If I Ever

by SE Jakes

  You do realize you’re typing all of this directly to me, right? Cillian asked him.

  Just thinking out loud, Mal typed in response. Isn’t honesty the best policy?

  Not in this case. Then again, maybe it’s better I know to sleep with one eye open.

  Which eye? Just curious? And what time do you plan on sleeping? Just asking for a friend.

  If that didn’t work, Mal would simply superglue his doors and windows shut. Well, he only had the windows left to do anyway.

  There was a long pause and Mal sat back, staring at the screen. It was easier like this, when Mal couldn’t see him, could pretend that there wasn’t history between them.

  Unsettled history at best.

  Tom knew what had happened and Prophet was beginning to suspect but Mal telling Prophet would mean Prophet would probably kill Cillian for sure.

  And that was Mal’s right to do so, when and if he pleased.

  “Hey Mal?” Remy called. “Why is Cillian coming up the fire escape?”

  Fuck. Give us a minute, Rem, he signed, and Remy looked at Cillian with narrowed eyes, but his expression relaxed when he looked back at Mal. I’ll be okay.

  “I know where the guns are if you need me. Just press that button I gave you and I’ll come running,” Remy told him.

  The device beeped on Remy’s end and flashed and vibrated on Mal’s. Remy had given it to him—it seemed like the equivalent of friendship bracelets but Mal had to admit it was a cool thing. They’d worked out a systematic code for things like run now and call Prophet and I need donuts.

  Remy always needed donuts.

  Up until now, Mal had tried to avoid Cillian—both in person and through texts—as much as possible. It wasn’t hard, because Remy kept him busy and Cillian was avoiding him too. But now he felt Cillian’s eyes on him through the glass. Mal figured he could get off a clean shot but hell, that would be anticlimactic. Better to make him suffer . . .

  Cillian knocked impatiently and Mal reluctantly went over and unlocked the window . . . and only pulled it up the slightest bit, forcing Cillian to have to work to open it and climb in.

  And Mal still hadn’t looked at him, not the way he wanted to. In person, Cillian had exceeded his expectations—the man was handsome as fuck, refined in that spook way. It had definitely made things exciting when the guy you were fucking could kill you as easily as you could kill him . . . until you found out he actually had tried to kill you, nearly succeeded and left you for dead.

  Cillian was claiming mistaken identity and they both hated John with a fury like no other for what he’d done. But no matter that, it was still an albatross between them, an insurmountable brick wall, Sisyphus’s rock.

  Except Mal wasn’t the one who’d be rolling a fucking rock up a hill in Hell on a daily basis. No fucking way was he Sisyphus.

  Now Cillian tilted his head to the side, staring at Mal, like he knew exactly what Mal was thinking. He sighed a little and started with, “How’s Remy doing?”

  Ready to shoot you, Mal thought. Signed instead, Misses his dad. Tom and Proph. Tough being a kid.

  Cillian nodded. Mal wanted to ask if it had been tough for him too but he told himself he shouldn’t care. Couldn’t, anyway.

  “You don’t seem surprised to see me come up the fire escape,” Cillian noted.

  Mal shrugged. Whatever floats your boat. You could probably use the exercise. You’re not exactly young.

  Cillian’s eyes narrowed, and his brogue clipped when he said, “I can’t open my apartment’s front door.”

  That’s a fire hazard.

  “Yes, I realize that.”

  You seemed to be unscathed. Was there a fire? Do you have any burns?

  “Why do you look hopeful?” Cillian muttered. “Never mind. I’m—”

  Leaving the country.

  “Yes. And you can’t trust anyone.”

  The fucking irony. At least he didn’t say anything stupid about Mal needing to hold down the fort. Anyone in particular?

  “Doc’s clear,” was all Cillian said. “Beyond that . . .”

  Got it, Mal signed. Go.

  “Mal,” Cillian started, then shook his head and muttered, “No—not now,” to himself.

  Yeah, not now. Not ever, Mal thought, then called himself a motherfucking liar when Cillian went back out the window and Mal closed and locked it between them. For a moment too long, Mal caught his eyes through the glass, and then he didn’t want to be the first one to look away. Because he wasn’t fucking weak.

