If I Ever

by SE Jakes

“You need to learn how to read a room,” Remy told him.

  “Seriously?” Prophet said under his breath. “Maybe I should go back into the field—it’s safer.”

  “Probably will be,” Tom agreed.

  By the end of the night, Remy had them both agreeing to take over EE, Ltd. and make Prophet promise to take them to go visit Judie.

  Prophet was currently drinking Jack Daniel’s straight out of the bottle, lying against the headboard, already contemplating how hungover he’d be in the morning.

  Tom pulled his shirt off and Prophet was momentarily distracted by his tattoos. But hell, Tom was treating him like he’d break, and he figured tonight wouldn’t be any different. He loved the man, but dammit, he needed to be manhandled, not babied.

  Plus, he was drunk. So fighting was out of the question.

  Tom climbed into bed next to him and wordlessly took the bottle . . . and drank. And drank again.

  “So, this is parenting?” Prophet asked, without a drop of sarcasm.

  Tom nodded. “Mal’s hanging out with him.”

  “Mal’s just biding his time until we’re settled. You know that, right?”

  “I know. Still nothing from Cillian?” Tom asked.

  Prophet shook his head. “No word. We’ve checked everywhere.” Presumably, Cillian had left them to search for Ahmet and Karen, but it wasn’t like him to totally disappear—they’d need his help.

  Then again, maybe not.

  “Christ.”

  “Why? You miss him, T?”

  “Fuck that,” Tom grumbled, taking another swig. “It’s more for Mal.”

  “Yeah—more for Mal. Want to share what exactly happened between them? Besides the fucking part?”

  “Nope.” Tom paused. “With or without Cillian, it’s not safe for Mal. At all. Not since he gave up his WITSEC status completely.”

  “You worried about having him here?”

  “Not at all. But he is, I’m sure. His C-4 pillow’s getting bigger.”

  Prophet frowned. “That was his choice.”

  “To save King,” Tom said, but then his stupid voodoo shit must’ve kicked in, because his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Prophet sighed. “I guess you’re part of the team now. It’s not King—it’s Ren.”

  “Ren? I didn’t see that coming.”

  “I guess that’s why it worked for so long.”

  “We’re going to help Mal, right?”

  “Whether he wants it or not.” Prophet took the bottle back.

  “What are you going to do about Judie? You know Remy’s not going to give up on visiting her.”

  Prophet winced. “I know. Maybe I’ve been too hard on her.” He stared out the window. “Some things are out of our control.”

  “She loves you, Proph. Maybe that’s the consolation? Plenty of guys do what you did, but without the love.”

  “I’ve got to bring her closer.” He glanced at Tom, as if waiting for him to argue.

  “No reason to keep an arm’s length between everyone anymore,” Tom said, just as casually.

  “She’s not going to magically improve just because she’s nearby. I know that. It’s still going to be the same bullshit, the same complaints . . .”

  Tom swallowed. “The nurse told me it’s the longest she’s even taken her medication in one stretch. Like, triple the time. She’s come a long way.”

  “You’ve spoken to her nurse?”

  “Yeah. Remy’s actually . . . spoken to Judie. He didn’t want you to get mad, but he was worried. Once I knew that Judie was actually still safe, I had Blue find the real number in your phone and I . . .”

  “You looked through my shit?”

  “Yeah. Problem with that? I took it out of your playbook,” Tom told him, and Prophet just shook his head and took another drink. “Anyway . . . it made Remy happy. She told him how much she loves you.”

  Prophet believed that. “Fine. We’ll visit.”

  “She knows . . . about your eyes. I mean, she knew before Remy told her but . . .”

  “He told her more.”

  “How’s it going with that? Your eyes, I mean.”

  Prophet sighed. “It’s not fair. And I want to say that but . . .”

  “But what?” Tom prompted finally, after a very long pause on Prophet’s part.

  “But look what I get in return. You. Remy. A life that, for once, isn’t filled with violence. And maybe it’s all a system of checks and balances. Deep sorrow fills deep scars and all that shit.” Those Gibran lines had been made for him. Prophet deserved every word he spoke.

