Long Time Gone (Hell or High Water ) (18 page)

“This place is not fucking normal,” Prophet muttered.

Tom held his hand out. “Weapon.”

Prophet handed it to him and Tom shot the gator cleanly, right between the eyes.

And that’s exactly what he’d wanted to do, before Tommy’d decided to become the alligator whisperer.

Pretty fucking hot, though.

“Dad, this is Prophet. He’s my partner. Proph, this is Gil Boudreaux.”

Tom’s dad stared at him. “You queer too?”

“Yes, sir,” Prophet said.

“He’s also a vet,” Tom said, and Prophet was pretty sure he’d only done so to piss his father off more, because the man muttered something about, “Letting queers into the military was criminal.”

It was a move Prophet respected, even though Tom had used him to do it. Prophet knew Gil Boudreaux’s issues with his son went well beyond Tom’s sexual orientation.

“He’s also my partner at my new job,” Tom continued, and really? Because last time Prophet’d looked . . .

Tom glanced at him, his look implying,
Not now, Proph . . . we’ll discuss it later.

The fact that Tom had called him partner, in both senses of the word, well, that was something he’d definitely need to unpack after Tom’s father was gone. Didn’t know if it was simply post-alligator bravado, or if Tom was trying to claim him.

The man was just a bit taller than Tom, broader too, with a paunch from drinking, plus the telltale broken capillaries around the nose. His skin looked like dried alligator hide, and his hands were giant. Prophet almost winced outwardly when he thought about the damage those hands could do to a small boy, but caught himself.

This wasn’t a man you showed weaknesses to. Gil Boudreaux was definitely looking for them.

“You finally came back. Hid like a pussy for too damned long.”

“I was working out of the country.”

“You been by the sheriff’s yet?”

“No.”

“Still hidin’?”

“Jesus, do they make bigger assholes than you?” Prophet asked. When Gil advanced on him, Prophet advanced right back. “Try it, old man. Go ahead. I’m not your family, so I don’t have to take things easy on you.”

“I’ve got this, Proph,” Tom said with an easy grace under pressure that Prophet wasn’t sure he could ever have. He held his hands up, a silent surrender for Tom only, and he backed off.

“Heard you got arrested,” Gil said to his son.

“Guess I’m finally living up to your expectations,” Tom said.

Jesus, T.

Tom’s father seriously growled and took a step in Tom’s direction, and Tom did the same to his father.

“You shouldn’t come back here. Always bring nothin’ but trouble.”

“You’re right. And this time, trouble’s not leaving until he gets to the bottom of things.”

“You’d better watch yourself and that other queer with the tattoos.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Amazing you can tell us apart. And I always watch myself, but why is Etienne in trouble?”

“All I know’s that his momma and daddy shoulda did the right thing and disowned him.”

“Guess you should’ve done it too,” Tom said. “Although maybe it was more fun to have a punching bag. And then an excuse to drink.”

“Pushin’ your luck, boy.”

Tom laughed. “Luck? What luck?
Bad loque
’s all I ever had.”

“Come on, T,” Prophet urged, tugged his arm, pulling him up the porch stairs and into the studio, although Tom kept eye contact with his father the entire time. “Not going to get anywhere. Blood from a stone.”

This was the cause of Tom’s temper. The man in front of him had a bad temper too, and sure, some of that shit was inherited. But a lot of it was nurtured.

Prophet shut the door on Gil Boudreaux.

Tom had fought for his life here, just like Della had said . . . and he still was. Prophet would make sure that, this time, Tom wasn’t doing it alone.

Tom went to wash up, and Prophet hung around the main room of the studio, trying to figure out how big of a liability Gil was to Tommy.

Tom
was
pissed, but he wasn’t upset, not the way Prophet was for him. In fact, the whole thing, from wrestling the goddamned alligator to going purposely out of his way to goad his old man into anger, had somehow centered Tom.

And there was also no denying that there’d been a spark in Tom’s eyes that he liked to see.

He glanced back toward the bathroom, where the shower was still running, then turned away to lean against the wall next to the window, where he could get a clear view of the makeshift path leading to this place. His frustration built as the wash of adrenaline and the subsequent drop-off affected his body. He was hard as hell too, because he couldn’t stop picturing Tommy calmly rolling that gator, like it was nothing. His shirtless chest as he dragged the thing outside and shot it wasn’t a bad image either.

It took will and force and a hell of a lot of courage to go up against a wild thing and wrestle it into submission.

Or maybe you just have some kind of alligator kink.

The water shut off, and Prophet turned his head to see Tom exiting the bathroom naked. Tom stopped short when he noticed Prophet’s stare. He smirked a little and shook his head when Prophet shoved his hands into his pockets in a futile attempt to hide how turned on he was.

Looking squarely into Tom’s eyes, Prophet knew what—who—he had a kink for. And the voodoo bastard knew it too.

Knew it. Liked it. Used it to his advantage whenever he could. Like now.

Because he knows you like it.

And here he’d been worried that he’d been getting too hardened the past months in the field, because he’d had to shut everything down. Now, he fought the urge to look down to check and see if he still had a dick. Except he didn’t need to, mainly because he could feel it throb. “What?”

“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.”