Page 26 of Illicit

Teagan

Iwork hard.

I save my money.

I’ve even been financially independent from my parents for the last year. And in a matter of weeks, I’ll have two degrees under my belt.

Besides carrying around the emotionally traumatic baggage from being rejected by the one and only Rocco Monroe, I feel like I’m a pretty put-together kind of gal.

I’m not sure what other women do when their life shatters into a million pieces within a matter of twelve hours, but for me, there is only one option.

Retail therapy.

Though, in this case, it’s less about therapy than it is necessity.

As soon as we made a police report, my car was towed. I might normally have my shit together, but having my property and privacy violated in two different cities—hell, two different states—is too much.

I need a shower, a clean set of clothes, a real pair of shoes, and maybe a nap. And not in that order.

Rocco proves he will continue to come through for me even after I cut him out for as long as I have.

He informed me I wasn’t going home until he had a chance to at least look for a surveillance video to see who may have broken into my car.

I told him I needed real clothes, a decent conditioner, and a toothbrush.

He might’ve rolled his eyes, but he drove me straight to the big, red bullseye with the cute dog.

My home away from home. I could live in this store.

That doesn’t mean he lets me shop in peace.

Rocco grabbed a cart and has followed me around the bright, clean mecca like he’ll get fired from the DEA if he lets me out of his sight.

I toss a pair of shorts in the cart along with a tank and T-shirt. I haven’t stopped flipping through racks and Rocco hasn’t stopped talking.

“Taylor is calling businesses up and down the street where you were parked to see if they’ll give us surveillance video. He’s also making calls to businesses between The Hotel Monteleone and where you were parked. Robichaux was not working alone. If it was him or someone who works for him, then they were watching and followed us back to your car and have your home address. You’re not going back to your apartment anytime soon.”

I can’t think about Robichaux or going back to my apartment. Rocco is right—I’m in over my head, but I’m not about to admit it.

I toss in another pair of shorts and flip through a rack of sundresses as if I’m shopping for a girls’ night out rather than being held somewhat against my will.

I’m saving face by giving Rocco the silent treatment.

Not that it’s working. He’s filling the dead space that hangs between us just fine on his own.

“And when we get back to my apartment, you’re calling the Hayes family. I want to talk to your contact. I can’t just cold call Robichaux without information about your so-called grandfather. That’s assuming he’ll answer. If it was him or his people who broke in, they know you aren’t who you said you are. He’ll never answer my call. Even so, add a prepaid phone to your list of shit we need. I can’t exactly ask the DEA to provide me one. This is on my own time.”

I don’t argue, agree, or add to the conversation. Instead, I move two aisles over. Shopping for panties and bras in front of Rocco should give me top-tier anxiety, but I don’t have the energy today. Maybe it’s because I’m used to him being around for long spurts of time in between semesters or all summer.

Why does it matter anyway?

Everyone wears underwear and most women wear bras. I’d only be embarrassed if I cared.

And I definitely don’t care. Not today, anyway.

“But you were right,” he goes on without any encouragement from me. “If the Hayes family can log me into Heath’s email, I won’t need warrants. I can run the IP address. We’ll see where that takes us.”

I flip through a rack of bralettes and hold one up to myself before tossing it in the basket with the rest of my new wardrobe. A shopping spree is not in my budget. I need work clothes appropriate for New York City, not shorts and sundresses. I want to be taken seriously.

---