by SE Jakes
Tom flicked on the monitors. He hadn’t wanted to invade their privacy while they’d been awake, but now, in order to give them some space, it was necessary to keep an eye on the doors.
He and Prophet would remain out here, closest to the main door, putting Dean and Reggie in the middle room. Prophet had rigged something to the windows, both outside and in. LT was camped out in the back room, with a monitor on his brother’s room as well.
Tomorrow, the other three men were going back to the States for a while, via LT’s private plane. LT had decreed it earlier, and Dean’d looked like he’d wanted to argue but hadn’t.
“He says he’s not giving up his work here,” Prophet told Tom now.
“What did you tell him?”
“I just listened. He knows the risks.”
“And what, you’re willing to jump in and save his ass every time someone makes a grab for him?”
“I mentioned to him that I wasn’t,” Prophet said.
Tom sighed. “I think he needs better bodyguards.”
Prophet winced a little, then turned away.
“Ah, come on, Proph. I get what he’s doing. I think it’s great. But obviously, Reggie . . .”
“What? A guy with two arms could’ve saved them from twenty soldiers?” Prophet demanded.
“You’re the only one I know who could’ve done it, possibly with your hands tied.” It wasn’t a reference to Azar and Sadiq, but of course, Tom went there briefly, glancing at Prophet’s wrists. Prophet’s hands fisted and he shook his head, turned away to stare out the window. “Reggie could stay on. Dean could still employ bodyguards who are—”
“Fucked up?”
“Disabled,” Tom corrected.
“Right. But the non-disabled guys should do all the work. The disabled guys are just for show.”
“I don’t get it—this guy’s important enough for you to race down here and save him, not because of who he is, not because anyone orders you to, but because he’s your friend. And now you don’t want to give him every chance you can to ensure this never happens again?” Tom threw up his hands, unable to hide his exasperation at the more stubborn than normal resistance. “I’m being realistic. Typically, that’s your job.”
Prophet stared up at the ceiling before glancing at Tom. “You know that Dean took out ten of the soldiers himself, right?”
“I heard. I’m glad he can defend himself. But the remaining ten still captured him, which proves he needs backup.”
“Because he’s blind.”
Tom took Prophet’s hands in his across the table, then ran his palms over Prophet’s forearms. “We’ve all got weak spots. Things we need to be careful of.”
“Is this going to turn into some kind of inspirational talk? Because I’ll throw you out the motherfucking window.”
“You could try,” Tom said. “And for the record, I don’t consider anything about you weak. But everyone needs backup, Proph. Everyone.”
Prophet stared at him a beat too long, then looked away. A ball of nerves found its way back into the pit of Tom’s stomach, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.
It was so quiet—soft music played in Dean and Reggie’s room through the monitor, the ocean’s hum in the distance, but that was it.
“They’re not together, right?” Tom asked now.
“Not like that, no.”
“Reggie feels guilty.”
“They both do,” Prophet said. “I talked with LT earlier. He picked up another group of full-time bodyguards—he’s going to train them, along with Dean.”
“So they’re compromising.”
“Yeah, with LT being lead bodyguard. I want to say, that’s what family does, but if you know my family, I don’t mean blood relatives.”
Tom snorted. “Uh, yeah, I think I understand that.”
Prophet reached a hand up—at first Tom thought Prophet meant to push him away, but then Prophet’s hand splayed along the side of his neck and jaw, tugging Tom in for a kiss. It held the usual flare of heat, but there was a lot between them tonight. Lansing. The men in the other rooms. The fact that they were all still in danger.
Prophet pulled back with a soft groan. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Not about that. Ever.”
The flight time was just before 0400. Prophet roused Tom and they drove LT, Dean, and Reggie to the closest airstrip and waited until the plane took off.
“Sure you guys don’t need a ride home?” LT asked Prophet.
“We’re good, thanks,” Prophet had said.
Once the roar of the plane was gone, Prophet put the truck back into gear, and Tom was lulled to sleep within the first five minutes.
