Low Over High (The Over Duet #1) Page 8

  Remy and I started the game last year on a slow afternoon, and it’s kept us occupied for more hours than I can count. Whoever checks out the customer chooses three items from their bag, and the other person has to make a story to coincide with those items. The key to The Grocery Game is the crazier the story, the better.

  “What’s all this ruckus? It sounds like a party in here. Everett, you’re running behind, boy. Slice, slice!” Etienne walks around the deli counter and squeezes my shoulder. He smiles and chuckles. “When Etienne’s away, the children will play.”

  “I took out a few packs of crawfish to thaw, Etienne. I thought we could try to add them to the chicken and sausage jambalaya. Delicious, huh?” I raise my eyebrows.

  He always encourages my suggestions and additions to his recipes. It makes cooking with him that much more fun. Plus, my ideas kick the recipes up a notch. Well, at least most of the time. I’ve been wrong before, but Etienne lets me screw up and learn from it. My taste buds don’t always appreciate it, but I do.

  The bells chime, alerting us to a new customer, and Etienne stops to greet them, as he always does. He swipes a finger through Marlo’s almost-empty frosting bowl and licks his finger. He moans his approval as Marlo swats his hand and laughs.

  “Pure spun bliss in a bowl, pretty one,” he says, patting her head and turning to me. “Crawfish sounds like a wonderful idea, Everett. Always thinking, this one.”

  Marlo catches my eye and smiles, and for some reason, I can’t look away. I sense her approval of Etienne’s assessment, and that makes me … proud? I’m not sure what it is, but I like it. When I finally break away from her gaze, I catch Remy watching me with a calculating expression, and my smile fades. Now that? I really don’t like. I wonder if he still has Marlo in his sights…

  “I’ll be in the office taking care of some paperwork. Call me when you’re ready, Everett, and we’ll get started on the jambalaya, yes?” I nod and he starts walking to the back of the store. “Keep it to a low roar children. Don’t scare my customers away!”

  “You really enjoy cooking with Etienne, don’t you?” Marlo whispers as Remy rings up the customer.

  I nod and smile. She’s right; I do enjoy working with Etienne, but there’s more to it than that. He respects my opinion and treats me like I have something important to say. The adults in my life don’t normally treat me that way. Hell, I haven’t always acted in a way where I’ve deserved it. Etienne is a clean slate for me. He doesn’t know about my shortcomings, and he doesn’t care. We make delicious food together, and that’s enough.

  “Ready for your next challenge, Low?” Remy chuckles.

  She rolls her eyes and flicks her hands in a way that says “give it to me.”

  “Macaroni noodles … Nutella … and garlic.”

  Now this could go anywhere. Marlo’s mind is a maze of booby traps and land mines. Just when I think I know what she’ll say, she manages to surprise me.

  “The macaroni noodles are for her kid’s school project. She’ll be painting and gluing macaroni noodles on construction paper for half the night, poor thing,” she says with wide eyes and a pout. “Then she plans to spackle her husband’s ass with the nutella the second little Johnny falls asleep. Fun times for everyone.”

  She quirks up her eyebrow and pretends to work as Remy and me fall over laughing.

  “Dare I ask?” Remy shakes his head. Marlo looks at him expectantly and raises her eyebrows. “The garlic?”

  She giggles. “Duh. The vampires, of course.”

  We both stop laughing and stare at her, totally stumped. Vampires?

  “Huh?”

  “Wha?”

  “To keep the vampires away?” She stares at both of us, and then rolls her eyes. “Vampires love nutella, too, y’all.”

  Of course they do.

  Of course.

  “You got it?” I ask as soon as the storage room door clicks shut.

  Remy turns to me and pulls the baggie out of his pocket. “Don’t I always?”

  He’s right. He always does, which means I don’t have to look very far for my supply. It’s a convenience I appreciate, for sure. We make the exchange and I shove the weed way down into the side pocket of my book sack before getting back to work.

  We unload the day’s shipments, and Remy is quieter than usual. I can always count on him to crack a joke or belt out bad rap at the top of his lungs, but today, he’s silent.

  “So what’s going on, man? No tall tales from the illustrious life of Remy Rodrigue?” I prompt, trying to spur him on. Remy’s bullshit makes the time fly by.

  He gives me a sideways glance and keeps unloading. What the hell? Once the box is empty, I crumple up the packing slip and chuck it at his head—barely fazes him.

  “You and Marlo sure have gotten chummy over the last few days. I mean, it wasn’t but two days ago I thought she’d rip off your head and shit down your neck,” he says, acid dripping off his words.

  “What, would you rather work with two people scratching each other’s eyes out all afternoon? I’d think you’d be happy that we worked out our differences,” I say, trying to get a read on him.

  The minute I finish talking, I realize that he probably does. If Marlo hates me, she would latch on to him, and he would be the hero of the day. The problem is I know better than that. Remy may be an okay guy, and I use the term ‘okay’ loosely, but that doesn’t mean he needs to get any ideas about him and Marlo as anything more than coworkers.