  Finally, reluctantly, Cillian broke the gaze and went quietly down the metal steps and only then did Mal close his eyes and press his forehead against the cool glass.

  Tom woke when Jin announced descent. Prophet was texting—on two separate burner phones that he broke in half as soon as he sent messages on them—and then shrugged at Tom like it was business as usual.

  Which Tom supposed it was. He glanced out the window as the ground began to show through the haze. He hadn’t been back to Africa in months, not since he and Prophet had gone in to rescue Dean and Reggie after they’d been kidnapped.

  LT and Dean were from a very wealthy family, and Dean had chosen to live and work in Africa, mainly living and working in Djibouti and Eritrea, with occasional aide trips to Somalia and Ethiopia, despite the dangers—or because of them. Dean helped to fund the building of clinics and refugee camps and the like, and because of that, he was often a target for kidnappings.

  Tom liked Dean. LT? Not nearly as much.

  “There’s Reggie.” Tom pointed out the window to the man in khaki shorts and a dark T-shirt coming into view along the airstrip, which was pretty much in the middle of nowhere and still on Dean’s massive property. “Did he serve with Dean?”

  The plane rumbled along the dirt runaway strip after final descent as Prophet unbuckled his seat belt. “Reggie’s former Force Recon, but he and Dean met in the field on some joint missions. Dean reached out to him after his accident and vice versa. From there, the two of them started reaching out to other vets who were considered retired under special circumstances.”

  “I’m sure that entails a lot of men and women these days.”

  “Yeah. The saying is that there’s no such thing as an uninjured soldier.” Prophet pointed to his own head. “Every soldier has PTSD. It’s the one thing they can’t inoculate you against. But damn, they try. They do try.”

  Tom put a hand on his forearm. “We’ll get through this.”

  “No choice, right? Let’s go, T.”

  They deplaned, the humidity slapping them like a wet blanket as Reggie came over to meet them.

  “Good to see you, Proph.” Reggie gave a hug to him, then turned to Tom and did the same. “You both look good.”

  “You too, Reggie,” Tom told him.

  “Work’s treating me right. Come on—car’s right here.” It was much different seeing him under these circumstances. He was obviously back in his element, so much so that if Tom hadn’t known about the prosthetic arm, he’d never have noticed it, not the way Reggie hauled their bags—insisted on it, actually.

  The truck was a white Range Rover that looked old but definitely had the right machinery under the hood. Once they started rolling, Tom felt the extra pickup.

  Prophet sat in the back and Tom knew he hated not being in control or behind the wheel. Tom wanted to tell Prophet that he was always in control, no matter what. It was just something Prophet had been born with—he exuded in charge.

  As they drove to the house over the dirt roads, Tom stared at the empty plains mixed with greens that had been driven back from man-made means as Reggie and Prophet talked about the new security measures Dean had put into place. It sounded like a major upgrade, and all since the kidnappings, which made sense, and it was about an hour away from the old place, on the border between Djibouti and Eritrea.

  “Here we go. We just moved in a couple of months ago, although Dean kept the other place. But this one has the airstrip,” Regg
ie explained as he motioned to the high gates, a necessity in this part of the world. Tom heard dogs barking—more deterrents—and he’d bet there were armed men watching from all sides. It was both comforting and eye-opening, because living like this, in a fortress, couldn’t be easy.

  Tom figured it was a testament to Dean himself that he chose to stay and continue doing the work he did under dangerous circumstances.

  “Last I talked to Dean, he sounded like he was back up and running at full speed again,” Prophet was saying to Reggie now.

  “Better than ever,” Reggie confirmed. “But he takes a lot more precautions now. Knows we can’t afford to lose him—he does too much good out here.”

  Prophet nodded and Tom watched the gates open after Reggie typed a code on his phone. The men came out to watch the road—and their six—as Reggie drove through and the house loomed before them. It wasn’t huge in height but it sprawled.

  “Looks like a vacation house,” Tom murmured.

  “Or a fortress masquerading as one,” Prophet added.