  Tom walked into the kitchen, where Prophet and Remy were already eating breakfast. Remy had made it—saved a plate for Tom too—and was showing Prophet his sketches . . . and asking Prophet about his eye doctor appointments. Telling him, “I’ll go with you. To all of them.”

  “Rem, I’m okay,” Prophet told him.

  “Come on. I’m sixteen, not stupid. But you should probably let me drive.”

  “Knew there was an ulterior motive.”

  “You know I drive better than you,” Remy said. “Tom says so.”

  Already, this sixteen-year-old had wrapped both men around his fingers. Whether or not what he said about Tom was true, the fact that he knew enough to mention it showed that Remy had the potential to do whatever he wanted in the world.

  Remy already had the keys and was heading out to the truck.

  “Does he even care that I don’t have a doctor’s appointment today?”

  “Obviously not.” Tom walked outside with him but Remy ran in past them. “Where are you going?”

  “I’ll be right back,” Remy called.

  Prophet was standing, staring at the truck. “Think it’s time to get rid of this?”

  “Does it remind you too much . . .?”

  “Of John,” Prophet finished. “His name’s not like Bloody Mary—he won’t come back if you say it. And no—the truck doesn’t remind me of him. It just reminds me . . . of me.”

  “That makes sense.”

  Prophet nodded. “Remy likes her . . . or maybe he’s just appeasing me.”

  “Remy’s not the best at hiding his feelings, so I think he’d be happy to have it.”

  “Her. Trucks and boats are hers, Tom.”

  “Right. So sorry.” Tom rolled his eyes as Remy came out toward them, holding dog tags.

  “I thought you got rid of those,” Tom said under his breath without moving his lips.

  “I did,” Prophet said in the same manner. Because one of the first things he’d done after coming home was finding the damned envelope that was still behind the dumpster and destroying the contents. “What’s that, Rem?”

  Remy held out the tags to him. “I found these in the kitchen.”

  Prophet untensed, and when he looked at the tags, Tom saw they weren’t John’s tags at all. They belonged to one Elijah Drews. Prophet took them from Remy and smiled. “Yeah, I always kept them with the knives.”

  “Jesus Christ, you’re deranged,” Tom told him.

  “You don’t even know why I kept them with the knives,” Prophet protested.

  “You’re telling me it’s not some kind of crazy reason?” Tom persisted.

  Prophet shrugged. “No, you’re right.”

  “Because they were with the knives?” Remy asked.

  “No, because of why he kept them with the knives. And no, don’t ask,” Tom directed Remy.

  “Anyway,” Remy said loudly, with a roll of his eyes that was perfected by teenagers everywhere. “So I kind of got used to the tags. And I think the truck misses them.”

  “Now who’s deranged?” Prophet asked, and both Tom and Remy pointed to him. “I realize you all have this crazy bayou woo-woo shit going on but . . .”

  “Anyway,” Remy continued. “Can I keep your tags in the truck?”

  “Yeah, sure, Rem—that’s cool. In fact, keep the tags in the truck and . . . keep the truck. Okay?�
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  Remy smiled. “Yeah? She’s mine?”

  “Yeah, Rem. She’s all yours.”

  “Awesome! Can you let me get in now?” Remy asked, since Prophet was now blocking the driver’s-side door.

  “Where are you going?” Prophet asked.

  Remy crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Are we going to go through this every time I go out?”

  “Damn straight, skippy,” Prophet promised happily. “It’s my God-given right as someone who’s already lived through their teenage years.”

  Remy narrowed his eyes. “There’s a tracker in the truck, isn’t there?”

  “That’s a present from Uncle Crazy,” Prophet said. Pointed up to the window where Mal was waving and signing. “He says you’re welcome.”

  Remy smiled and waved, muttering, “I’m never going to be normal. Got no shot at it with you people.”

  “You’re welcome,” Prophet told him.

  Tom added, “Be home by eight.”

  “Eight?” Remy asked.

  “Right—that’s late. Better make it seven,” Prophet said seriously.

  “Seven . . . like at night?”

  “Yes,” Tom said firmly. “Or I’ll send these two to come get you.”

