Page 25 of Illicit

Rocco turns back to the mangled mess in front of us. “What’s in the back seat?”

“My gym bag. I can’t believe it’s still there.”

I realize Rocco is holding my back tight to his front. I try to twist out of his grip to get a closer look, but he holds tight and digs his cell from his pocket. “Wait. We need to make a report and get it towed. I’ll see if any of these businesses have surveillance cameras.”

As I stand flush to Rocco in the bright morning sun, I realize what this means. “This is unbelievable. I’m stuck here until I can get my car fixed.”

He describes in detail the damage to my car to the dispatcher. The call is quick and the moment he hangs up, he juts his chin back to my car. “Your glove box. It’s empty.”

That’s when my phone vibrates with a call in the deep pocket of Rocco’s sweatpants. I dig it out and read the screen. “It’s my apartment complex.” When I answer, it’s the office manager. “Oh, Teagan. Thank goodness. Are you okay?”

I frown. “I’m fine. I had to make a trip to New Orleans. What’s wrong?”

“Your apartment—there was a break-in right before dawn. Your downstairs neighbor reported it when she left for work this morning after she saw your door ajar. We called the police and pulled surveillance video. They were in and out so fast, we couldn’t ID anyone. They were wearing full face masks.”

My eyes fall shut, and I feel myself lean into Rocco for the mere reason I might collapse into a puddle of tears. “Did they clean me out?”

“What happened?” Rocco demands.

“My apartment,” I whisper.

His jaw tightens.

The manager keeps detailing the downward spiral of my life. “Your TV is missing, and the place is a mess. You need to come home and assess the damage. There’s no way for us to know what else was taken. Maintenance will fix your door and replace the lock right away.”

Well, joke’s on her.

I don’t own a TV.

But I don’t tell her that, because something catches my eye. My brain clicks with the realization of what’s playing out in front of me. “Thank you for letting me know. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I disconnect the call and realize what happened as I stare at my empty glove box.

“My registration and insurance,” I mutter. “They were the only other things in there.”

Glass crunches on pavement as I feel Rocco close in. The sun beating down on us is nothing compared to the heat from his chest pressed once again to my back. “Fuck.”

I turn to look up at Rocco and ask, “Do you think it was Robichaux?”

“Teagan, you’ve never had a break in until you pretended to be someone you’re not and met with a criminal connected to the underbelly of New Orleans. Now you’ve had two in the same day. You do the math.”

Shit.

Robichaux knows my real name.

And where I live.

“You’re fucked,” Rocco mutters my thoughts out loud.

And for the first time since Rocco Monroe rammed back into my life like a force, there’s something we can finally agree on.

I’m no idiot.

But I am, indeed, fucked.

6

PANTIES

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