  “He’s waiting for you,” Reggie told Prophet, who started to walk toward the front door.

  “You coming?” he asked Tom.

  “I’ll be right there—I’ll help Reggie with the bags,” Tom told him and Prophet nodded. Tom knew he’d appreciate a minute or two alone with the man.

  Reggie nodded in Prophet’s direction. “He givin’ you trouble?”

  “Wouldn’t be Prophet if he wasn’t.”

  Reggie laughed and shook his head in agreement.

  Prophet tried—unsuccessfully—to sneak into the room where Dean sat, but the fucker clocked him the second he stepped inside.

  “About time, Prophet.”

  “How the hell do you do that?” Prophet asked, walking toward the couch and sitting next to his old friend.

  Before Prophet met him, Dean had been a SEAL, mainly working in conjunction with the CIA in moving specialists around the world. He was good at it, maybe better than Prophet’d been but they were cut from the same cloth. That was apparent from the first night they’d met—although by then, Dean had retired from the SEALs and covert ops—when he called Prophet an asshole within three minutes.

  Probably because Prophet had called him one first. But hell, it was the truth.

  From that point on, he and Dean had remained close. Checking in on each other’s lives regularly. Outside of Prophet’s team, Dean had been the only other one who knew all about John and what was happening, knew more than Phil or LT or even Tom, at points.

  Now, he assessed the dark-haired, light-eyed man who’d always been tall and wiry but strong as fuck. He looked better than the last time Prophet had seen him, but hell, no one looked their best after being kidnapped.

  “Been working out, Guns?” Prophet asked. Dean threw an ice cube at him—it hit Prophet right between the eyes. “Asshole.”

  “And don’t forget it.” Dean sat back. “I’ve always worked out.”

  “Yeah well, Reggie says you’re doing more than ever.”

  “Reggie needs to keep his mouth shut,” Dean muttered, then shrugged. “I got complacent. I like working the clinic. Like the guys working around me. I trust them, because I have to, but if they can’t trust me . . .”

  Prophet nodded, even though Dean couldn’t see him do so.

  “Your eyes are getting worse,” Dean said finally.

  “Faster than I thought,” Prophet agreed.

  “I hope you’re not going to whine about it the whole time you’re here.” Dean picked up his beer bottle. “I’ll have to kick your ass in front of everyone. And you might cry.”

  Prophet snorted. “Pump a few extra weights and suddenly you’re America’s Top Merc? Hey, that’d be a great show . . .”

  Dean shook his head. “Don’t look to me to fund it.” Only then did he turn to the door where, seconds later, Tom appeared. “Hey, Tom—can’t believe you’re still dealing with this asshole.”

  Tom raised his brows as he came farther into the room. “Looks like I’m not the only one dealing with him.”

  “Touché,” Dean said before turning his attention back to the open doorway. “Come on in, Nico. We’ve got company.”

  Tom saw Prophet’s expression harden and he was off the couch, asking, “Nico?” as a tall, dark-blond man walked into the room and faced Prophet.

  Nico’s expression was unsurprised, his voice lazy when he answered, “Hey, Proph.”

  Prophet’s response was nowhere near as calm. “The fuck?” burst out of him, and then Prophet grabbed Nico’s arm to stop him from turning away. “You don’t get to come back from the dead and act like it’s not a big fucking deal.”

  “Right. Forgot that’s something only for the Prophet Drews bucket list.” Nico spoke blandly, which managed to put his sarcasm into sharper focus.

  If Prophet hadn’t been so pissed, Tom definitely would’ve laughed. Instead, he stepped toward Prophet, but not before looking back toward Dean, who was facing the disturbance as if watching the show, and what the fuck was happening here?

  “I don’t get it, Nico. How the fuck could you do this to Doc?” Prophet demanded, his voice a low growl.

  Nico stared at Prophet, his eyes seeming to hold a million secrets and kept his voice even. “Doc knows.”

  “What the fuck do you mean?”

  “I thought you were losing your eyesight, not your grasp of the English language.”

