  He ran his hand through Prophet’s hair again, massaging the man’s scalp, the way he knew Prophet liked. As if in agreement, Prophet groaned, low in his throat, and closed his eyes.

  With one hand running through his hair, Tom trailed the other to the back of Prophet’s neck to rub the knotted muscles as they made their firm return back to earth.

  The trip away had been good while it lasted. He sighed and Prophet murmured, “W
e’ll figure this shit out, Tommy.”

  “For the first time, I believe that.”

  One minute, Prophet was in a drowsy sleep, the alcohol diluted by food and time, sex and sugar, and the next, he was staring up at his wrists.

  They were tied together with rough rope, which was looped around a metal ceiling beam. He was half-balanced on a chair, his toes aching from trying to keep himself from hanging and putting pressure on his arms. His shoulder had nearly popped out when he’d fallen asleep.

  He looked down and the room was the same room where he’d been sitting with Tommy. But Azar was there too, for just a second, before walking away with his weapon drawn.

  “No. Fuck. No,” Prophet heard himself say, but his voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

  “I’m ready—just fucking do it!” John shouted and Prophet steeled himself, because he knew Azar hadn’t been bluffing when he’d threatened to kill John if Prophet didn’t tell him everything he knew about the man he’d killed, the man who knew how to build nuclear triggers. Two shots and Prophet kept staring straight ahead, refusing to give any of them the satisfaction of seeing his heart breaking.

  He and John had been captured by Azar two days earlier. They’d tried to fight the terrorist’s men off, but there’d been too many of them. Even then, Prophet knew immediately that their classified mission had been compromised, that they’d been set up.

  That there might be no way out.

  But Prophet would keep pushing, because that’s what he did. It was the only way he knew how to operate. The most effective way to live. Because it got rid of the people in his life who couldn’t handle it, couldn’t handle him, and it gave him a chance to keep everyone at arm’s length until he figured out which group they fell into.

  Tommy hadn’t been wrong about any of that.

  Jesus Christ, you are so fucking broken.

  He blinked, and he was in the house on the bayou again, standing by the kitchen sink, scared to turn around. Last he’d seen, Tom had still been sleeping.

  Tom, who might eventually get to the same point Phil had.

  “I didn’t get to that point,” John said. Prophet glanced to the right, where John sat on the counter.

  Why hadn’t John?

  Because John had been family, lover, teammate, best friend. Because, despite all of that, John had never let his guard down, no matter how much he’d pretended to let Prophet in.

  John was great at pretending. But Prophet never pretended he was anything other than what he was. Because what was the point of being close to someone if they couldn’t know exactly who the fuck you really were?

  “Incoming!” John called. “Take cover!”

  Prophet blinked, and the desert loomed in front of him again. He moved back to cover Hal and . . .

  “Hey, Proph, you all right?”

  Tom’s voice was calm. Low. Like he wasn’t sure Prophet was all there or not and fuck—fuck—had Tom seen the whole damned thing? Fuck. Prophet should’ve know that as soon as he made himself vulnerable to Tommy, his own mind would start working overtime.

  He turned and met Tom’s concerned expression. Thunder boomed over the house.

  Thunder. Not explosions.

  “At least you’re not completely crazy,” John told him, but Prophet refused to tear his gaze from Tom, because Tom was what was real. Because Tom was here for him in a way John never could’ve been. And as unfair as that was, he’d long ago gotten rid of any illusions where John was concerned.

  He blinked again and he was kneeling next to the couch with an arm over Tom, holding him flat and protecting him from the incoming enemy fire.

  Tom, not Hal.

  He eased up on his grip, allowing Tom to turn slightly. He put his forehead against Tom’s thigh and the man put a gentle hand on the back of Prophet’s neck.

  “How often do these happen?”

  “Way more since the last case,” he admitted. “You’re a heavy sleeper for someone who was in law enforcement.”

  “Not as heavy a sleeper as you might think,” Tom said quietly.

  Prophet’s eyes watered, and he blinked it away. Still couldn’t bring himself to look up when he said, “Sadiq killed Chris to taunt me. Sadiq hurt you to taunt me. All because of what happened on a mission ten years ago. Do you see why I wasn’t meant to have a partner?”

  “You went through hell during that mission, Proph. I still don’t know exactly what happened, but I could see it when we were captured. You relived it then. I guess you’ve never stopped reliving it and I wanted to help—”

  “You did.”

  “I still want to. You can’t be alone forever.”

  “I can try.”

  Tom shook his head. “It worked for like, four months before you tackled me and let me fuck you.”

  “I thought you were an intruder,” Prophet pointed out as he lifted his head.

