Page 134 of Illicit

“What did he say?”

I sit up and get to the point of the phone call. “Cole’s contact was able to get Mr. Hayes, but he’s not well. They stopped in Barcelona for fuel and took Mr. Hayes to the hospital.”

“That’s not good.”

I listen to Rocco start his car. “I need to update Stella. She needs to know her father is out of Nigeria. But I also don’t want to worry her when we don’t know anything. I guess I’m just calling to let you know. Have you heard from Taylor?”

“No. I know he’s busy so I’m going to wait for him to call me. But I’m getting antsy. I’m never not a part of the action.”

“I’m going to call Stella. I just wanted to let you know what was happening. And that it was exciting that Cole called me. He even called me a baddy.”

“You were that day in The Monteleone.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Teag,” he calls before I hang up.

“Yeah?”

“Love you, baby. I’ll never get tired of saying it.”

I might melt into a puddle of gooey feelings. “I love you too.”

“And I need to find a way to muffle you tonight when you sneak into my bed.”

“That is not at all romantic!” I exclaim. “Kind of hot, though.”

He laughs. “I’m getting a call from Taylor. Talk soon.”

Rocco muffling my moans while my parents, sister, and new niece sleep down the hall should not excite me.

But then again, I am surprised by what excites me when it comes to Rocco.

That gives me an idea.

I want to surprise him.

I grab my purse and keys. I’ll call Stella on my way to the mall.

Rocco

“Dude, I’m in the middle of a takedown. I’m a little busy. When I text you, fucking answer me.”

“You’re welcome,” I say as I merge onto the freeway. “I handed you the case of a lifetime. Do you have everyone yet?”

“Oh, it’s a fucking shit show.” Taylor is not his cool and easy-going self. His stress is off the charts. “We hit the door of one of the houses where Robichaux lives like every third day, or some shit like that. Anyway, we followed him there. We busted down the door, but he has himself barricaded in the center with one of his prostitutes.”

“No shit?”

“Not one shit. Zero shits,” he bites as fast as a boomerang, talking ten times faster than I’ve ever heard during the three years we worked together. “It’s a standoff. We’re bringing in a negotiator. We have ten others in custody. They were easy since they were at work at the Parish Tax Assessor’s Office. We went in, read them their rights, and hauled them off. We got three more who ran from the house where Robichaux is barricaded.”

“Nice work—other than the barricade.”

“That’s not why I’m calling,” he says.

I hear his comm radio crackle in the background. I’m patient while he gives directions to stand down and wait for the negotiator.

“I’m back and have to make this shit quick. I wish I had time to deliver this news gently, but I don’t.”

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