  I’m starting to realize Remy is a pet tiger—all cuddles and tricks until he smells blood in the air.

  He shrugs and sniffs, turning away from me. “I’m just saying, I find it interesting that you want to toss the chick overboard until I show the slightest interest in her. Never took you for a cockblocker, man.”

  I stand there for a second, stunned and completely baffled. Does this guy live on planet Earth with the rest of us?

  “Remy, I have so many problems with that statement, that I can’t figure out where in the fuck to start.” He tries to walk away, but I grab his arm before he gets very far. He stops cold and stares at my hand, then meets my eyes. “If you think making some off-handed comment about her tits means you’ve laid some type of claim to her, then you’re more screwed up than I thought. Low and I are just friends anyway, so calm the fuck down.”

  He jerks him arm out of my grasp and stalks to the store room door.

  “Dude, what has gotten into you lately? I thought we were friends.”

  Remy lowers his head and sniffs, turning the knob of the door. He opens the door and turns back to me with a sneer. “Nah, man, we’re cool. Thanks for the reminder, though. You rich kids are all alike.”

  And with that parting dig, he slams the door behind him, leaving me fuming. Part of me wants to run after him, tell him he doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking about.

  My parents may pay for my school tuition, but every penny I make here pays for my weekend gas money and anything else I need on my trips to visit Easton. I think my visits make them feel like neglectful parents, which they are, so they refuse to fund them in any way. The truth is, I’d hitchhike to Thibodaux if it came to that.

  But I let it go because I’d rather Remy think I’m a rich prick than show him an ounce of weakness. He thinks he’s got the market cornered on fucked up lives? That’s fine, he can keep on thinking that.

  But this rich kid is watching that asshole, that’s for damn sure.

  After helping Etienne close up and boxing up a few of Marlo’s cupcakes to take home, we start the trek back to school. She seems more at ease with me than before, or at least less likely to punch me in my junk. I guess Remy is right about one thing: what a difference a few days makes.

  “You won’t need to walk me back to the dorm tomorrow night,” she says with a smile. “I’m having dinner with my … Evelyn after work.”

  “With ‘your Evelyn’?” I raise an eyebrow and chuckle. “She’s your mom, right?”

  Marl
o’s gaze darts to the sidewalk and she shrugs. “Well, yeah … I mean, she is, but…”

  After a long silence she doesn’t fill, I bump her shoulder. I give her an apologetic smile, letting her off the hook.

  “Too personal?” I ask, cringing. “Sorry.”

  She shakes her head and tugs at a lock of hair that’s escaped her ponytail. She twirls it around her finger, and then releases it, then twists it up again. It’s a nervous habit of hers—one of her tells. She tugs and twirls her hair when she gets nervous, along with the cutest little sniff that she uses to buy herself time when she doesn’t know what to say. She scrunches her nose up like a rabbit and puckers her lips. She thinks she’s so cool and collected, but I dare her to play a game of poker with me.

  “Nah, it’s not that. It’s complicated.” She watches the cars creep by at a snail’s pace, avoiding my gaze. She sniffs. “I’m just not in the mood to get all ‘woe is me,’ ya know?”

  “Coming from a guy who spends way too much time in the land of woe, I get it. Say no more,” I say, and I mean it. She nods and I can tell she’s grateful I let it go at that. I understand complicated all too well. “Anyway, tomorrow will be our last day of work this week. I always leave town after my last Friday class, so I only work at the market Monday through Thursday. I didn’t know if Etienne mentioned that, but he doesn’t want you walking alone.”

  “Okay,” she says quietly, then bumps my shoulder right back. “Where do you run off to every weekend? Home?”

  I grip the back of my neck and try to think of a response that will appease her. Marlo may be a cool girl for shooting the shit and getting high, but I’m not looking to bare my soul or tell my secrets. My life is screwed up enough without adding someone else to my special brand of crazy. Being there for Easton and handling my parents takes all my energy right now.

  “Something like that,” I say, purposefully vague.

  This time, she flinches. “Too personal?”

  “Too personal,” I say with a nod. I touch her arm and her expression shows me she isn’t offended. “How about this? Let’s keep the family shit out of it. No awkward conversations about how we weren’t hugged enough as children. Let’s keep it light. Primo weed, stellar conversation, and out-fucking-standing cupcakes. Whattya say?”

  She grins and raises her hand. “Fan-fucking-tastic.”

  I slap her outstretched hand, relieved we’re on the same page. I’d hate to have to end this friendship before it even begins. Another time, different circumstances, maybe things would be different, but I’m not in the position to worry about “what ifs.” I have to take things day by day, and no girl, not even Marlo, can enter into that equation.

  We pass through Jackson Square on our way back to school. Marlo crosses the square and slides onto an outlying bench.

