Chapter 8 Coco
EIGHT
Coco
Pirate Tunnels and Prohibition Secrets: Hidden beneath New Orleans’ streets, legends tell of secret tunnels and underground spaces used by pirates like Jean Lafitte to smuggle goods and by bootleggers during Prohibition to transport illegal alcohol.
These mysterious passageways add to the city’s lore of intrigue and hidden history.
I pace the small room, each step landing on a slightly different creak in the floor. I’ve tried sitting. I’ve tried lying down. None of it helps.
He offered me coffee, then the house went dead quiet. No footsteps. No clink of a mug. Nothing from the front of the house.
A short, sharp sound broke the silence earlier, distant and muffled. For a split second, my heart jumped straight into my throat. It wasn’t loud enough to be a gunshot. Not in a place like this. But it had that same abrupt crack that makes my body react before my brain catches up.
Nothing followed. No raised voices. No footsteps. Just silence again.
I tell myself it was something falling outside. A branch. A door. Anything but what my gut keeps whispering.
I shake it off and face the door. Wood and a lock. That’s all that stands between me and whatever he’s doing out there. Between me and answers.
“Where’s my coffee?” I call out. “I know you can hear me.”
Silence.
I press my ear to the wood and listen until my neck aches. Nothing. No movement. No breath on the other side.
That won’t work.
I knock again, harder this time. “Did you forget about me, or is ignoring me intentional?”
A pause. Then his voice carries through the door, calm and infuriatingly even. “I got caught up. I’m working on it.”
I bite back a sharp reply. Snapping at him won’t help. If anything, it will push him deeper into that controlled distance he hides behind.
I rest my forehead against the door and force my breathing to slow.
Last night, he hesitated. Just for a second. Long enough for me to see it before he buried it again.
I straighten, already adjusting my posture, smoothing my expression into something safer. Cooperative. Easy.
When he opens this door, I need him to believe he’s in control, that whatever he gives me is generosity, not weakness. Men like him get reckless when they don’t feel secure.
If I can get him talking, even a little, I might learn why I’m here. Or how long he plans to keep me.
One opening. That’s all I need.
I sit on the edge of the bed as my eyes flick toward the door every few seconds, waiting for the sound of footsteps. This coffee isn’t just about caffeine. It’s a small slice of defense, a possible life raft.
My mind races through the lines I’ve planned, each one designed to pull him in, to draw something human out of him.
Finally, the door opens, and he steps inside with a steaming mug in his hand. His expression is as unreadable as ever, a mixture of control and distance that grates against every nerve.
I swallow my frustration and offer him a soft, worn-down smile.
“Thank you,” I say, keeping my voice low, almost tired. I let my fingers curl around the mug, savoring the warmth that seeps into my hands.
“It’s no latte, but it's all I got."
“For a while there, I thought you drove out to the French Quarter to get me that latte after all.”
He doesn’t respond or even crack a smile. The quiet stretches uncomfortably.
I take a sip, more for something to do than because I want it. The coffee is bitter and too hot, the tang of it sharp at the back of my throat as it goes down.
“You know,” I say after a moment, keeping my voice low, “you can’t just keep me locked up in here forever.”
I glance toward the window, the thin slice of daylight it offers, then back to him.
“At least tell me what’s going on. Am I just… here? Or do you plan to let me see more daylight than that?” I nod with my head toward the single window in the bedroom.
He shifts his weight, the slightest hint of discomfort crossing his features. "It's necessary," he says, his voice measured. "For now. You’ll go home eventually.”
"Necessary?" I echo, raising an eyebrow. "Necessary for what? Punishing me? Detaining me for reasons you won’t explain? Won’t you at least tell me why I’m here?”
He exhales slowly, his gaze hardening slightly. "It's not about punishment. It's about making sure things stay under control while I deal with a situation I can’t leave unattended.”
I tilt my head, feigning curiosity while my mind races. Business? Does this have something to do with the drop I did the other night? I need to keep him talking.
"Under control," I repeat. "Sounds like you have a lot on your plate."
He meets my eyes, and for a moment, I catch a flicker of what looks an awful lot like weariness. "You could say that."
I take another sip of coffee, letting the heat ground me.
“You know,” I say lightly, “for someone who goes to all this trouble to lock me up, you’re remarkably quiet about it.”
His eyes flick to mine. “You prefer a speech?”
