Page 113 of Exposed

Lunch at eleven-fifteen, because she likes to beat the noon-time rush.

She said she usually reads and takes a nap by two, but she made an exception for us today.

And three o’clock is Diet Coke time. She needs it to get her through the rest of the day. We were warned not togive her any crapabout drinking soda. Laken does that enough, but she’s hadone every day of her life that she can remember and she’s as sharp and healthy as a geriatric horse.

No one can argue that.

I add up the points. We’ve played three games of dominoes, and I’ve been killed each time. Trippy won twice and Rocco once.

I can’t focus. Any strategy required for dominoes is not in my wheelhouse today.

Rocco was the star of the show whenThe Twistcame on. I think he danced with every lady in the room. If Dex’s men barged in to kidnap me, those ladies wouldn’t allow Rocco to save me. Rocco was like Elvis reincarnated.

I was happy for them. The young, muscled SWAT officer who usually kicks down doors made them happy today.

After twisting like he didn’t do last summer, Rocco drove us in Trippy’s Barbie-themed golf cart to lunch—with a quick stop for sugar-free ice cream—and then back to her place. Trippy and I ate a low-sodium mid-day meal, but Rocco ate two. Trippy said she was tuckered out, so we brought her back to her miniature apartment that makes mine look like The Pink.

The three of us are squished around her tiny bistro table for two. The game doesn’t end when we run out of dominoes, it ends when we run out of room on the table to play.

I’ve got to give it to Rocco. He’s done his best not to look utterly bored to tears.

It’s been a long day. Literally hours since King dropped me off this morning and told me everything would be fine.

I have not heard from him. Not a text or a call or even a bat signal letting me know the meeting with Dex went okay. Not that he owes me a phone call. I didn’t ask him to tell me when the deal was done. It never crossed my mind.

Until now.

Their meeting was hours ago. And since Trippy doesn’t know the details of her son’s schedule today, I won’t be the one whosends her into a worried tailspin or causes a heart attack, so I say nothing.

I’m sure King is busy. One doesn’t just pick up that much drug money and call it a day.

There has to be stuff to do.

Reports.

Evidence.

Strategy stuff.

I hope that strategy stuff gets us closer to the end goal. I like hanging out with Trippy, but I’m not sure how much longer I can be locked up in my apartment with King and not work.

Or at least try to work. There’s only so much information I can give the government. That well has run dry.

Trippy gets up from the table. “Who wants a Diet Coke?”

“No, thanks,” I say.

“Sounds good,” Rocco mutters, but he’s distracted, typing feverishly on his phone.

Trippy goes to the kitchen, which is only about four feet from where we’re sitting but she still yells, “Do you want ice?”

“Ice.” Rocco frowns when he reads something. “Yeah, I like ice.”

I’ve never met the man before today, but there’s something about line dancing and driving around in a Barbie golf cart together that humbles us and creates a bond.

So I kick him in the shin to get his attention.

“What?” he bites.

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