Low Over High (The Over Duet #1) Page 7

  “HAVE YOUR PAPERS on my desk before class begins tomorrow. All late assignments will receive an automatic zero,” Mrs. Abadie says as the class begins filtering out into the hallway. My idea of fine art is paint-by-number and an expertly groomed chia pet, so this semester should be interesting.

  I’m at the last desk, in the last row, after the last class of the day, so I hang back and wait. I watch Little Miss Marlo pack her book bag, her face getting more pinched by the second. How this girl can invade every aspect of my life and have the nerve to act like she’s the one being intruded upon is beyond me. My rooftop. My market. Hell, I can’t even walk to work in peace anymore.

  It’s not like I have any choice. Uncle Jeffrey made it clear that escorting Marlo to Creole Market was part of my towing the line, keeping on the straight and narrow. God knows my parents would love for me to give them a reason to mess with me.

  Not gonna happen.

  I look up to find Marlo front and center, resting bitch face in place. “Are we doing this or what?” she asks with an eye roll.

  What a fucking peach.

  I grab my notebook off the desk, curl it up, and shove it in my back pocket. “Of course, Your Highness, lead the way,” I say with a sarcastic bow and a wave of my arm.

  We walk to the dorm in stiff silence and part ways to change our clothes. When we meet back up in the lobby, it seems like changing out of the stuffy school uniform relaxes her, if only a tiny bit.

  Being the gentleman I am, I walk on the sidewalk closest to the road, but I keep a close eye on Marlo. I don’t put it past her to shove me into oncoming traffic and feign innocence as I’m carted away to the city morgue. This girl can hold one helluva grudge about a two-dollar cake, so I’m not taking any chances.

  “Watch that drop. The pothole is pretty deep,” I say in warning. She gives me a halfway thankful look, but I can’t deny my advice was mostly self-serving. I have no desire to carry her and the stick she has shoved up her ass all the way back to the dorms if she were to twist her ankle.

  I open the door for her, and she walks by without a word.

  “Thanks for walking to work with me, Ever … No, don’t mention it. It was my pleasure…” She looks over her shoulder, and I catch her rolling eyes at my one man play. “I guess a simple thank you is too much to ask of Your Highness.”

  I push past her and keep walking to the storage room. I hear Remy and Etienne gushing over her like she’s the second coming, and I’m not listening to that crap. Her ego doesn’t need any stroking, if you ask me.

  I begin my shift opening boxes of hot sauce and pickled everything—okra, garlic, mushrooms, quail eggs, even pigs’ feet. You name a pickled product, Etienne stocks it on his shelves. That’s what I like most about his store. He offers the hard-to-find and off-the-wall items right next to the kitchen basics. There must be over two hundred different types of hot sauces in his store.

  After checking the shelves up front, I start restocking where it’s needed and putting the excess away on the stock shelves in the back. As time passes, the smell of coffee and cake-baking overpower the familiar aromas of Creole cooking that always linger in the store. No matter how bitchy the baker, I can’t deny it smells delicious.

  Remy finally meets me in the back and helps with the restocking.

  “What, finished kissing the new girl’s ass so soon?” I ask as I hurl a jar of Slap Yo’ Momma Hot Sauce at him.

  He catches it before it clips his pointy head and chuckles. “And what an ass it is. I’ve got to say, I’m fully on board with Etienne’s decision to hire that sweet little number.”

  “I’m telling you man, she’s a bitch. Trust me,” I say.

  “Maybe to you, but she’s all sweet smiles and perky tits for me. I’m telling you, rich girl may feel like slumming, and I’m all too happy to oblige.”

  His words hit me in an unfamiliar place, and I don’t like it. I find myself wanting to take up for Marlo, when I should just leave her out there swinging.

  But Remy’s not a stupid nursery rhyme or icing smeared on a shirt.

  “Man, she’s not like that,” I say, my voice sounding more clipped than I intend. “I don’t get the feeling that she’s some rich girl looking to piss off Daddy.”