When Prophet nudged him gently, Tom opened his eyes and blinked at the structure in front of him.
“Come on, Tommy,” Prophet said. “I’ve got the bags.”
Tom slid out of the truck and stretched, then followed Prophet inside the luxury rooms. They were still in a hotel, and they couldn’t have gone far, but the change of scenery was welcome.
Prophet dropped the bags behind Tom and locked the door. Tom was already moving toward the large picture window that led out to a big covered deck overlooking the parks.
He saw elephants and zebras. No snipers were coming in from the back.
Prophet motioned. “You like it?”
Tom nodded, unable to look away from the animals. “It’s gorgeous. Makes you forget all the other crap. I’m guessing that’s the point?”
Prophet put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s time to start enjoying shit.”
“I thought that was always your motto.”
“It is,” he conceded. “But my mind sometimes fucks it all up.” And since he rarely talked about his flashbacks, only once since Tom woke him from one, that was a big step. “You’ve seen me have more flashbacks, since New Orleans.”
Tom stuck his hands in his pockets, still staring straight ahead, figuring that would make it easier for Prophet to take what he was about to tell him. “I stop a lot of them from getting to flashback status.”
There was a pause—a little too long, telling Tom that Prophet really didn’t have any idea. Finally, Prophet spoke, simply asking, “How?”
“Usually, I lure you into having sex. Half the time, you probably think it’s a dream, but it’s a better dream than what you usually deal with.”
“Yeah. Much,” Prophet agreed as Tom turned to face him, staring into those remarkably calm gray eyes. “Guess I give you a run for your money.”
“You make it up to me.”
“Figured we’d stay an extra day, if that’s all right with you.”
“Yeah, that works,” Tom said quietly, still half-asleep. This time between night and morning was always like a hazy dream for him, and even once they were back inside their place, with the doors locked, all alone, Tom wasn’t on solid ground.
Once Prophet tugged him close though, he was. Tom nuzzled his cheek, murmured, “You’ve definitely smelled better.”
“You’ll take me anyway.”
“Damned straight.”
Neither of them had worried about showering last night, and they’d sat together quietly instead, taking turns on watch since they’d both been too restless to sleep much . . . too worried that talking would bring them to the conversation they hadn’t been ready to have.
Tom guessed they still weren’t, since he was the one leading Prophet into the shower. Neither of them took off their clothes before stepping under the spray. Tiredly, they began stripping one another, pretty much holding each other up while Tom lathered them both up.
Prophet loved this. He’d never admit it, not with words, but Tom’s hands in his hair made him want to submit, made him want to beg Tom to fuck him. But Prophet was still punishing himself for the fuckup with Lansing, so no, they couldn’t sink into sex until they talked about this.
No matter what his dick was telling him.
Tom seemed to silently agree—even though he was hard, he didn�
�t make any kind of move beyond actually washing Prophet. Because there was angry sex—and that was hot. But this would be beyond that, resentful and questioning, trying to pretend they could fuck away this particular problem. There was no room for that kind of distraction now.
Prophet ran a hand through Tom’s wet hair after he turned the shower off. He got them both towels and they dried off and dressed pretty quickly. A light rain had started, like it did most days. When it cleared, it would leave behind plenty of sun.
He sat heavily on one of the couches—Tom settling into the chair next to it—and tried to figure out how exactly to explain this. Mainly because he wasn’t sure what the hell had happened himself.
Fucking liar—you froze.
Not exactly, but basically the equivalent of it. Because all Prophet had needed to do was take Lansing out. One bullet, a well-placed couple of fingers, even a ballpoint pen to the carotid.
Fuck.
He hated that Lansing had that hold on him, hated that he hadn’t realized it until he’d been face-to-face with the guy for the first time in eleven years.
When he’d fucking lost it. Simply killing Lansing suddenly hadn’t been good enough. He’d needed to slam the agent, in a way that he hadn’t been able to the last time they’d been in the same room. Because death by table wasn’t nearly as satisfying as his own fingers around the man’s throat.