  “You always let intruders fuck you?”

  “Isn’t that a hot fantasy?”

  Tom laughed a little, then sobered. “Can you talk about any of what causes the flashbacks?”

  “No. Not any more than I’ve already told you.”

  Tom sighed, obviously frustrated.

  “Look, you already know enough to get you in trouble. In fact, you’re already in trouble with Sadiq.”

  “I know what I just saw had nothing to do with Sadiq.”

  “It had everything to do with him.”

  “Christ, Prophet, we are so fucked up.” Tom slid to the floor next to him. “I can’t help you unless I know what your burden is. And I want to help you. Let me in, Proph.”

  No one—no one—had ever said that to him. “Just saying that means more to me than you’ll ever know.”

  Tom’s hand was still cupped around the back of his neck, rubbing slowly. “Then that’ll have to be enough for now.”

  And, because Tom didn’t push, Prophet would let him in further than he should, further than he’d ever let anyone in . . .

  As soon as they figured out Tom’s mess.

  When Mick and Blue checked in via secured line a couple of hours later, they hadn’t found any trace of Etienne. Etienne’s parents had filed a missing person’s report, and the sheriff had found a small bloodstain in the grass behind his house, which was being tested to see if it matched Etienne’s blood type.

  “And Tom Boudreaux is most definitely a person of interest,” Mick added.

  Tom groaned and put his head on the table next to the phone. It was Prophet’s turn to rub the back of his neck, and damn, it felt good.

  After Prophet’s flashback, they’d showered. Had sex. Showered again. And now, Prophet was decidedly sober and apparently ready to take on this case.

  “Anything on Miles and Donny?” he asked Mick now.

  “I ran that syringe you pulled from Miles’s house. It was ketamine. Same thing found in both Miles’s and Donny’s bloodstream. But man, it was a giant hit for both. Not the way an addict like Miles would normally take it, and based on reports, Donny wasn’t an addict at all. So even though the coroner’s reports for both aren’t ruling out suicide, they’re also not ruling out murder anymore.” Mick paused. “Look, we all know it was definitely murder.”

  “And I’m the number one suspect,” Tom said, his head still down, voice muffled. “They’ll say that Miles and Donny were afraid I’d expose their secrets. They’ll twist around the AA rumors that Miles was going to spill and instead say they were nervous about what I’d say.”

  “So what, you conjured up a hurricane and came to town just to kill him?”

  Shit. He lifted his head.

  “What?” Prophet asked.

  “I, ah . . . I told Etienne I was coming to town,” he said. “I’d made a tattoo appointment.”

  “For when?”

  “I made it before I went to Eritrea. It was supposed to be last month. But then shit came up and I didn’t ask for the time off and . . .”

  “And Miles had the letter ready for you. Be
cause he wanted to hand it to you in person—maybe he told Etienne that. Maybe he asked Etienne to bring you here for that, and that’s another reason Etienne wanted you to stay away.”

  “And what, Miles told his AA group all that?” Tom asked.

  “Things in confidential meetings depend on addicts staying sober enough to keep their mouths shut,” Prophet said gruffly, and Tom stored away the fact that this wasn’t the first time Prophet discussed addicts as if he had intimate knowledge of the subject.

  Mick’s voice floated up from the phone. “Could Etienne be involved in this?”

  Tom did not want to consider that. But he’d have to.

  “Has Etienne ever run before?” Prophet asked.

  “No, that was me.” He paused. “Etienne would get really caught up in his work—he liked quiet when he drew or painted. And if he couldn’t get it in his studio because we were there . . . who knows? But Proph, I can’t see him dropping out of sight just when all this was going down.”

  “Sometimes that’s when people do. When Etienne talked to me while you were in jail, he seemed to know that the sheriff would come down hard on him too. Maybe the blood wasn’t his. Maybe he’s hiding until it’s safe to come out.”

  Tom really hoped so. Another death on his conscience would be unthinkable, beyond the fact that Etienne was a good man. A great man. He’d done his share of tattoos for pure fun and profit, but most people didn’t know how much time he spent in hospitals, helping women who’d had breast reconstruction, who’d lost eyebrows to chemo. He helped amputees, decorating their stumps and their prosthetics so that way, when people stared, they’d really have something to stare at. “He’s got to be okay, Proph. He fucking saved me, more times than I could count when we were growing up.”

  “Then he will be,” Prophet said simply. “He was as worried about you as you are about him. I don’t think he’d leave you. And he seems like the kind of guy who’d admit to what he’d done.”

  “So we’re not looking at him for the killing?” Mick asked.

  “We’re just looking for him,” Prophet clarified. “He’s got a kid he’s trying to get custody of.”