  He chuckles. “Did you see who her mom was?” Remy raises his eyebrows, and I shrug. I don’t pay much attention to the names of Etienne’s customers. “Evelyn James? Big shot jewelry designer married to Oliver James? The guy who pretty much runs the oilfield down here? Man, get your head out of your ass and look around once in a while. I don’t care what big shot law firm your dad’s a partner in, Marlo’s stepdad could buy and sell those fuckers like they’re a pack of Juicy Fruit. You should know this shit. Jeffrey comes in with the guy all the time.”

  Remy’s right, I don’t pay attention to Uncle Jeffrey’s friends or who does what and where. It’s all useless information with no real bearing on my life. I admit, I’m curious, though. I didn’t think Marlo came from that type of upbringing. I get a sense of candidness from her that isn’t normal for someone raised with a silver spoon shoved in their mouth. People who grow up wealthy tend to carefully weigh every word. Marlo speaks straight from her heart, her head, and her fiery temper, damn the consequences.

  “I’d watch my step, if I were you,” I warn.

  Remy doesn’t want to tangle with Marlo, if it means tangling with old money. He may just find out how expendable he is to Etienne. In those type of situations, the little guy loses. Every time. That’s why I’m warning him off. It’s the only reason.

  It has nothing at all to do with this jealousy I feel bubbling up inside of me.

  He comes closer and sneers at me. “What the hell, man? You think you’re the only one who can pull in prime pussy?”

  “Whoa,” I say, completely taken off guard. I need to change this conversation, and quick, before Marlo becomes a competition to this asshole. “You need to shut the hell up before Etienne overhears you talking about his new star employee that way. You like your job, man? Use your fucking head.”

  His eyes dart to the door, then back to me. His nostrils flare as he tries to get his temper under control. I’m not sure what the hell just happened, but I’m guessing I hit a nerve.

  “Whatever,” he mumbles as he pushes past me, bumping my shoulder when he passes.

  Later, Marlo presents Etienne with her chocolate cappuccino cupcakes topped with cappuccino buttercream frosting and a chocolate covered espresso bean, then dusted with cocoa. She couldn’t find a polite way to skip me when doling out taste tests to the employees, so I finally got to taste her goodies.

  And they were fucking delicious.

  I tap on the office door, not at all surprised to find Uncle Jeffrey buried in a pile of paperwork.

  “Hey, ya got a minute?” I ask, peeking my head through the half open door.

  He pushes back from his desk and rises to meet me. “Of course, Ever. I didn’t realize you were stopping by.”

  He motions for me to have a seat, and we position ourselves across from each other in his guest chairs. He always does that; he leaves whatever he has on his desk to give me his undivided attention. It’s a small thing, but something that makes a big difference to me. I’ve either been a second thought or a source of regret for most of my life; Uncle Jeff makes me feel wanted.

  “I didn’t know I was either. It was a spur of the moment decision. I dropped Marlo off at the cafeteria and headed here—we just got back from the market,” I say, trying to steer the conversation where I want it to go.

  “Ah, yes. I’m glad you’re able to help. I hear Etienne is quite taken with her.”

  I chuckle. “That’s putting it mildly. Today, he ate so many of her cupcakes, there were hardly any left to sell.”

  Uncle Jeff throws his head back and laughs. “Yes, that sounds like Etienne.”

  I smile and nod, picking at a loose thread on my jeans. “I didn’t realize you knew Marlo’s family.”

  I avoid
his eyes so my curiosity doesn’t give me away. I leave the statement open, hoping he’ll take the bait.

  “Well, yes, I know Oliver well. We attended Orleans Academy together, way back in the Stone Age,” he says with a chuckle. “I met Evelyn, Marlo’s mother, through Oliver, but they’ve only very recently become acquainted with Marlo. They’re not family in the traditional sense of the word, although I’m sure they’re making good use of the time she has in the city while attending school.”

  “Wait,” I say, more than a little confused. “Marlo didn’t know her mother until now?”

  Uncle Jeff notices my change in posture and interest. My perked up ears and calculating gaze tip him off, and he crooks his head, trying to read my intentions.

  “Hmmmm, I think that’s a question better asked of Marlo, don’t you?”

  I shrug and relax back into the chair. “I guess you’re right. No big deal; I was just wondering.”