“I prefer to know why I’m being restrained by someone I don’t know,” I say. “Silence feels like a power move. We’re here, why can’t you at least tell me why you’re keeping me here?”
“It is power,” he says. “Don’t misunderstand that.”
I huff a soft laugh. “Of course not.”
The mug burns the palm of my hand slightly. I welcome it. “My father used to do that. Say nothing and let everyone else fill in the gaps. Half the time, the fear did his work for him.”
Something shifts in his expression. Not much, but enough that I notice the change when I mention my father.
“That tactic works,” he says. “Until it doesn’t.”
I glance at him over the rim of the mug. “So you’re not new to it.”
“No,” he says flatly. “I’m not. Enough chit chat. Do you need anything?”
He doesn’t move, so I still have him even if he says he’s shutting it down. The quiet stretches again, heavier this time. I decide to risk it.
“People assume things about us. About what we want. What we’ll tolerate. Like we’re born already agreeing to the rules.”
His jaw tightens. “Don’t assume you know anything about me.”
The words land like a bomb, but I appreciate his realness. And the fact that he’s still here.
“Okay,” I say after a beat. “But I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about me.”
His gaze stays on mine, unreadable. “Then stick to that.”
For a moment, he looks past me. He’s not looking at the bathroom door or the window, but somewhere else entirely.
“Got it,” I say like the smart ass I am. He isn’t budging.
Then, after what feels like a full minute, he surprises me with an unsolicited proclamation.
“Expectations don’t come with a choice,” he says. “They just get assigned.”
“Very true. I didn’t choose to be here, obviously, so what do you expect from me?”
“I don’t expect anything from you except to stay put until I say otherwise. We all have to deal with shitty situations we didn’t choose. What do you want from me? Sympathy?”
I lift one shoulder. “No. I’m not asking for sympathy.”
“Then what are you asking for?”
“What I want is just to understand what this is,” I say. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to keep me here. I’d like to know why.”
“Why? It won’t change anything.”
“No,” I agree. “But it might make it easier to live with.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
“Curiosity gets people in trouble,” he says.
“So does silence,” I counter. “I’m not asking for your life story. I’m asking why I’m locked in a room with one window. I don’t even know your name.”
That gives him pause. I can see it in the way his attention sharpens.
He studies me for a long moment. Then he says quietly, “You’re smarter than most,” he says. “That usually makes things worse.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Talking too much, though, and giving too much, just complicates things. Best to keep it clean.”
I nod once. That’s not warmth or trust, but it isn’t dismissal either.
“Perhaps,” I say. “Complications can also make things more interesting.”
His gaze holds mine. There’s a pause, the kind that suggests he’s weighing whether the conversation is worth the cost. His jaw tightens, then eases.
“My life’s interesting enough already,” he says. “I don’t go looking for more. I prefer quiet.”
“I get that,” I say. “Quiet hasn’t exactly been optional for me lately.”
He gives a small nod. “Yeah.”
The word catches my attention more than it should.
“Do you ever actually get time away from all this?” I ask. “Or does it follow you everywhere?”
His eyes drop to the mug in my hands. He doesn’t answer right away.
“I’m not used to this,” I add, keeping my voice steady. “I don’t know how to talk to someone when every word feels like it’s being weighed.”
He looks back up. “That’s not what this is. I told you the only thing I expect of you is for you to stay put with no trouble. What happened—”
He stops short of whatever he was going to say. My mind races to find something to ease the tension. The last thing I want is for him to think I’m accusing him of something, or to encourage the wall to go back up.
“Maybe you need a break,” I add. “Even a short one.”
“That’s not an option,” he says. “Not lately. Your father made sure of that.”
I lift my chin. “You know my father?”
He shrugs noncommittally.
“So we are connected,” I say. I let the thought sit without pressing it. Whatever this is, I can tell it’s not something he plans to explain to me yet.
His gaze lifts again, steady and searching, as if he’s reassessing something he didn’t expect to. The look holds for a second longer than necessary.
“Yeah,” he says as he turns back toward the door.
I take that for what it is. “I appreciate the coffee. And the company. Even under the circumstances.”
He hesitates in the doorway, his hand resting against the wood. “Sure.”
Then he steps out and closes the door behind him.
The quiet stretches. Minutes blur into hours.
I deal myself another hand of solitaire on the bed, stacking and reshuffling until the rules stop mattering and I’m just moving cards to give my hands something to do.