Daylight Again (Hell or High Water, #3)

by SE Jakes

  “You all right?” Tom asked.

  Prophet nodded, noting that Tom looked entirely too pleased with himself. “That felt good.”

  Tom shook his head.

  “What? I needed to release some tension.” Prophet stretched his neck. “I definitely don’t get to do that often enough.”

  “There are other ways to relieve tension, Proph.”

  “I know that. And now I’m going to try one of them.”

  He grabbed Tom and yanked him close, rubbing his rough-stubbled cheek against Tom’s, knowing full well Tom loved the scratch and burn. “You fought too, Cajun.”

  “Self-defense, pure and simple,” he protested. “And I saw Mal and Cillian. We were clear before the fight.”

  “And after. Saw Cillian leave with the majority of the crowds,” Prophet confirmed. “Where were they?”

  “Closer to the back.” Tom waved a hand casually in that direction. “Shouldn’t we leave?”

  “Not till we get the all clear.”

  He pulled Tommy onto the dance floor, wrapping around him, burying his face in Tommy’s neck. Tom did the same as they swayed. Partly so they wouldn’t be spotted, but mainly because it was really nice to be able to hold Tom like this.

  “Want to fuck you right here,” Prophet murmured. “Get on my knees, suck you. Then turn you around, hold you against the pillar and take you in front of everyone.”

  Tom groaned against Prophet’s ear.

  “Ah, you like that idea,” Prophet shifted his glance to another couple, made sure Tom noticed they were stroking each other.

  “Fuck,” Tom muttered. “We need to go to clubs more often.”

  “Right,” Prophet teased. “Because we don’t have enough sex.” But really, sex with Tommy was everything. It was where and how he’d gotten the best possible education on everything Tommy—and he was well aware that Tom had gotten the same information on him. Until you really knew what someone was like in bed, you didn’t really know them at all.

  “Never enough,” Tom informed him seriously. “And maybe I’d push you onto your knees. Then down on the ground. Spread you and fuck you in front of everyone.”

  Prophet hissed a breath, bared his throat slightly. “You’d make me perform?”

  “You’d fucking love it, Proph.”

  Fuck yeah, he would. “When this is all over . . . that.”

  “Yeah, that,” Tom echoed.

  When the slow song ended, Prophet’s phone buzzed with the all clear, and he reluctantly led Tommy off the dance floor and out onto the street. When they got back into their hotel room, Tom turned and asked, “Is there any way out of this?”

  “Barring John getting killed by a random bus when he crosses the street? No.”

  “So we pray for random buses,” Tom said seriously.

  Prophet hadn’t pushed him on where Mal and Cillian had been, and yeah, Tom would never have thought he’d find them fucking either, so why would Prophet?

  And really, telling Prophet that Mal and Cillian were fucking wouldn’t end well . . . but as psychotic as Mal was, he’d never have gotten this far if he wasn’t good at his job.

  He tried not to smirk though, at the thought of having something on the asshole. And also because Cillian was involved with someone else’s cock besides Prophet’s now.

  “What exactly do Mal’s favors entail?” he asked suddenly.

  “Where’d that come from?” Prophet asked.

  “Because you’ve avoided the question every other time I’ve asked it.”

  Prophet shrugged. “Really depends on the circumstances. Let’s just say, his type of club usually involves more whips and chains than go-go dancers.”

  “Jesus, he’s a fucking psycho, Prophet. He likes pain. He’s out of control. He’s—” Tom stopped dead. Grabbed the side of the dresser for support. He stared up at Prophet, stricken. “He’s me.”

  Prophet pressed his lips together, like he was trying not to smile. And not succeeding.

  “Tell me,” Tom urged. “Tell me it’s not true.”

  “You guys have . . . some stuff in common,” Prophet admitted.

  “And you knew!” Tom said accusingly, pointing at him. “You knew and you let me go on about what an asshole he is.”

  “To be fair, I let Mal go on about you being an asshole too,” Prophet said reasonably.

  “Was he this miserable when he came to the same conclusion I did?” Tom heard the hope in his voice as he asked, and Prophet shook his head.

