Low Over High (The Over Duet #1) Read online

  The kitchen door swings open again, and a man, presumably the groom, walks in and slides an arm around his bride’s tiny waist. She looks up at him like he’s every star in the sky on high beam. He looks at her as if she’s the sun.

  “I thought you’d run away,” he says with a chuckle.

  “Too late for that now. It’s official, isn’t it?” I say, stepping forward and offering my hand. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m Everett.”

  “Nice to meet you, Everett. Great job tonight. I’m West.”

  Without meaning to, my hand squeezes his more tightly when he says his name.

  East.

  I’m thankful for the tiny snippets of life that allow me to remember my brother. It may be nothing at all, but it means something to me.

  “Good to meet you,” I say, liking the grip of his handshake and the way he meets my gaze head on. I have no use for shifty-eyed motherfuckers.

  We exchange goodbyes, and the happy couple turn to leave the kitchen. On a whim, I call out to Alex.

  “Was there someone named Marlo here tonight?” I ask. Adrenaline pricks at my skin, and my stomach bottoms out as a smile pulls at the corners of Alex’s lips.

  “Yes, there was. She’s a very good friend of mine. She keeps me on my toes with her crazy antics, I’ll tell you that much. Do you know her?”

  After all this time … all these years … the endless searching.

  “I knew her a very long time ago. Almost not worth mentioning,” I lie, finding it difficult to raise my voice past whispering. I move farther into the kitchen and lean on one of the counters for balance. “I saw a glimpse of her in the crowd, and I thought I’d ask, that’s all.”

  West gives her arm a gentle tug in the direction of the exit. She frowns. “I’m coming,” she whispers to West, then turns back to me. “Too bad I didn’t speak to you sooner. Unfortunately, she left over an hour ago. She says the happily-ever-after vibe and bridesmaids desperate to get laid make her twitchy.”

  I bark out a laugh and grin. I can almost hear her uttering those very words. If there was any doubt that Alex and me were talking about the same Marlo, it all flew out the window with that one remark.

  “That sounds like her.”

  Alex nods and waves as she finally relents, letting West pull her toward the exit. “Next time you’re in Providence, you should give her a call. I’m sure she’d love to hear from you.”

  I wouldn’t be so sure, Alex.

  6 months later

  Providence, LA

  THERE ARE SEVERAL things in this life that I can tell you with complete certainty. I can pinpoint the color, consistency, and smell of roux to make the best gumbo you’ve ever tasted. I can recite, with painstaking accuracy, the chain of events leading up to what Jeb and I lovingly refer to as Ever’s downward spiral. I can tell you the exact moment I knew I wanted to become a chef.

  What I can’t, for the life of me, figure out is how I’ve come to be sitting across the street from Marlo Rivers’s house in the middle of the night. That one baffles the shit out of me.

  If only I would have seen her at her friend’s wedding, and that would have been the end of it. But through no fault or provocation from me, my life keeps getting nudged into her path, a fact I can no longer deny.

  Honestly, there are things I want to say to her. Things I’ve waited eight long years to get off my chest. I’m not sure what makes today different than any other day, but I’m drawing the line in the sand.

  Then I’ll wait and see if she crosses it.

  As I fold out of my car, silently walk up her sidewalk to the front door, and wedge a folded noted into the frame, I know one thing for certain: today, I’m delivering a message.

  She can run, but she can’t hide.

  At least not anymore.

  Your lips luscious red,

  My balls achingly blue,

  Have you any idea

  How long I’ve searched for you?

  Please continue reading for a preview of Ever Over After,

  Book Two of The Over Duet,

  releasing January 9, 2017!

  Add Ever Over After to your Goodreads TBR!

  http://bit.ly/2du1su5

  Marlo

  Move-in Day—Northern Louisiana University

  I HITCH MY two-ton duffel bag over my shoulder and look up, up, up at my new dorm. Twelve stories tall. Holy shit, that’s a lot of estrogen in one building. Makes Boozman Hall at Orleans Academy look like child’s play. The thought causes an unwelcome pang straight to the gut.

