Page 1 of Illicit

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ILLEGAL VERSUS ILLICIT

Rocco

It never fails.

I can’t not see it.

Me.

In someone else’s skin.

But not really me.

The me that could’ve been.

The me that, without a doubt, would have been had I not been dragged out of the life I was born into.

Every time I’m like this—working a case, sitting surveillance, or hearing the metal click around wrists when I make an arrest—I see it.

Because every path I was on led me to be on the other side of the law than where I currently sit.

“Dude, are you even paying attention?”

I look over at Taylor. “When will you get it through your head that I’m not a skater. Do not dude me.”

Taylor is not a skater, but he was a snowboarder in his previous life before joining the DEA. That’s close enough to a skater in my book. If I didn’t know he was an agent, I’d think he was a target. He’s been in New Orleans longer than me. He’s originally from Vermont, which makes him more of a fish out of water than me in The Big Easy.

But we’re both fish out of water in our current surroundings—him because he looks like he could shred a half-pipe at a moment’s notice, and me, because I don’t belong anywhere posh no matter how I look.

The Hotel Monteleone.

One of the most historic spots in the French Quarter.

But if there’s anything I’ve learned in my three years working for the DEA in New Orleans, no place is off limits when it comes to drugs, crime, or filth.

And this proves it.

Filth is everywhere.

“I’ll dude you all day long. Fuck, man, I know you have one foot out the door, but you might as well be checked out. Jules Robichaux just entered the building. Get your shit straight, or I’ll go in myself.”

“No offense, Taylor, but if you walk into the bar of The Hotel Monteleone you’ll attract more attention than Robichaux.”

I slide my cell into my pocket and turn back to the monitors focused on the Carousel Bar and Lounge.

Jules Robichaux has been on my radar for over a year. His name comes up from time to time in my cases, but that’s it. I have nothing solid to prove he’s doing anything wrong other than having shit friends. But when a guy associates with distributors, dealers, and pimps on the regular, it puts him under the microscope.

Hanging with the wrong crowd isn’t against the law. If anyone knows that it’s me. But this guy is popping his head above water in public, and he never makes an appearance. Not like this. He called one of my targets I’m listening to on a wire to let him know he was taking a meeting at the lounge of the Carousel.

Out in the open.

In public.

For all to witness.

Namely … me.

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