Because Lansing didn’t believe him. Didn’t believe in him. And Prophet had been nothing but loyal.
But if Prophet was going to be accused of being a killer, then he’d be a goddamned killer, and prove Lansing right.
Before he could figure out where to start, Tom jumped right in, asking, “You really figured, ‘Hey, I’ll just kill Lansing and then get on with the rescue’? Like it wouldn’t have any fucking repercussions?”
Well, then, that was as good a place as any. “I’m good at what I do, Tom.”
Tom leaned forward, almost urgently. “I’m not talking about hiding bodies, Prophet. I’m talking about the punch of emotional repercussions. Or didn’t you expect those, man of steel?”
Prophet opened his mouth, then closed it. Ground out, “No, I didn’t.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Tom stood then. Prophet was glad he’d waited to unleash this anger until after the rescue, but judging by the tension in Tom’s body, he wasn’t about to rein himself in or tiptoe around this any longer.
“So fucking much,” Prophet muttered, turned away. But Tom was on him, slamming his shoulder back, forcing Prophet to face him. A dangerous fucking move considering everything Prophet had been through, but he did move his hand away as if he realized that.
“You were going to kill him? And then what?” Tom sounded so reasonable, standing waiting an answer with a patience Prophet knew neither of them had.
“I was going to do it quietly. You wouldn’t even have known.”
“Right. That plan really worked.”
“I don’t need the sarcasm.”
“Too fucking bad. You’re getting it.”
“I lost it, okay.”
Tom stared at him, so obviously angry and disappointed, but no more than Prophet was at himself. Tom reached out, grabbed the front of Prophet’s shirt, bunching the fabric in his fist, and pulled him up off the couch so they were only inches apart.
Prophet didn’t resist. Hell, he owed Tom a punch, at the very least.
But Tom wrapped his arms tightly around him. Threaded a hand into his hair, rubbed his scalp. Comforted him. “You gotta let me in, Proph. All the goddamned way. Or one of us is going to get hurt.”
“Fuck.” It was getting to the all or nothing stage. Beyond it. He buried his face against Tom’s neck, let Tom’s hands run over him.
“I can’t help ease your burden if I don’t know what it is.”
“Throwing my words back at me.”
“Been waiting for the opportunity. They’re good words.” Tom’s hands continued to soothe him. “It was hard not killing him. For everything he did to you.”
“I trained for torture.”
Tom pulled Prophet’s head back, cupped his chin. “No one trains for that.”
Prophet sighed. He’d pushed the rape down so far because that was the only way he knew to keep it from hurting him. Turned out it was too late to avoid that.
“You don’t have to be strong all the time with me, Proph. You can let it go.”
“I know, T. I do.”
“It’s just not easy.” Tom got it. Got him the way John had, except the major difference was that Tom cared. Tom gave back, in all the ways that John wouldn’t—or couldn’t.
John wasn’t a psychopath, but he’d definitely gotten the short stick when it came to feelings—and the total lack of empathy when there should’ve definitely been at least a flicker sometimes floored Prophet, making him wonder if all of John’s feelings had been faked. In many ways, John was his father’s son. “I’ll try, Tommy. Fuck, I’m sorry. I should’ve warned you . . .”
“Better this way,” Tom said. “Suppose he never came? Suppose we got stopped? I had plausible deniability.”
“And now? You’ve tortured a CIA agent.”
“He deserved it.” Tom’s eyes went cold, his voice an angry pitch. “I wanted to kill him for you.”
“I know,” Prophet said hoarsely.
“Come here.” Prophet let Tom tug him close and run his hands along Prophet’s back, his neck, his head.
Prophet, in turn, bowed his head to Tom’s shoulder. “I wanted to keep you innocent.”
“I know,” Tom said. “But you’re about thirty-something years too late. Because I’m not—never was.”
“You were. Thing is, you still are. You don’t let it ruin you.”
“Neither do you, Proph. You just don’t let yourself see it.”
