Long Time Gone (Hell or High Water ) (24 page)

“What, like you’re the only one who can?”

Tom stared at him. “It took me years to learn how to do that.”

“I didn’t have years. I had like a goddamned second before the thing killed me.” Prophet looked indignant. “The other one was right behind it.”

“You didn’t wrestle it—you shot it.”

“It’s the same thing.”

Tom laughed. “It’s really not.”

“And what the fuck—you hear a shot and you come running blindly? Have I taught you nothing?”

But Tom was fucking hugging him fiercely, like he’d finally realized the seriousness of the situation, and Prophet didn’t want to deal with being treated with kid gloves, so he pushed him away. “Save it.”

“Proph . . .”

“Can we figure out who’s trying to kill you instead of feeling bad? That would help me more.”

“Okay.”

“And I need ice for my head,” he muttered.

“There’s no ice here.”

“Right. Why are you here, T?”

“Police came to Etienne’s.”

“And you lost them in the bayou?”

“No. I hid while they searched. I waited until they left. I waited a couple more hours, then figured I had to go before daylight.” Tom stared at him. “How’d you get here if you left me the Jeep?”

“Old man Jensen’s truck.”

“You stole his truck?”

“Borrowed,” Prophet corrected. “Remy thought of it when I took him home.”

“Did you just blame a fifteen-year-old kid for why you stole—”

“—borrowed—”

“—a truck?”

Prophet shrugged. “Little bit. Sure there’s no ice around here?”

“Nothing but a bottle of whiskey.”

“That’ll do.”

“This place fucks you up,” Prophet told him, several hours into the heat of the day as they sweltered together in the old shack.

Tom had taken more drugs and Prophet had finished half of the bottle of Jack Daniels Green Label and he wasn’t so much drunk as he was . . . loose. More Prophet-like, if anything.

And somehow, Tom knew the guy could still fuck up an army.

“No shit.” Tom held up the half-empty bottle of Jack Green. “Should I just forgive and forget?”

“No,” Prophet said flatly.

“Never come back then, right? If I’d just let you handle everything . . .”

Prophet turned back to him, his granite eyes darkening. “I wanted you to go. I wanted to handle it for you, but I was wrong. I know better than anyone that anytime you have to run from something, you’re headed down a dangerous path.”

“I guess ghosts are inevitable.”

Prophet nodded. “It’s how we deal with them that makes the difference.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Yes.”

“You should write that down and make it a book. You can call it
Shit Prophet Says
.”

Prophet gave him a drunken smile. “You have to get rid of this curse mentality, T. It’s going to eat you up. Part of it already has. Whenever you believe the shit someone says about you, for better or worse, you become it. It gives them power. Forgive, forget, stay away—they’re all parts of the same coin. Stop believing that curse shit and you won’t have to do any of that stuff.”

“Easy to say.”

“No, not so easy. Hard as hell to do, too.
I’m
still working on it.”

That admission—more than anything else Prophet could’ve said—broke the spell for Tom, broke the hold this damned place had on him. Because Prophet was the strongest man he knew, and for him to say that he still had to work on things— “Wait? You think you’re cursed too?”

“Sometimes, T, I think we all are,” Prophet said seriously.

He leaned in and kissed Prophet, then murmured, “Taste like whiskey,” against the man’s mouth. “I like whiskey.”

“Good,” Prophet told him. “I hope old man Jensen likes it too. Remy said to return the truck with a bottle in the front seat and run like hell.”

Tom gave a short laugh and kept his forehead pressed to Prophet’s. “I feel terrible for Remy . . .”

Prophet sighed and pulled back. “What about his mom? Sounds like there’s some tension between her and Etienne.”

“That’s an understatement. They both wanted a kid so badly . . . Etienne was willing to do anything.”

“Apparently, anything worked long enough to conceive the kid.”

“Yeah, but the open marriage didn’t. She’s bitter. Figured Etienne would come around.”

“Really?”

Tom shrugged. “Sometimes people only see what they want to.”

“I hated sending Remy home to her,” Prophet said. “But it’s probably safest.”

“Physically, maybe,” Tom muttered.

“The faster we find Etienne, the faster he can fight his custody battle.”

“Okay, yes.” Tom pushed everything else out of his mind in order to do what would ultimately be the best thing for Etienne’s son. “I’m tired of regrets. That’s why I’ve been trying to work on things that won’t let me have any.”

“How’s that working for you?” Prophet asked.

“Fine, until I came here.” Tom held the bottle up like he was making a toast. “What now?”

“We wait until we figure out the smart thing to do.”

“I think we can agree that we bypassed smart the second we kissed.”

Prophet stared at him. “I think it’s the smartest thing you ever did.”

“I swear to God, just when I think I’ve got you pegged . . .” He ran a hand over Prophet’s bruised cheek lightly. “Let’s concentrate on how we’re going to get out of this place.”

Prophet held up his phone. “I called in an extraction team.”

Ah, so that’s what Prophet had been doing with his phone while Tom was busy making sure he wasn’t like, dying or anything. “A little dramatic, no?”

“No,” Prophet said calmly.

“Okay, so extraction
team
or
. . .
Cillian?”