  Prophet lunged with an almost inhuman speed, taking down Nico. And a table. Tom managed to save the sculpture, though Nico was on his own. And Nico was being strangled, his face turning a shade of purple Tom didn’t know existed in nature . . .

  And then Dean was there, literally turning the hose on them.

  “Prophet, could you not kill my houseboy?” Dean demanded.

  “Not your fucking houseboy, you asshat.” Nico’s voice was gravel as he shoved Prophet off him. “Assholes. The whole fucking group of you.”

  “Right. The SAS is so much nicer,” Prophet bit out, then looked at Tom, who was still holding the sculpture. “Nice catch.”

  “Thanks. Want to tell me why you’re randomly yelling at people?”

  “You act like my temper’s something new, Tommy,” Prophet answered seriously as Tom reached down and hauled him to his feet.

  He was soaked and smiling. And Tom had to admit, seeing Prophet in his element like that was always a fucking joy to see.

  “Nico—the kitchen.” Dean was leading Nico by the elbow, but not before Nico mouthed, I’m going to fucking kill you to Prophet . . . who in turn flipped him the bird and mouthed back, You and what army?

  “Will the two of you stop?” Dean called before leading Nico out of the room. “Or I’ll kill you both myself. Prophet, go find your room. Now.”

  “I’m getting a seriously . . .” Tom glanced over toward the doorway before following Prophet out another door and down a long hallway. “A seriously different vibe from him than I did the last time we met.”

  “What you’re seeing is the real Dean. He puts on a damned good act when he needs to.” Prophet stopped at a large wooden door before opening it. A king bed was in the middle of the room, carved wood, mosquito netting and handmade rugs on the floor.

  Their bags were already in there. Tom closed the door behind them. “You have a lot of explaining to do.”

  Prophet groaned, rubbed his temples. “I think I have a concussion.”

  “Then throw up, grab an ice pack, and start talking.”

  Prophet narrowed his eyes. “You had a lot more sympathy when we first met.”

  “I guess I put on a good act when I need to.”

  Prophet smiled. Tugged him close, and not gently, as he growled, “No way, Tommy. Not with me. Never with me.”

  Tom melted against Prophet, immediately as soaked as Prophet was and unable to disagree. Prophet’s mouth covered his and he didn’t care about information or broken tables. After the fight with Nico, Prophet was revved up; Tom would bear
the brunt of some of it . . . if he was lucky.

  “You upset because Nico almost killed you?” Tom asked innocently.

  “Maybe you’re the one who needs to worry about his sight, T, because, from where I stood, I totally won.” Prophet shoved him against the wall and Tom grinned at how easy it was to rile him back up.

  “Really? I could’ve sworn he had the upper hand.”

  He barely got the words out before Prophet was throwing him onto the bed, climbing on top of him and shoving his shoulders down to the mattress before leaning in and kissing the hell out of him, his tongue dueling with Tom’s. It was part fight for dominance and all surrender . . . to each other.

  Tom held fast to Prophet’s hips, pushed his own up to brutally grind against him, their cocks thrusting against one another’s.

  “Humping me like a teenager,” Prophet muttered against his mouth, and Tom laughed.

  “Just shut up and come.” He made a side-to-side motion with his hips and then thrust up again, wrapped a leg around Prophet’s thigh so they were moving in unison.

  Tom came first—or Prophet would’ve never lived it down, but he wasn’t too far behind, his muscles stiffening before allowing himself to just ride his orgasm out.

  “Now I’m sticky,” Tom mock complained, even as he reached his hand in between their chests to tweak Prophet’s nipple ring, loving the way Prophet growled. “You need to take this out.”

  “Definitely not now,” Prophet told him.

  Tom pushed him so they were both lying on their sides, and he sucked on Prophet’s nipple, playing with the piercing with his tongue, sucking and tugging and twisting until Prophet’s dick throbbed hot against him again.

  “Better watch out—I’ll have you yelling my name so the whole house hears it,” Prophet murmured, reaching down to play with the piercings that ran along Tom’s cock.

  Tom hissed. Smiled. “Wouldn’t mind. They know I’m yours. I know it too.”