Not Fade Away

By: S. E. Jakes

Prophet rolled off Tommy and onto the mattress, pretty sure he was a broken man . . . for the next hour or two, at least. “Jesus Christ, you’re trying to kill me with sex.”

Tom groaned. “Your fault. You’re the one who brought up that damned game of Truth or Dare.” He held up his white T-shirt and waved it around in an I surrender motion.

“That’s not going to help.” Prophet tried to rise. “And as soon as I can move again, I’ll prove it.” He collapsed with his cheek against the mattress. “Where are the sheets?”

Tom turned and tucked his head against Prophet’s shoulder. “Did we fuck the sheets off the bed? How is that possible?”

“Voodoo,” Prophet mumbled. “Blame it on the voodoo.” He carded a heavy hand through Tommy’s hair and felt his cock actually stir like it was some kind of motherfucking superhero. “And that fucking game . . .”

Months earlier . . .

Tom had been back from New Orleans and that hurricane—and Dave and Roger’s eyeballing—for three weeks. With Prophet. At Prophet’s apartment, since he’d 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 it’d all been surprisingly easy.

And easy and Prophet were words Tom would never typically put into the same sentence.

Ever.

But that night started easy as well, with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Green Label between them, and Prophet setting shots on fire. Tom didn’t remember how or why that started, but there was an ice storm brewing outside. An early one for the season.

And then Prophet’d suggested an innocent game of Truth or Dare.

“I’m not playing Truth or Dare with you,” Tom told him seriously. “Not while we’re stuck here—”

“Wait a second—now being with me is ‘being stuck’?” Prophet pointed the bottle at Tom. “I’ll have you know there are plenty of people who wouldn’t mind ‘being stuck’ here with me.”

Tom crossed his arms. “Besides me, name them.”

Prophet narrowed his eyes. “You say that like it’ll be hard.”

“You’re deflecting. And procrastinating.”

Prophet’s smile was all cat with canary feathers sticking out of its mouth. “Cillian.”

Tom stood. “You’ll pay for that, Elijah Henry Drews.”

“Wrong.” Prophet’s voice was laced with satisfaction. “Keep guessing, but you’ll never know my middle name. I’ll never even tell you if I have one or not.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his voice low and huskier now. “But you’re so fucking easy, Tommy. Truth or dare.”

“No way—you first. Truth or dare. Choose, or I’ll choose for you.”

Prophet rolled his eyes. “Fine. Truth.”

It was Tom’s turn to smile. “Tell me about the favors.”

“What favors?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. The favors you do for Mal when you owe him.”

“Oh, those favors.” Prophet smirked. “You really want to know, Tommy?”

“Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

“First . . . truth or dare.”

Tom gave one of his best weight-of-the-world sighs that he’d learned from Prophet. “That’s not how the game works.”

“It’s how it works with me. My rules.” Prophet poured another shot and threatened to light it on fire. “Truth or dare, or this flaming shot?”

It was Tom’s turn to roll his eyes. “Guess which I’ll pick.”

“Dare, of course.”

“Exactly.”

“Good. Perfect. Thanks for being predictable.”

Tom gave him a smirk, especially because he could hear the anticipation in Prophet’s voice no matter how much Prophet tried to hide it. “Fuck you and your predictable.”

“Yes, fucking will play into it, I’m sure.” Prophet raked his gaze up and down Tom’s body, with that fucking look he got in his eyes that told Tom he was in for a long, long night. “I think we can both get what we want.”

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