  “Darlin’, if there isn’t an elevator in that high rise, I may have to pay one of those muscled-up fellas over there to get your trunk to the tenth floor,” my dad says, his gaze shifting back and forth from the building to me.

  I grunt and grab the other end of the trunk, damn well determined no one is talking to any muscled-up anybodies. Hell. No. I hear Dad’s sigh of relief once we get inside and hear the pinging of an elevator. The sentiment quickly dies at the sight of the monstrous line of other students, parents, and trunks waiting impatiently in front of the two—yes, two—elevators.

  I slap his shoulder and sigh, resigned. “Buck up, old man. Looks like it’s gonna be one of those days … shit.”

  “Language,” he mutters with not an ounce of conviction. “Damnit.”

  White cinder block walls. Two bed frames bolted to the floor with blue, plastic mattresses sitting on top, looking shiny and unwelcoming. Formica-covered desks with chips along the edges and weathered wooden chairs shoved against them. One two-by-two window—glass foggy and too high to peer out of without standing on top of aforementioned desks. One lonely looking sink with exposed pipes and a matchbox-sized mirror on top of it. My new home … at least for this semester.

  I rotate in a slow circle, taking it all in, not that there’s much to see. Dad left a few hours ago amidst an onslaught of, “Are you sure?” and “You can always start next semester.” I followed them with my own barrage of, “This is what I want,” and “I’ll be just fine.” But the truth is, now I’m not so sure. As my gaze flits from the empty walls, the cloudy window and mirror, and the carvings on the side of the desk—

  I heart penises.

  Never forget (with a rudimentary drawing of a brontosaurus alongside it).

  And my personal favorite:

  Here I sit,

  Broken hearted.

  I masturbated,

  Then I farted.

  Robert Frost, eat your heart out. Profound words from the ghosts of students past. What would I leave behind for the next person … not a single thought bubbles to the surface.

  Because, just like this room, I’m empty.

  I shut my eyes and fight back the sorrow that clings to every part of me. I blow out a breath and try to exhale the hatred crushing my lungs at the mere thought of Remy Fucking Rodrigue. How could I have been so naive and stupid? Looking back, I see the signs—the not-so-subtle hints of what was to come—like graffiti painted on the billboard of my ridiculous life.

  And I fight back the tears always ready to fall at the thought of Ever. Ever … no matter how hard I try, my heart won’t let him go. I’ll never forget the way his lips had brushed against mine, or the way he’d made me feel like I was his solace, so I try to remember the blank look on his face, his hazy, unfocused eyes as he snorted powder up his nose. The ultimate finger to me … to Easton … to everything that had mattered in his life.

  The truth of it is I’m too broken to help him now. I can’t help him any more than I can help myself. I can’t be his solace anymore.

  “Hello?” a chipper voice calls from the other side of the door. The knock causes the door to creak open a crack, and a girl with braided hair and a tentative smile peeks inside. “Are you Mara’s new roommate?”

  I nod, plastering on my most welcoming smile. It feels forced, but it’s the best I can manage. “That’s me.”

  She motions behind her. “I’m your across-the-hall neighbor. I take it Mara hasn’t
gotten here yet. She usually keeps her lips, among other things, locked to her boyfriend until the very last minute. He still lives in her hometown.”

  “Ah, so that’s where she is,” I say with a chuckle. I slide my fists into my jean pockets and shrug.

  An uncomfortable silence settles between us as she looks around the room. My head is a jumble of cobwebs and dust bunnies, and mustering up the energy for polite conversation is not something I’m capable of right now.

  “I like what you’ve done with the place.” She laughs, and her gaze settles on the unopened trunk at the edge of my bed.

  “Yeah, I’m going for the sterile, generic motif. Kind of depressing, huh?” I frown and fall back onto the plastic mattress. The springs creak beneath me, sounding more like they’ll break than bounce back.

  “I don’t know. I guess it’s all in how you look at it,” she says, and plops down beside me. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be depressing. Maybe it can be more of a blank slate.”