“Dude, calm down. No. Not him.”

“Can’t be someone from EE because you’re not there anymore.”

Prophet stared at him. “Out of curiosity, when did you first hear about that?”

“Word traveled fast—so like, day one of Eritrea. Everyone was surprised.”

“That it took Phil so long?”

“What the hell, Proph? No, that he’d do that to you. Lot of people like you, and they’re pissed on your behalf.”

Prophet muttered, “Kiss asses,” but he was obviously pleased.

“Don’t know why they like you,” Tom told him, but he was smiling.

“Me neither,” Prophet agreed heartily. He stretched. “These sleeping bags aren’t bad. If it wasn’t hot as hell, this place would be perfect.”

“Guess I could turn the air on.”

“There’s been air in this thing the whole time?”

“You deserved a little torture.”

“Maybe I even like it,” Prophet said. He rolled over onto Tom and bit his earlobe while twisting one of the barbell piercings in his nipples.

Through the shudder, he forced himself to ask, “So, where were you the past four months?” before Prophet distracted him thoroughly.

“Liberating Croatia,” Prophet told him seriously.

“How the hell am I ever supposed to win an argument with you?”

“You’re not. Get used to it. But that was a nice try, when I’m obviously drugged and drunk with a concussion.”

He threw his hands in the air. “You’re buzzed.”

“Can we just focus on clearing your name? Because while I’m pretty clear, you’re the very definition of screwed.” But Prophet was smiling as he said it. “Speaking of, aren’t you gonna call Phil? You know, since you didn’t check in with Cope after your arrest.”

Tom shook his head. “You should call Phil.”

“He doesn’t want to hear from me. Trust me on that.”

“What’d you do?”

“Why automatically assume it’s me?” Prophet asked, and Tom stared at him. “Okay, a lot of the time it is me, but trust me . . . ah, hell, maybe neither of us should check in with your current employer.”

“Better that way,” Tom agreed.

“Right. So we’re just fugitives with zero backup, although your aunt wields a pretty big shotgun,” Prophet offered, and Tom gave a short laugh. “If my first plan falls through, we need a backup plan.”

“I plan on letting you fuck me,” he told Prophet. “How’s that for a plan?”

“I like it. Never fucked in a cemetery,” Prophet mused. “Well, there was that one time . . .”

Tom shut him up with a kiss, which was basically the way he’d wanted it. Prophet grabbed at Tommy as heat of an entirely different kind flooded his body. Then again, Tommy had always gone straight to his dick.

“For the love of all that’s good and holy, do you think you two can keep it in your fucking pants long enough to be rescued?”

Tom jumped away from Prophet, who merely glanced lazily up at the big, dark-haired man framed by the doorway. “Why you gotta ruin my game, man?”

Mick looked between Prophet and Tom.

“Hey, Mick,” Tom said. “I’m Tom.”

“Kinda figured that one out for myself,” Mick said as he walked inside.

A shorter, younger guy followed and punched Mick in the arm. “Hey, Proph! Hey, Tom, I’m Blue. Got a boat to get you out of here.”

“A boat?” Prophet asked.

“Like one of those touring the bayou things with the big motor and the high seats,” Blue said.

“What the hell kind of extraction plan’s this shit?”

“One that involves a drunken asshole and his partner,” Mick deadpanned.

“And why the fuck are you two dressed like hillbillies?” Prophet continued.

“We’re blending,” Mick said.

“They think we’re shrimpers,” Blue added, then motioned to Mick as if the man wasn’t watching him. “I certainly didn’t want to dress this way, but I think he’s enjoying it.”

“You know I can hear you, yes? He knows I can hear him, right?” Mick directed the last part at Tom, who ignored him to advise Blue, “Lose the flannel.”

“Told you,” Blue said, shrugging his shirt off. They all stared at the tattoos running down his arms. “Right.” He pulled the shirt back up, grumbling about sweating to death, and Mick rolled his eyes and muttered something about never being given any goddamned credit.

“Can we just get the fuck out of here?” Prophet growled.

“Give him more to drink,” Mick told Tom, and he was serious. Tom handed Prophet the bottle. He took it, slung an arm over Tom’s shoulder, and Blue opened the door.

“We’re not going to get far,” Mick said as they started to walk through the cemetery toward the swamp. “There are roadblocks everywhere and police boats up and down the bayou. We can get you to a new spot, but not out of the bayou.”

“Will there be running water?” Prophet asked as he stumbled against Blue.

“God, I hope so,” Blue muttered. “You’re kind of a princess, aren’t you?”

“Remember what I told you last week at my apartment? Beat. You,” Prophet reminded Blue in a low voice.

Tom had to give them credit. The airboat Mick used had a tented area where he and Prophet remained hidden while they motored slowly through the bayou. At one point, he even heard Blue talking to some of the other fishermen, introducing themselves.

“We came up from the Everglades. We’re looking for work . . .”

“What the hell’s he doing?” Prophet asked.

“A pretty good job of getting noticed for the right reasons,” Tom whispered back. “These people can spot a stranger from ten miles out. Better not give them any reason to alert the sheriff.”