Page 24 of Illicit

I’ve known it for a while, but after the last twelve hours, nothing is more apparent than the new and less-improved Teagan Coleman.

Teagan

The drive back to the French Quarter has been long, silent, and miserable.

Rocco didn’t even turn on the radio.

Pure hell.

I’m also still in his big, baggy clothes and helped myself to a pair of flip flops from his closet. The thought of cramming my feet back into those heels from yesterday gave me a figurative cramp.

He’s not getting his clothes back. I’ll keep them as a reminder of how Rocco Monroe has ruined my life in more ways than one. Maybe, someday in the distant future when I’m in the right mood, I’ll burn them in some type of ritual to cleanse him from my soul for good.

Who am I kidding? If that were possible, I would’ve done it long ago. I won’t be able to avoid holidays and family get-togethers for the rest of my life. Rocco will forever haunt me.

“It’s fucking busy today,” he mutters as we enter the heart of The Quarter.

I pull my backpack to my lap, dig my keys out, and am ready to bolt. “Feel free to drop me here. I’ll walk. The sooner this day is over, the better.”

“You’re not walking. I don’t trust that you’ll actually leave.”

“You’re impossible. I promise to go home. It’s not like I have anything else to wear anyway.”

He takes the last turn as I contemplate how this may be the last time I’ll see him until I’m forced to be tortured again. I must be a masochist, because I take this opportunity to steal a glance.

I’ve always loved his profile. Probably because I’ve spent way too many hours staring at him without him knowing.

His hair is shorter than it used to be, but his lips are just as full and his lashes just as thick. He must not plan to go into the office, because he’s wearing a clean T-shirt, workout shorts, and running shoes.

Apparently, the only work on his agenda today is making my life miserable.

I must be in a trance, because it barely fazes me when he hits the brakes and mutters, “What the fuck?”

“What-the-fuck what?” I snap out of it and turn to see what caused him to hit the brakes. I gasp. “Holy shit.”

I don’t waste any time. I scramble for the handle and throw open the door.

“Wait—” Rocco calls for me, but I ignore him. He catches up with me and we meet in front of his car.

We stand silent as we stare at the sight in front of us.

My car.

The one I worked two jobs to save for. The one I negotiated for by myself. The one that’s all mine. It’s registered to me and me alone. It was my first step in being independent from my parents. It wasn’t new, but it was new to me.

I love my car.

And it’s trashed.

“Fuck,” Rocco growls. I take a step closer to evaluate the damage, but Rocco tags me around the waist and pulls me back. “Don’t step on the glass. It’ll go right through those shoes.”

“Shit,” I mutter. He’s right. There’s glass everywhere. Every window is smashed, and the passenger door stands wide open.

I try to remember what I had stored in my car that’s probably gone.

Rocco pulls me with him as he sidesteps the glass and moves onto the sidewalk. “This isn’t Bourbon Street, but it isn’t a ghost town either. Whoever did this was ballsy.”

“It probably happened in the middle of the night.” I yank on his arm, and he looks down at me. “This is your fault. Had I returned to my car last night when I wanted to, this never would’ve happened.”

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