Page 22 of Illicit

Sammie is pissed.

Landyn is just plain hurt and confused by Teagan’s change of heart. She told me so when she called to tell me the news. I would say it’s the pregnancy hormones. She and Brax are about to have their third kid, and Landyn gets like this every time she’s pregnant. But I know she’d feel this way no matter what. Listening to Landyn’s tears through the phone when she lamented how she thought she’d finally have everyone together again in the same city was more than I could take.

Because no one knows.

Nor will they.

But knowing it’s because of me…

That’s fucking heavy. I’ve carried a shitload of burdens in my life, and this one ranks high on the list of things that weigh on me. And it’s not because of Landyn or Annette or Tim.

New York City might as well be a deserted island when it comes to Teagan. That’s how alone she’ll be. It kills me that I can’t do anything about it.

For now, I’ve got to get her out of New Orleans and put myself between her and Robichaux. Every time I tried to shut my eyes to find sleep, all I saw was him leering at her before I broke up her little undercover gig. No fucking way will he ever look at her like that again.

Me? I’m the one who’s been staring at her for hours as she sleeps. I’ve lost track of the time I’ve sat in this very uncomfortable kitchen chair watching her like a creep.

I’m not proud of the creep I am, but I haven’t seen her for two years. When I realized it was Teagan yesterday at The Hotel Monteleone, it all came rushing back. Since I know she sleeps like the dead and I wouldn’t wake her, I decided there was no place better to figure out my plan of action than right here.

It doesn’t matter how many ways I spin it in my head, none of them are good.

I glance at the clock on my microwave and decide it’s time. “Teagan.”

She doesn’t move.

Nothing has changed … like the dead.

“Teag,” I call for her again.

This time she stirs and rolls to her side, facing me. Her dark hair is messy, her face is free of makeup, and every barrier she’s built that only pertains to keeping me out hasn’t been reinforced.

I raise my voice. “Teagan, wake up.”

She stretches before her eyes flutter open. It takes her a nanosecond to remember where she is. When she does, she presses up to a hip. Her tone is groggy when she asks, “What’s wrong?”

“A lot of shit is wrong,” I announce. “But I’m going to make it right. We’re going to get up, and I’ll drive you to your car. Then I’m going to follow you halfway back to your posh, private university to do what you need to do before graduation. What you will not do is come back to New Orleans.”

She rubs her eyes and does her best to shake off the sleep I woke her from. “Sorry, but you don’t get to tell me what to do or where to be. This is my project. I’m not delusional—I know the chances of getting Mr. Hayes back are slim, but I need to try. If you met Stella, you’d do the same.”

“The only thing I care about is making sure you don’t do something stupid and that Robichaux never leers at you again.”

She tosses the blanket to the other end of the sofa and climbs to her feet. She does a full body stretch as she makes her way to the kitchen. “You seem to have forgotten my area of study. I already have a job lined up to be an investigative journalist in New York. It might be volunteer work now, but I’m going to make a living at it. If you think you can stop me from doing anything, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

She goes to the kitchen and digs through boxes until she finds what she wants to make a cup of coffee.

I cross my arms and lean a shoulder on the wall, trapping her in the small galley kitchen that I’m about to say goodbye to. “I was busy while you were getting your beauty sleep.”

She doesn’t look at me while she talks. “I’d expect nothing less. Isn’t that what DEA agents do—work day and night? Wait, that’s until they find the one and start popping out babies. Then they just work every third night.”

“Can we please have a civil conversation without you throwing your bitchy sarcasm at me?”

“No.”

No.

That’s it. Just a simple fucking no.

“Sammie finally rubbed off on you,” I note.

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