  “You’re threatening me with Prophet and Mal?” Remy asked, looked between them, and said, “Fuck me, I see your point. Be home by seven.”

  “Don’t say ‘fuck,’” Prophet told him. They all stared at him. “What? I’m not going down to talk to those fucking teachers at his school every day when he gets in trouble for cursing. I’ve got shit to do.”

  “Like?” Remy prompted.

  “I’ll find shit to do,” Prophet promised. “Like showing up at every party you get asked to.”

  “Fuck me,” Remy muttered again. Prophet threw his hands up in the air and Tom? He just laughed.

  While Remy and Prophet took a ride in what was now Remy’s new truck, Tom was inside brooding, staring out the window, because he was definitely frustrated. Undersexed. Not that he and Prophet hadn’t been having sex, protected at first when they’d both realized, after the initial shock, that John hadn’t worn protection. Their tests had been clear—and they’d been really fucking grateful for that bit of luck—but the sex was all very . . . calm.

  It was mainly his fault—he knew that. He’d been treating Prophet like glass for weeks now, because both of them had still been healing. At least that’s what he’d told himself. Also because Remy stuck to them like glue and they understood that and tried to be quiet. And understood when Remy insisted on sleeping on the floor next to their bed.

  Mal was staying with them too, because he’d promised Remy he would come back and hang for a while, and, for the most part, he talked Remy back into his room, and he’d stay on the couch cuddling with his C-4.

  Tom turned and Mal was there now, on the couch. With the C-4. “It’s not even six—you’re going to bed already?”

  Mal shook his head. No, but you should. With Prophet—as soon as he gets home.

  “Now you’re managing my sex life?”

  Someone has to because I’ve heard nothing.

  Tom rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’ll fuck Prophet so you have a soundtrack.”

  Thanks. That’d be great. I’m not used to being a monk.

  “Then why are you?”

  For Remy. Same as you. Well, partially the same. You shouldn’t let yourself get pushed away.

  Tom nodded. Pushing away was Prophet’s specialty, especially when he thought it was for said person’s own good. “I was . . . It was . . . He was hurt.”

  He’s still an asshole though.

  “True, but . . .”

  Mal’s hands interrupted him. Prophet’s default switch is asshole. Yours isn’t, so you need to flip his switch. On a regular basis.

  Tom sighed.

  Mal continued. Tie him up and fuck him. I know it works. Firsthand experience. His eyebrows rose suggestively.

  In the past, Mal would get a rise out of him by saying firsthand . . . and it still did, so Tom shot him the finger and Mal nodded approvingly. My work here’s almost done.

  “This isn’t . . . goodbye, is it?” Tom asked.

  Like you’ll cry if I say yes?

  “And then you have to go and ruin it,” Tom muttered.

  Yes. That’s what I do. Mal looked exasperated. I’m not leaving this second though, so hold back your tears. And Remy has my number too. Speaking of Remy, I’ll take him to a movie while you fuck Prophet, so you don’t scar the kid for life.

  “Asshole.” But yeah, not a bad idea. Still, he frowned, because the same question had been bothering him since they’d left John’s warehouse. “Hey, Mal? What happens when the war’s over and you go home? Because I’m here . . . and I’m still not sure.”

  That’s easy, Mal signed. Because the war’s never over. Not out there. Not in here, either. Mal touched a finger to his head. At least if you’re lucky.

  “Lucky?”

  It’s what keeps you alive. Stop waging war? Men like us? They die, Tom.

  And when Mal turned to go, Tom suddenly added, “You’ll call though, right? When you leave, you’ll call—especially if you get into trouble.” Mal frowned, like he couldn’t process that. “Just fucking keep in touch, you psychotic asshole.”

  Mal smiled widely. Finally, you’re talking my language. Maybe when I get back, we’ll go get pierced together.

  He left the room on that note and Tom swore he heard the echo of Mal’s laughter, Boston accent and all, inside his brain.

  Mal and Remy left for the movies, and when Tom went to clean up the dinner plates, he found a note from Mal.

  Left you a present. You can thank me later.