  “He’s still in complete denial.”

  Maybe there was hope. No more piercings. Normal sex. And hey, it’s not like he went out every day and beat people up for the hell of it . . .

  Except when he needed to protect Prophet.

  Or for the mission.

  Or . . .

  Yeah. He sat on the bed, rested his head in his hands. He heard Prophet trying really hard not to laugh as he said, “It could be a lot worse.”

  “How?”

  When there was silence for a long time, he looked up.

  “I’m thinking. Something will come to me,” Prophet promised.

  “Forget it. Just . . .” He stared at Prophet.

  “What?”

  “As long as I’m psycho, might as well have some fun with it,” Tom reasoned.

  “Hold that thought, Tommy. I have one call to make.” Prophet started toward the bedroom, calling over his shoulder, “But shit, I’ve got to shower first—someone dumped glitter all over me,” before heading into the bathroom.

  Tom snorted, then looked down and noticed a lot of that glitter had rubbed off on him. He’d wait until he heard the water running and join him. And in the meantime . . .

  He whirled around and caught King by throat, pinning him to the wall.

  “Impressive,” King said, his voice hoarse. “Prophet’s teaching you well.”

  “That’s something I learned on my own.” Tom reluctantly released his grip. Mainly because he didn’t love the suspicious vibe he was getting off the man tonight. King had snuck up on him before, but tonight was actually the first time watching the man interact with Prophet. Speaking of. “Prophet’s in the shower.”

  King rubbed his throat. “I’m here to talk to you, Tom.”

  “So talk.”

  King narrowed his eyes. “He’s going to be too worried about you to be effective.”

  “Fuck off, King. I’ve worked with Prophet before. He’s the one I discuss this with, not you.”

  “He’s not thinking clearly.”

  “And you are?” Tom shot back. “Honestly, out of all of us, I’m the only one thinking clearly. You’re all way too close to this for comfort.”

  “Sadiq tried to kill you too,” King pointed out.

  Tom kept his voice cool when he said, “Collateral damage—we both know that. So I’m the best goddamned thing to happen to your team.”

  King studied him. “You prepared to die for this?”

  “King, I’m not a fucking wet-behind-the-ears FNG. You can’t scare me like that. But to answer your question, yeah, I’ve been prepared to die for as long as I can remember. Some days, I even prayed for it.”

  King held his hands up in silent surrender.

  “Don’t fuck with me, King,” he hissed. “I’m in this. I’m more invested than you’ll ever know. I get what I’m walking into. And I’m willing to keep walking. But I’m done justifying my existence.”

  He turned his back on King, because it was important for him to let King know that as far as Tom was concerned, he trusted King.

  When he heard a door open, he turned back around and found Prophet standing in the doorway, the window half-opened where King had made his escape.

  Judging by the half-troubled look on Prophet’s face, he’d heard it all. “For all the shit you’ve got going on with Mal, I’ve never heard you do that.”

  Tom shrugged. “Mal would never say that to me.”

  Prophet tilted his head. “Why’s that?”

&n
bsp; “As fucked as it is, Mal and I get each other. We’re the same fucking person. He doesn’t need to question my motives—he knows them intimately.”

  Prophet smiled.

  “And how long have you known that, too?” Tom demanded.

  “Long time.”

  “So what the hell is King’s issue?”

  “He’d like to remain alive. He’s never worked with you. And he’s going into one of the most important jobs of his life.”

  Tom sighed. “Is he going to get past it?”

  “You didn’t give him a choice.”

  Prophet woke before Tom did, and he knew exactly what was happening. Before he woke Tom up, he rifled through his bag, pulled out Tom’s meds, and grabbed some ice to wrap in a towel.

  He also soaked a washcloth in alcohol. He figured that something had to help, and he’d try anything.

  Tom’s migraines were few and far between, but yeah, Prophet should’ve predicted this one, especially after King’s visit.

  “Tommy, can you take your medicine?” he asked quietly, and Tom opened his eyes, blinked, stared, then muttered, “Shit.”

