Page 14 of Illicit

Ipush the remnants of rice and bits of chicken and pepper around my plate. In the time I’ve put off talking, Rocco ate most of his beef and broccoli and the rest of my kung pao. He’s banging around in his messy kitchen among boxes. We ate off paper plates since his things are packed.

He swipes my plate out of my hands, takes it to the kitchen, and dumps it in the trash.

Rocco changed before the food arrived. We pretty much match. We’re both in T-shirts, but he threw on a pair of gym shorts. I’m the one wearing his gray sweatpants, which is a disappointment. I had to roll them over three times to keep them up. They’re soft and comfortable, even though I’d rather he be the one wearing them.

I think I was seventeen when I realized the beauty of Rocco in gray sweatpants.

It’s a sight to see and will forever be burned on my brain. So much so, I’m unimpressed with the phenomenon my friends fawn over. No one measures up.

Par for the course.

Fucking Rocco.

For the last two years of almost twelve he’s been in my life, I’ve ignored him, shunned him, and blocked him. I thought going cold turkey would be the only cure. Like any addict, I cut off my obsession at the root.

But I was kidding myself.

I had no idea how strong an addiction could be.

Twenty-two months of no Rocco Monroe was barely a drop in the bucket.

I quit my sorority and immersed myself in school so deep, my parents have never been prouder. I had two mediocre boyfriends who were so basic, it makes me want to poke my eyes out just thinking about the experiences. And I logged more volunteer hours than I can count.

I’m beginning to think my addiction has no cure.

The man standing over me with two fresh beers is nothing like he was the first day I laid eyes on him. I take a bottle, silently grateful, even though this means he’s never going to take me back to my car tonight.

I’m stuck in my own personalized, sadistic brand of hell.

I watch him take another long pull as he plants his very fine, firm ass on the messy coffee table in front of me. His apartment isn’t big, but there’s plenty of space for him to sit across the room rather than sucking the oxygen between us.

With his beer in his hand, he widens his legs, leans forward to rest his forearms on his thighs, and focuses his light brown eyes on me. “Since you’ve gone silent on me, I’ll go first and tell you everything I know about Jules Robichaux. When I’m done, you’d better explain why you’re in New Orleans pretending to be someone you’re not meeting a lowlife like him. Depending on your answer, I might or might not call your dad.”

My blood boils. “Don’t give me an ultimatum. Just because you’re an agent now doesn’t mean shit when it comes to me. And since when did you become so holier than thou? They handed you a federal badge and you turned into Brax and Micah. Maybe even a little bit of King. You refuse to see it, but I’m all grown up and can take care of myself. I knew I was sneaking into your backyard when I set up a meeting with Robichaux. But, statistically speaking, the odds were in my favor. New Orleans is a big place. The chances of running into you were quite literally almost none. You ruined months of hard work.”

I watch him put his beer to his lips one more time before he focuses on me and ignores everything I just said. “I’ve kept tabs on Robichaux for the last year. He skims the surface of so many cases in this city then disappears without a trace. He’s like the rat you know is there but never leaves a trail. His name is mentioned by suppliers, dealers, pimps, bar owners, and even a manager of the transit authority who was arrested last year on distribution.”

I swallow a sip of my beer before wiping a drip from my bottom lip and mull that over. “Huh.”

Rocco narrows his eyes but proves he’s on a roll and keeps talking. “I’ll tell you what he’s not known for. Volunteer work, track and field, journalism, or sorority parties. Though I wouldn’t put it past him to dive into the last one if the opportunity presented itself. Which means the two of you shouldn’t be in the same city, let alone the same room together. I want to know why you left the small, southern town you love so much, dressed like you’re auditioning at strip bars in the French Quarter, and pretending to be someone you’re not.”

I hike a brow. “For your information, I dropped out of my sorority my junior year and haven’t been to a party since. That goes to show you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Teagan, who is Stella Hayes, and what the fuck are you up to?” he demands.

I set my beer next to him and wipe the condensation on his sweatpants that I’m considering not giving back. If he’s going to hold me here against my will, I think I deserve a souvenir from being subjected to his cruel and unusual punishment.

When I say nothing, he sits up straight, and his bottle lands with a thud next to mine. Tension hangs between us—a mix of his frustration and my sheer determination to not be pathetic.

But he doesn’t give up, and this time I know he’s serious. His next threat isn’t empty. I know he can and will follow through. “If Heath or Stella Hayes are real people, I’ll know everything about them two minutes after I get to work tomorrow morning. If you think that won’t happen, you haven’t been paying attention for the last twenty-two years.”

I roll my eyes.

“You know I’m right, Teagan. Tell me, or I’ll figure it out on my own. Either way, I’ll know exactly what you’re up to in approximately ten hours.”

I cross my arms. “And what are you going to do when you figure it out? You can threaten to call my dad all you want—I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

“Jules was looking at you like you were his last meal before he pimped you out to the underworld of New Orleans. You weren’t doing anything illegal, but you were treading in dangerous waters. You know it.”

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