  He taps my foot as he stands and walk across the office. He sits down behind his desk and sighs, looking at his pile of paperwork. I’m not sure if he’s frustrated with me or the papers.

  “Let’s just say Marlo made a lot of adjustments this semester—changing schools her senior year, moving to the city, meeting family she never knew. That’s a lot of change in a short amount of time. I’m glad you’ve befriended her, Everett,” he says with a smile.

  I smile back, probably looking more like I need to take a shit than an actual smile, but I hate lying to my uncle. While the truth is I’ve been a total dickhead to Marlo, I’m certainly not going to tell him that. Hell no.

  “I’m glad I could help, Uncle Jeff. I guess I’ll leave you to it,” I say, keeping my shit-taking grin in place as I say my goodbyes.

  After seeing the way Remy reacted to Low today, I already knew things would have to change between the two of us. I may be okay with throwing her to some feisty kittens to irritate the fuck out of her, but Remy is a first-class ticket to the wolves. If I need to serve as a buffer between Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf, so be it. Remy’s not a bad guy, but he’s a bit rough around the edges … downright jagged, really…

  And now, Uncle Jeff is counting on me. If he knew what’s been going on between Marlo and me, I have no doubt he’d be livid. I could argue that she’d started the whole thing, but I’m not five years old anymore, so he won’t give a shit about that argument.

  And somehow, in the midst of our little feud, I feel like we’ve become partners of a sort. Associates of aggravation. Friendly foes. While she may drive me up a goddamn wall, I have to admit she’s grown on me.

  It’s about time I grow on her. Good thing I can be a charming SOB when I need to be.

  Marlo

  WHEN I CREAK open the roof door, my notebook and headphones in hand, I see Ever beat me to the punch today. When he’d dropped me off at the cafeteria and high-tailed it, I thought he’d had his fill of me for the day.

  I avoid his gaze and sit on the other side of the air conditioner.

  You stay on your side, and I’ll stay on mine.

  “We meet again,” he says with a smirk.

  I notice a smidge less irritation in his tone, and I’m immediately on guard. I know better than to take anything at face value. I have fourteen years of experience with Declan, and he cultivated me into the ninja I am today. I have the power to make grown men weep in a cut down fight. I go for the jugular. I take no prisoners.

  But I don’t know what to do with that weird ass smile plastered on Ever’s face right now. It’s creepy.

  “What is wrong with your face?”

  He jerks back, but keeps pseudo-smiling.

  “What? I’m smiling at you.” He acts offended, and I scoff.

  “You look like you crapped your pants.”

  He bursts out laughing, then stands up and moves closer to me. Right on the side of me. He rests his elbows on top of his raised knees and bumps my shoulder with his.

  What the hell?

  “Ya know, we’re going to be spending a lot of time together this semester. Don’t you think it’s time we call a truce?”

  “Now, why would we do that?” I ask, watching him closely. His eyes are a deep blue today, matching his shirt. They change depending on what he’s wearing—sometimes they’re mossy green and other times, a dark navy blue. His smile looks more genuine now, reaching up into his eyes and softening my resolve.

  “Do you even remember why you hate me?”

  “Because you’re a cake-crushing butt head,” I say, with a nod of my head.

  “Well, you demolished my shirt.” He bows his head and looks up at me. “But I’m willing to let that go … if you are.”

  I think over his proposition. I’m not normally a “let things go” kind of girl. No, I’m more of a “spike the peace-offering brownies with Ex-Lax” chick, if I’m being honest. In my experience, nothing says “don’t cross me, asshole” like the flying shits.

  But he’s right—we’re going to be seeing a helluva lot of each other, and it would be nice to take off the gloves for a change. But can I trust him to do the same? Or will the laxative spiker become the spikee? Hmmmm…

  “I don’t like you,” I say, as nothing more but stating a fact.

  “But maybe you could.”

  And the crap face is back, but this time, it’s almost endearing. I’ve got to hand it to him, he’s trying. He just looks awful doing it.

  “I don’t trust you.”

  I narrow my eyes at him, and he flinches. Damn straight, bridge troll. Nobody knocks me down, insults my food, and gets off scot-free.