  And the thing was, it could be anything, including a bomb. So he held the paper carefully, like it could explode on its own, and he went to find Prophet. The TV was on in the main room, loud as hell, and when he turned it down, he could hear Prophet cursing from the bedroom.

  “Proph?” he called and went in to see what was wrong . . . and hoping it wasn’t another nightmare.

  It wasn’t. It was Prophet, wrists tied to the bedposts, bare-chested and sweats hanging low on his hips. One of his ankles was tied as well, and Prophet’s teeth were bared as his fingers attempted to reach the knots. In lieu of that happening, he was just shaking the headboard as hard as he could.

  “I’m going to kill Mal,” Prophet swore, before Tom could say a word.

  “Mal did this,” he said slowly, more to himself than to Prophet.

  “Do you think I’d do this to myself?” Prophet demanded, then paused. “Well, I might’ve, to prove a point. But I didn’t. So can you get me out of this shit so I don’t have to break the bed?”

  Tom shook his head and pulled his own shirt off. “As long as I have you here . . .”

  Prophet’s eyes narrowed. “You’re in on this together. You fuckers!”

  Part of Tom wanted to kill Mal for this, but hell, that was because tying Prophet up and fucking him was what he should’ve done a while ago.

  He stripped his pants off and purposefully strode over to the side of the bed. “I think I need to keep your mouth busy for a while.”

  Prophet frowned for a second, until Tom climbed onto the bed and put a leg over Prophet’s shoulders so he was straddling Prophet’s face, his cock brushing Prophet’s lips. Prophet swallowed him down, his eyes fucking Tom the entire time and dammit, he’d make Tom come too fast.

  Then again, there were plenty of other things he could do while he recovered enough to fuck Prophet into the mattress.

  So he pulled back and came, all over Prophet’s chest and neck and shoulders, his body jerking as he watched his come covering his man. And then he rubbed his come into Prophet’s skin, and Prophet’s lazy drawl of “Marking me?” made them both smile.

  “Always,” Tom promised. He slid down and laid his full weight on Prophet. “Now I’m going to fuck all that worry out of you.”

  “I’m
not worried. Not one fucking bit,” Prophet insisted, but once Tom stroked down the length of Prophet’s cock, ran a finger along the tip, swirling the drop of come, and made Prophet suck in a harsh breath through his teeth, he seemed willing to do anything.

  “Tom— Fuck.”

  “We’ll get there,” Tom promised.

  “I’m going to kill Mal. And then you.”

  “Don’t be like that, babe.”

  “Still fucking . . . treating me . . . like . . . glass. Dammit,” Prophet told him. “What the fuck are you waiting for?”

  “That.” Tom leaned in and kissed Prophet—hard. A punishing, promising kiss that hadn’t happened since before John had come to tuck that damned envelope behind the dumpster. Prophet responded in kind, relief palpable. And they kissed like that for a long while, until Tom’s dick hardened and Prophet was arching up against him, looking for friction.

  Tom crawled down Prophet’s body, stopped when he was at Prophet’s cock. And then he smiled up at Prophet. “Ready for more?”

  Prophet had been unconsciously tugging at the bonds, which made Tom glance up at him predatorily from his position between Prophet’s legs to tell him firmly, “Don’t struggle.”

  Prophet figured, yeah, why? Because there were different kinds of helpless and this kind? Definitely had its benefits.

  Mal had tied him and then looped extra rope so he could easily be turned onto his stomach.

  Bastard. And still, Prophet tucked the knowledge away for a later date. When he got free.

  When he wasn’t looking to come hard enough to see stars.

  “C’mon, Proph—turn over. You know you want it,” Tom urged.

  Prophet shook his head. “I’m not making this easy on you.”

  Tom’s smile was enigmatic. “Why would tonight be any different?” And then he leaned down, flipped Prophet onto his belly, and shoved Prophet’s untied leg out of the way so he could bury his face in Prophet’s ass.

  Prophet arched, away from Tom’s tongue, or tried to, anyway, but Tom held him fast, rimmed him until Prophet was goddamned blushing . . . partially at how exposed he felt and mainly because he couldn’t stop a random string of sounds and groans from escaping. It was agonizing, the slow tongue-fucking that had his cock twitching with need.