  My heart squeezes at her words. Yes … a blank slate. I fucking love the sound of that. I open the chute in my brain and empty out the hate, the loss, the sorrow. I’m not foolish enough to think it’s gone forever, but right now, in this moment, I’m not Low: the girl who lost it all. I’m whoever the hell I want to be.

  I extend a hand, and a more genuine smile tugs at my mouth. “I’m Marlo.”

  She ignores my hand, throwing an arm around my shoulder and squeezing tightly. “I’m Sara. Glad to meet you.”

  Marlo

  HER BLOOD-CURDLING SCREAM filters through the electronic sliding doors, and my adrenaline takes over, legs pumping as I pull on my gloves. I glance behind me to make sure Sara is steady in tow, and she smirks as the delivery kit bounces over her shoulder with every stride.

  “Bet you’re wishing you ran with me in the mornings now?” She chuckles, not even sounding the least bit winded.

  “Fuck off,” I mumble under my heaving breath, loud enough for just her to hear.

  It only makes her laugh louder.

  We’re the first to make it to the front entrance of the hospital, but the show looks well on the road, with a woman laying down in the front seat of a car, clutching her overly pregnant belly, her legs splayed out on the concrete of the parking lot. Her husband is occupied with skipping and hopping while pulling out every hair on his head and hollering “HELP!” at the top of his screechy lungs. Seriously, the dude could audition for choir boy back in the Middle Ages.

  “Oh God, ahhhhhhhhhhhh! I can’t take it,” she shrieks, clutching the car seat and dashboard, backtracking into the car like she’s just come face to face with Freddie Krueger.

  No worries, lady. You’d scare the shit out of Freddie, right about now.

  Sara lowers the delivery kit off her shoulder, and we get to work. I take a quick peek under the woman’s nightgown and give Sara a quick nod, a silent message that no way in hell is this woman making it upstairs to Labor & Delivery to have this baby. I’ll consider us lucky if a doctor even makes it to the parking lot in time.

  “What’s her name?” I ask the frazzled husband, and he looks at me like I have a unicorn horn sprouting out of my forehead.

  “Huh?”

  “Name? What’s your wife’s name?” I match his frantic tone with calm and ease, hoping it’ll rub off on him.

  “Allie.”

  I nod once and wave him over. “Thanks. Now get over here. You’re about to meet your baby for the first time. Pretty cool, right?”

  It’s obvious he thinks I’m a lunatic, but since I’m the lunatic who knows what she’s doing, he complies.

  Sara unpacks our equipment as I approach the patient during a break in her contractions. We’ve been working as a team for as long as I can remember, even back when we were nursing students, wide-eyed and scared shitless. Labor and delivery is a team sport, and it helps to work well with the other players. I love it when our shifts coincide—we know our parts and play them seamlessly.

  She likes everything in order.

  I crave control.

  It works.

  I hear the faint sound of metal on metal, Sara arranging the instruments we’ll need sooner rather than later. Kelly … kelly … scissors … clamp. I block her out and drop down on my haunches, getting eye to eye with the mom-to-be. My lips are stretched into a thin line, and my eyes are somber, because I know what happens next. Now I need to make sure she does.

  “Allie, look at me,” I say as her eyes dart everywhere but to me. I grab her hand and squeeze. “Allie … we’re not making it upstairs. This is happening.”

  She shakes her head frantically and scooches away from me. “I-I-I want the epidural.”

  “Allie, stop. Look at me.” When her eyes meet mine, I give her a sympathetic smile. “We don’t have time.”

  Her eyes go wild and desperate, darting to Sara for some alternate plan. Sara gives a small shake of her head, and thankfully, Allie sobers. She evens out and turns back to me.

  Good girl.

  “Now, I need you to listen to what I’m telling you,” I say, and I see the pain creeping into Allie’s eyes. Terror slides over her expression, about to hit its hellish peak.

  Another contraction.

  “Aaaaaaaaahhhhhh, oh God!”

  Allie retreats, but I grab her by the knees before she gets very far. I move in close, eye to eye.