  “You probably shouldn’t.”

  “Well, at least you’re honest.”

  “There is that,” he says with a shrug, looking entirely unapologetic.

  Feeling like we’re at a bit of an impasse, I lean back and study him. His mop of hair is an utter mess, the plastic rainbow of his Pink Floyd T-shirt is cracked and broken, and his blue jeans are more white than blue, no doubt from thousands of washings and wears. He’s two steps away from looking homeless, but right on target for being the hottest boy I could ever dream of.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  Ever reaches back and pulls out his wallet. He flips it open, revealing a joint nestled in the bend. He twirls it between his fingers, then tucks it behind his ear, all smooth-like.

  “Good thing it’s not lit. All the snaps and pops might blow up your pretty little head,” I say, with a saccharine smile and a bat of my lashes.

  “All the snaps and pops, wa wa wa,” he says with a high-pitched tone and a bobble head.

  I burst out laughing and touch my palm to my chest. “Is that supposed to be moi? It’s not my fault you’re a subpar pot smoker. It’s shameful, really.”

  I’m genuinely smiling now as he rests his head on his knees and grins right back. I hear a flick of metal on metal, and the familiar smell of a zippo lighter hits my nose. Ever plucks the joint from his ear and twirls the tip through the lighter. The flame rises when the rolling paper ignites. After taking a few small puffs to stoke the flame, he holds it out to me.

  “How about you test out my rolling skills? You may be pleasantly surprised, friend,” he says, almost like a dare.

  I reach out and take what he’s offering, in more ways than one, and he smiles his approval. The smokes slides down my throat, burns my lungs, and not long after, fuzzies my brain. After a few pulls, I tip it back over to him, and he joins me in a cloud of smoke.

  The joint doesn’t crackle and pop this time. Not even once.

  Who knew a friendship could be built upon a crap face and a tightly rolled joint? Certainly not me.

  Later that night, I sneak into the darkened bedroom with about as much grace as a newborn giraffe. I fumble through changing into my pajamas and shoving my smoky clothes to the deep down bottom of my laundry hamper. The rancid taste of weed lingers on my lips, feeling part sour and part burnt. I manage to brush my teeth, which feel a bit furry when I run my to
ngue along them, and wash my grimy face without waking my roommates.

  As I burrow under my covers after a harrowing ladder climb, I shut my eyes and bathe in the feeling that I’m hovering over the mattress, kind of like the weed lessened my gravitational pull by just a smidge. Not enough to hit the ceiling, but just enough to feel super fucking cool.

  I smile to myself and ponder how this thing … whatever it is … with Ever all started with a cake doomed for destruction. I slowly drift off, thinking how delicious that smashed cake would taste right about now.

  Ever

  “ALL RIGHT, YA ready, Low?” Remy asks as soon as the door shuts behind the customer.

  Marlo giggles and continues to dust her cupcakes with what looks like silver glitter. Me? I’m supposed to be slicing the andouille sausage for Etienne’s jambalaya. Instead, I salivate while watching Marlo make heaven in little paper wrappers while the tip of her tongue traces her top lip in concentration.

  “Hit me,” she tells Remy, putting down her supplies and placing her hands on her hips.

  Remy’s gaze darts to me, and I can tell this one is gonna be a doozy. “Cucumber, carrots … and basil-infused olive oil.”

  She looks to the ceiling and thinks for a moment, then picks up her duster once again. She shrugs, looking unfazed.

  “That’s an easy one. She needs carrots for a pot roast she’s cooking for her friend’s housewarming party.”

  She says nothing more. Remy and I glance at each other, confused.

  “What about the cucumber and olive oil?” I ask.

  Her mouth quirks up, and her eyes dance with laughter. “Those are for the after-party at home.”

  “Basil-infused olive oil?” Remy makes a disgusted face.

  She looks at both of us, her laughter finally breaking free. “She’s got that ‘not so fresh’ feeling today.”

  And then we all lose it. I lay down the knife before I slice off something important and try to catch my breath. Marlo is, hands down, the queen of The Grocery Game.