With that, Prophet’s head jerked up. He wanted to tell Tom, right then and there, about his eyes, but the words choked in his throat. Instead, he kissed Tom, a crushing, rudely intimate kiss that Tom immediately reacted to by jerking Prophet’s hips closer.
And then Prophet was vibrating.
“Your phone,” Tom pointed out gently.
Prophet looked into the man’s eyes, wanting to just get lost there. “It’s Ren—I left him a message earlier, told him it was urgent. I’d ignore it if I could.”
“I know.” It was actually Tom who disengaged and grabbed the phone for Prophet. While Prophet talked, he also let Tom fuss over some of the contusions on his back and calves, because he had nothing to hide in that phone call. And when he hung up, Tom asked, “Things okay?”
“I’ll know tomorrow, and then I’ll tell you. But for today . . .”
“We still have shit to talk about.”
“Yeah.” God, he wasn’t getting out of this.
“What did he do to you, Proph?” Tommy pressed gently, but Prophet could tell that he already knew. Lansing had probably been more than happy to insinuate it, and Tom was far from stupid. Add to that the voodoo thing and Prophet didn’t bother evading.
“What he told you.”
Tom nodded, his expression tight. “He raped you.”
Prophet ran his hand through his hair, suddenly feeling way too goddamned vulnerable for this conversation. Mainly because Tommy was looking like he’d snap Lansing’s neck if he walked into the room. “You sure you didn’t kill him?”
Tom bent down, his hands on either side of Prophet’s chair, locking him in place. “I wanted to. I really fucking wanted to. Especially when he taunted me with what he’d done to you.”
Prophet stared into Tommy’s eyes and saw understanding behind the anger. “Yeah, well, it’s been on my to-do list for a while too.”
“We’ve got to finish this. Soon.”
“I know.” The fact that Tom would kill for him . . . well, Prophet always knew that, but to see clear evidence of it made Prophet’s throat tighten. He reached up to cup Tom’s chin and bring his face close. “Thank you.”
&nbs
p; “Are you sorry I know? Because I can’t unknow it.”
“I’ve never told anyone. I told myself it didn’t matter, that he didn’t hurt me. That I’d never let him. And I didn’t, not really. But . . .”
“You’re having flashbacks about it now.”
“Sometimes, yeah. Maybe it was an early-warning system. Which worries me.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m seeing John more often too.” It was good to confess shit like this and not have Tom think he was crazy. “Sleep’s becoming impossible.”
Tom closed his eyes for a second, then pushed back. He went into his bag and pulled out his Kindle, then reached out and grabbed Prophet’s hand and led him outside and over to the large chaise under the canopy. Prophet sank down into the pillows, lying on his back. Tom pulled off his shirt and lay down next to him. Facing him. Prophet turned onto his side too.
“You going to be able to sleep?” Tom asked him.
“I’d like to.”
“Go ahead.” He held up his e-reader. “Plenty to keep me busy.”
“Anything on there that will give you ideas?” Prophet asked hopefully.
“Guess you’ll have to sleep to find out.”
“You’re going to stay up and watch over me while I sleep?”
Tom gazed at him. “Yeah, I am. Is that a problem?”
“It fucking should be,” Prophet grumbled as he closed his eyes. “Fucking should be. But it’s not.”
Hours later, after the sun had set and lights dotted the perimeter of the game park below, Prophet stirred. Tom had only left him long enough to go inside to answer the door and grab some drinks he’d ordered—strong, fruity drinks that would probably knock Prophet on his ass. Prophet rarely drank—Tom didn’t drink much either, but somehow, Prophet was really a lightweight.
Prophet stared at the red drink with its umbrellas and big straw. “You’re trying to get me drunk.”
“Yes,” Tom agreed. He put his Kindle aside. “But I did order dinner—it should be here soon. So I don’t think you’re an easy date.”
“Yeah, you do.” As if to prove it, Prophet motioned to Tom’s hand, which was resting on Prophet’s crotch. “Manhandling me in my sleep?”