  “Allie, I know you don’t want to hear it, but you’ve got to listen to me. Do as I say, and you won’t blow out your bottom, okay?”

  It sucks to scare the shit out of her, but sometimes, you’ve got to hit ‘em where it hurts. Goal-directed fear has its place.

  “Listen to her, Allie Bear,” her husband cries, brought back into the game by the warning of a vagina explosion.

  Boys and their toys. What a douche.

  “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. I’m sorry!” She shakes her head frantically back and forth, and I grip her hand and nod, telling her she can do this. She will do this.

  A blood-curdling scream erupts from the depths of her belly and flies through her parted lips. And then she makes the face. All L&D nurses know the face.

  She’s pushing.

  “I’m sorry!” she screams.

  And then she douses me in a warm, gooey, downright disgusting mess of amniotic fluid. Tip. To. Fucking. Toe.

  “Oh shit,” her husband cries.

  “Great aim,” Sara mutters.

  “Nice and steady,” I say calmly to Allie as the baby’s head crowns. “Keep that push nice and steady, Allie. You’re doing great.”

  Over the next two contractions, Allie pushes like a champ, and I maneuver the baby out and to her chest where Sara takes over cutting, clamping, and stimulating the little one.

  I think about what an honor it is to work with such strong women. Allie just went through hell and came out the other side in pure heaven.

  I think about how lucky I am, to be part of this miracle.

  I think about how proud it makes me to use what I know to help other women in what is equally terrifying and magical.

  What I do not think about is the amniotic fluid and particulate matter that’s pooling in the bottom of my shoes. What I do not think about is the undershirt that’s saturated and sticking to my stomach. Or my bra that weighs ten pounds and needs to be wrung the hell out.

  God, I can’t stop thinking about it.

  Footsteps ring out in the entrance behind us, and I turn to see Dr. Howard slinging on his lab coat, hair disheveled and eyes bleary. I see a team of people filtering in behind him. Nursery. ER. Patient Care Tech with a stretcher.

  Allie’s smiling eyes leave mine and move to Dr. Howard, who’s busy rubbing his eyes and putting on his glasses. Once she has his attention, she glares.

  “Made your job easy, didn’t I?”

  Sara barks out a laugh, and I laugh, too. Allie has bite, and I like it. Sara gives me an “I got this” nod, and I turn to Allie.

  “Congratulations, Allie. She’s absolutel
y beautiful,” I say. She takes one look at me and her face falls, realizing the not so pleasant state of my clothes. I shake my head and wave her off. “Don’t give it a second thought. Not a single one. I’m going to get cleaned up while Sara stays with you and your little one, yeah?”

  She nods and shoots me a watery smile. Before I can stand, she grabs me by the hand and squeezes. “Thank you. Just … thank you.”

  And that’s why I do this.

  I turn away and clap Dr. Howard on the back before walking away.

  “The placenta’s all yours, Doc.”

  “Nice delivery, Marlo. Just remember to fake left next time,” he says with a laugh.

  I grab my purse out of my locker and pull at the OR scrubs I’d borrowed for the ride home. My demolished pair are in a biohazard bag at my feet. Those bad boys will need an extra hot washing, or four, before they touch my body again. Or maybe I should just cut my losses and toss them in the trash.

  I fetch my phone out of the side pocket and notice a text waiting for me.

  Mike: Morning quickie before we crash?

  I sigh, exhaustion settling in my bones. I’m always beat after my night shifts, but I can usually muster it up for a tussle in the sheets with Mike, my no-strings-attached, sexy times guy. We have not one thing in common other than we’re both in the medical field and brave the graveyard shift, but he doesn’t need to say much to suit my purposes. And he doesn’t ask many questions, so I’ve kept him around longer than most.

  Me: No can do. I ended the shift with a shower.

  Mike: Eh?

  Me: An amniotic fluid shower.

  Mike: Fuuuuuuuuuuuck.

  Me: No, that’s the point. No fuck. Next time. Cool?

  Mike: Ready when you are.