  He struggled to sit up, grabbing at Prophet to help. Prophet fixed the pillows behind him, got the meds into him, and worked the ice and alcohol compress. He also used some of the pressure point massage he’d learned specifically for this purpose.

  After forty minutes, Tom relaxed, although the meds had made him flushed and uncomfortable. Prophet took a handful of the small cubes and placed them on Tommy’s chest. The man’s skin was on fire and when Prophet touched him, he jolted, nipples tightening, and grabbed Prophet’s wrist.

  Prophet let Tom hold him, but he took one of the cubes and dragged it to a nipple, circling it first around the piercing, then putting it directly onto the already taut tip. Tommy was staring at him, but Prophet was too busy concentrating on his work. He blew on the nipple, and Tommy moaned.

  And that might be the best thing he’d ever heard. He did the same thing again, circled the nipple, touched the peak, blew, and then he leaned in and bit it before sucking on it, playing with the barbell under his tongue and between his teeth.

  Tommy flailed, caught his shoulders for purchase, and groaned. Dug his fingers into Prophet’s hair, sending a jolt of incredible, searing hot straight to Prophet’s cock. Jutted his hips against Prophet’s cock like he had no control over himself.

  Which he didn’t. Tommy was melting for him. Prophet loved the taste of his skin, his nipple hard under the scrape of his teeth, loved making this man crazy. And Tommy was begging, but for what, Prophet knew Tom had no idea.

  Tom’s breath was choppy, and even though his body temperature had cooled, his cock was hard as it’d ever been. His eyes were still closed though, features relaxed.

  “Any better, baby?” Prophet asked.

  “Will be.”

  Prophet didn’t fight when Tom rolled him onto his back. Let Tommy grab his hands, bring his arms over his head. He was already shirtless, groaned when Tom bit then sucked at his nipple. Prophet needed this, and he always let Tom run roughshod over him when he was in pain.

  Tom pushed Prophet’s pants down, then his own. This would be quick and dirty, the way they both liked it. He grabbed for the lube, but instead of readying Prophet, he readied himself, covered and lubed Prophet. Prophet watched, his breathing fast, and finally, Tom lowered himself onto Prophet’s cock.

  Prophet pushed up on his elbows. Tom helped him up and they rocked against each other, Tom holding onto Prophet’s shoulders as they took each other.

  Prophet looked up for a second, said, “Come on, Tommy . . . come now.”

  And he did, shot and groaned and looking surprised, like his body couldn’t help but follow Prophet’s orders. That caused a chain reaction in Prophet, and he grabbed for Tom’s hips, held him down tightly on his cock as his hips bucked up wildly. He cried out Tom’s name—Tommy—and Tommy smiled at that before collapsing on top of him.

  Prophet let Tom sleep in the next morning, ordered him breakfast, and got him settled with food and a good movie before he went to meet King.

  Tom knew, of course, but he’d just snorted and said he’d much rather stay in bed.

  As Prophet walked the block to the diner, he mused on the fact that Lansing hadn’t been seen or heard from. How there were no lackeys around—he and his team could spot them a mile away.

  And as odd as it was to worry when they had it too good, Prophet knew that nothing was ever as good as it seemed. Now, he slid into the booth in the back across from King. “You’re pushing it.”

  King could interpret that one of two ways, but he went with, “Any word on Lansing?”

  “Could be a major problem,” Ren said from the booth behind him.

  Prophet didn’t turn, just said, “Christ, Ren, you two ever going to cut the cord?”

  “You and Tom first.”

  Prophet stared at Mal, who sat behind King and gave Ren the finger in Prophet’s honor. His eyes blurred for a second. God, he was tired. He rubbed his eyes, but the blurriness got worse, and he tried to blink it away.

  “You all right?” Ren slapped him on the shoulder.

  “Getting old,” Prophet muttered and Ren laughed.

  “Never, Proph. You’ve got the fountain of youth hidden in your pants.”

  “What the fuck does that even mean?” Hook demanded, then held up a hand. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”

  “Means fucking keeps you young,” King told Hook. “But you’re married, so what do you know about sex, right?”

