Not Fade Away
August 18, 2014
Hell or High Water, Book 3.5
Truth or dare.
Ever since superspy Cillian moved into Prophetâs building, their game of Steal the Couch has been funny to Prophet, but a thorn in Tomâs side. Then Prophet gets bored one night during an ice storm and insists on playing another simple game with Tom: Truth or Dare. In exchange for one of Prophetâs truths, Tom steals the couch one last time.
But Prophetâs truths are never easyâTom should know that by nowâand this one raises questions neither of them quite know how to answer. In response, Tom finds himself laying claim to Prophet in the most basic way he knows how. And also finds that he doesnât mind it in the least when Prophet returns the favor.
Note: This novelette is set between book 3 and book 4 in the Hell or High Water series.
Connected Books: Hell or High Water
Read an Excerpt
Prophet rolled off Tommy and onto the mattress, pretty sure he was a broken man . . . for the next hour or two, at least. âJesus Christ, youâre trying to kill me with sex.â
Tom groaned. âYour fault. Youâre the one who brought up that damned game of Truth or Dare.â He held up his white T-shirt and waved it around in an I surrender motion.
âThatâs not going to help.â Prophet tried to rise. âAnd as soon as I can move again, Iâll prove it.â He collapsed with his cheek against the mattress. âWhere are the sheets?â
Tom turned and tucked his head against Prophetâs shoulder. âDid we fuck the sheets off the bed? How is that possible?â
âVoodoo,â Prophet mumbled. âBlame it on the voodoo.â He carded a heavy hand through Tommyâs hair and felt his cock actually stir like it was some kind of motherfucking superhero. âAnd that fucking game . . .â
Months earlier . . .
Tom had been back from New Orleans and that hurricaneâand Dave and Rogerâs eyeballingâfor three weeks. With Prophet. At Prophetâs apartment, since heâd been unceremoniously evicted from his own place. Prophet had helped move his boxes. Had even forced him to unpack them, for the first time in forever. And itâd all been surprisingly easy.
And easy and Prophet were words Tom would never typically put into the same sentence.
But that night started easy as well, with a bottle of Jack Danielâs Green Label between them, and Prophet setting shots on fire. Tom didnât remember how or why that started, but there was an ice storm brewing outside. An early one for the season.
And then Prophetâd suggested an innocent game of Truth or Dare.
âIâm not playing Truth or Dare with you,â Tom told him seriously. âNot while weâre stuck hereââ
âWait a secondânow being with me is âbeing stuckâ?â Prophet pointed the bottle at Tom. âIâll have you know there are plenty of people who wouldnât mind âbeing stuckâ here with me.â
Tom crossed his arms. âBesides me, name them.â
Prophet narrowed his eyes. âYou say that like itâll be hard.â
âYouâre deflecting. And procrastinating.â
Prophetâs smile was all cat with canary feathers sticking out of its mouth. âCillian.â
Tom stood. âYouâll pay for that, Elijah Henry Drews.â
âWrong.â Prophetâs voice was laced with satisfaction. âKeep guessing, but youâll never know my middle name. Iâll never even tell you if I have one or not.â He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his voice low and huskier now. âBut youâre so fucking easy, Tommy. Truth or dare.â
âNo wayâyou first. Truth or dare. Choose, or Iâll choose for you.â
Prophet rolled his eyes. âFine. Truth.â
It was Tomâs turn to smile. âTell me about the favors.â
âYou know exactly what Iâm talking about. The favors you do for Mal when you owe him.â
âOh, those favors.â Prophet smirked. âYou really want to know, Tommy?â
âWouldnât ask if I didnât.â
âFirst . . . truth or dare.â
Tom gave one of his best weight-of-the-world sighs that heâd learned from Prophet. âThatâs not how the game works.â
âItâs how it works with me. My rules.â Prophet poured another shot and threatened to light it on fire. âTruth or dare, or this flaming shot?â
It was Tomâs turn to roll his eyes. âGuess which Iâll pick.â
âDare, of course.â
âGood. Perfect. Thanks for being predictable.â
Tom gave him a smirk, especially because he could hear the anticipation in Prophetâs voice no matter how much Prophet tried to hide it. âFuck you and your predictable.â
âYes, fucking will play into it, Iâm sure.â Prophet raked his gaze up and down Tomâs body, with that fucking look he got in his eyes that told Tom he was in for a long, long night. âI think we can both get what we want.â
âYour dareâgo steal Cillianâs couch back and bring it up here.â
âYouâre not serious.â
Prophet shrugged and tried a look that was obviously supposed to be innocentâa look thatâd never quite worked, even before Tom knew him as well as he did. âHey, you mentioned it.â
âI never mentioned Cillianâor his stupid couch,â Tom corrected, then realized it was pointless to argue. âFine. Not a problem.â Prophet sat back and motioned toward the door. âWhy do I have to do my dare before I get your truth?â
âBecause you didnât want to play this game in the first place.â
âFirst of all, that makes no sense. Second of all, youâre such a fucking pain in my ass. Swear to Christ.â Tom stalked out of the house and down the stairs to Cillianâs place. âTurn the fucking alarm off, yeah?â
âWhatever!â Prophet called back.
Tom waited a beat, said a silent prayer that Prophet had done as he asked, and then used the extra key heâd snagged on the way down to open Cillianâs door. It was heavy steel and slid just like Prophetâs. And thankfully the couch sat front and center as if it was waiting for this moment, under a light of its own like some kind of insane trophy, right in the middle of the living room.
He pushed it out of the room easily enoughâthere mightâve been a lamp casualty, but he gave it the finger and kept moving. Wrestling the couch to the stairs wasnât that hard, but carrying it up would be a bitch. He got behind it and tried a combination push / slide, but no, the way the back was structured didnât make for a smooth ride.
Still, it was the best way, beyond strapping the fucking thing to his back, which he seriously considered. He was cursing enough to make Prophet laugh, and by that point, Tom was so pissed off he didnât care about Prophetâs truthâor anyoneâs goddamned truthâat all. He only cared about taking Prophet on this fucking couch and making sure that if Cillian was monitoring the situation, heâd see something to blow his mind.
He lifted the end and then pushed as hard as he could, the couch bouncing up each stair with a hard slam. When it got stuck, he put his entire weight against it sharp and fast, like he was a human battering ram, before realizing that the arm was half-caught against the bannister and yeah, there went the arm.
Fuck it. Didnât need that arm anyway. He pushed and shoved and got the couch into Prophetâs apartment, leaving it in the middle of the foyer before turning to grab the arm from the landing. He came inside again to slide the apartment door shut before semi reattaching the arm by pushing it back onto the exposed nails.
Prophet was watching, grinning unabashedly. Until Tom went and switched on the alarm . . . and the cameras. And then stripped his shirt off and said, âYou. Couch. Now.â
Huh, no more laughing. Shocking. Just Prophetâs intense gaze as Tom gave out more directions. âAnd take your clothes off before you get here.â
âYou donât like that?â
Prophet rolled his eyes. âItâs like you donât know me at all.â
âYour cock likes it, though.â Tom waited, hands on his hips. âSeems to know me quite well.â