  Hook threw the ice from his glass at all of them. The waitress yelled, Prophet blinked, and everything was clear again.

  Prophet and Tom had dragged into Prophet’s apartment at three in the morning. At 8 a.m., Prophet was in the doctor’s office. He’d missed an appointment last week—routine—but after the incident in Amsterdam . . .

  “Prophet?”

  Prophet looked up at the doctor who’d just come into the examination room, looking concerned. “Hey, Dr. Salen. Sorry. I was just . . . somewhere else.”

  “You looked it. And you didn’t hear my knock. Feeling okay?”

  Prophet shrugged as the doctor leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “I’m jet-lagged.”

  “Any other issues?”

  More than you have prescriptions for. “Hard to tell.” Because between flashbacks and Sadiq and Lansing and all the other shit . . . “I had something happen yesterday. Blurriness.”

  “Could be the result of a long trip with no sleep, which I’m guessing yours was.” Dr. Salen motioned for him to sit up, and he brought the machine between them. Prophet opened his eyes as he was put through all the usual tests. They always worked like this—Prophet didn’t ask questions during the exam, and Dr. Salen didn’t talk at all.

  When the exam was finished, Prophet sat back and waited while Dr. Salen wrote his notes.

  Finally, Dr. Salen looked at him. “We talked about how it’s hard to predict the progression of this disease, given its genetic component.”

  Prophet cut through the bullshit so Dr. Salen knew he could too. “My father’s came up fast.”

  Dr. S nodded. “Things look worse—there’s definite progression of the disease.”

  “And that means?”

  “Could be five years until your vision goes. Two years. Could be tomorrow.”

  “So it’s not just tiredness,” Prophet said tightly.

  “Based on what I’ve just seen, I don’t think so, no.” Dr. Salen didn’t couch things, which was why Prophet liked him. Most of the time. Right now, not all that much. “You could stay at the intermediate stage for a long time.”

  Except his father had blown through it in months. So had his grandfather. But Dr. Salen already had his family history, so now, all Prophet could bring himself to say was, “Okay. So I’ll be back in a month.”

  “Unless you have problems in between.”

  “Right, yes.”

  “Did y
ou think about any of the resources we discussed?” Dr. Salen asked. “Best to implement them before they’re necessary.”

  Prophet had. He’d taken initial Braille lessons, researched all the newest software. Thought about Seeing Eye dogs. Dean had given him a lot of resources.

  But Prophet would have to stop denying and start working. “I’ve been using the blindfold.”

  “How’s that going?”

  “Fine.”

  Dr. Salen frowned at the lie. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Prophet nodded, heard the door click behind him. The problem was, the darkness gave him panic attacks. And no matter how many times he told himself he wouldn’t be in total darkness, he still heard Joe Drews’s voice in his head.

  “Bullshit. They don’t know. Fucking bad at being a cripple. I’m not going to be worthless. Going out strong. That’s how we do it.”

  Prophet hadn’t wanted to do anything like his father. He’d tied the blindfold on, sat in the dark, and just tried to deal.

  He had more situational awareness than most, because of his job. He could hear more, sense more, but having one of those senses completely cut off . . .

  He took a deep, shuddered breath, the way he did when the blindfold was on. He closed his eyes and remained in the darkness.

  The disease had been passed down through his family like a plague. His grandfather and father had killed themselves before it had gotten past this stage.

  Prophet had simply refused to dwell on it. He couldn’t fix it and whatever he couldn’t fix, he ignored. He’d just gotten stronger, physically and mentally. And he’d made plans to continue working in this field, whether he could see or not.

  But planning on being blind and being blind were two different things entirely. And he hadn’t really grasped that shit until right fucking now.

  It’ll be better than this.

  He opened his eyes.

  It had to be.

  He stood, ready to leave, despite the fact that he was supposed to wait for Dr. Salen, and in walked the reason he was, no doubt, told to wait.

  “What the fuck? You moonlighting now?” Prophet asked, caught inches from the door.