  “People-watching. It’s my favorite pastime,” she says as she watches a team of break dancers entertain a growing crowd. “The only things I could ever watch at home were horses grazing and cows taking craps, so this is the most entertainment I’ve had in … well, forever.”

  In that moment, I can see her. Right now, her legs are covered in well-worn jeans, but I can imagine her tan legs, pink toenails, and way too short cut-off jeans. In my imagination, she’s riding a horse … bareback. Screw it, it’s my imagination, I can do what I want. So, yeah, muscular legs wrapped around the horse’s body, the slow back and forth of the horse’s gait rippling through her as a smile dances on her lips. She’d nudge the horse’s side and take off in a gallop, turning to laugh at me, brown curls dancing in the sunlight. I swear, I can almost hear her laughter.

  She may not enjoy it, but I think I may like to people-watch in the country.

  She pats the seat beside her, bringing me back to the here and now, and I sit down. She oohs and aahs as the dancers jump and tumble. She jumps up and claps wildly when the main dancer does a running back flip over three guys kneeling on the ground. She can’t take her eyes off them.

  And I’m not sure why … I can’t explain it, but…

  I can’t take my eyes off her.

  Marlo

  Ever: Strawberry jam, mushrooms, and pepperoni. Go!

  I stare at the text message, suppressing the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. My fingers itch to respond, but I pull back.

  Keep it cool, Low. Nobody likes an eager beaver. That statement is wrong on so many levels…

  Ever and I had exchanged numbers last week when we’d become accidental coworkers, but he’s never called or texted me before. He’d left school on Friday after class, just like he’d said he would, and I didn’t expect to see him again until Sunday or Monday.

  Was I sweating it? Hell no!

  My weekend plans are full of movies, makeovers, and mayhem with Delilah and Charlotte. Charlotte may be a reluctant participant, but we lured her to the party with empty promises of flash cards and quizzes. She’s still a bit prickly after figuring out it was actually trivia in the form of Trivial Pursuit: Harry Potter Edition, but she’s warming up. I should note that she’s an expert in The Dark Arts category—I should have seen that one coming. Shady Charlotte could teach Voldemort a thing or two about evil stare downs. He Who Shall Not Be Named would wither under her scrutiny.

  Now one tiny text has me thinking about an entirely different kind of magic. For as much as I’d hated the bridge troll when I’d first met him, Ever is growing on me. The jury’s still out on whether he’s a fungus or a flower, but I’m having fun figuring it out. Even though I hate to admit it, seeing his name pop up on my phone gets my boobies all tingly.

  I peek again at my phone and try to think of a great grocery tale. I’m the reigning champion; there’s an expectation that comes with that title. Hmm…

  “Who’s knocking, lover girl?” Delilah waggles her eyebrows like a goofball. She tips her chin at the phone in my hand. “I know googly eyes when I see ‘em.”

  I lock my screen and toss my phone to the side. “Focus, Delilah,” I say, snapping my fingers and hoping I can divert her attention. “We’re talking cat eyes, not googly eyes. I was promised a lesson in liquid eyeliner. You backing out?”

  Delilah’s makeup bag is like a pirate’s treasure chest. As soon as my hand dives into the bag, she swats me and huffs. “Hands off the goods, girl. Roommate or not, I will cut a bitch for mishandling my babies.”

  She reaches in and pulls out the liquid eyeliner with reverence. I hold back the urge to giggle because she is not even joking a little bit. Makeup is serious business to her.

  Delilah forgets all about my phone as she gives me a lesson, while I watch her in the mirror. She applies it perfectly, despite my fluttering eyelashes and head jerks. It looks easy enough to do, and after watching her make me look like Marilyn Monroe in two seconds flat, I feel confident in my makeup applying ability.

  “Oh, Low, you poor baby. You’ve fallen into Delilah’s makeover vortex. There’s no escaping now,” Charlotte says with a somber head shake, betraying the laughter in her eyes.

  Jeb enters the commons area right behind Charlotte, tugging her ponytail and propping his chin on her shoulder. Charlotte shrugs her shoulder to push him away, but he doesn’t seem to notice. I glance over at Delilah, giving her a look that says, “Now that’s googly eyes.” She snorts her agreement.

  “Charlotte, I thought you ran upstairs to change your clothes,” Delilah says with a smirk.

  Charlotte huffs and rolls her eyes at Jeb. “I did, but I picked up a stray along the way. You know how it goes sometimes.”

  “No offense taken,” Jeb says, smiling.

  “Offense intended,” Charlotte counters.

  “Now, now children, play nicely. Actually, y’all came at the right time. I just gave Low a liquid eyeliner lesson, so she needs to practice on someone.” Delilah looks back and forth between the two of them, but neither steps up to volunteer.

  “You know, Jeb,” I say, twirling the eyeliner between my fingers like a baton. “I’ve showered you in sugar
for weeks now. Enough that I’m surprised you don’t have frosting oozing out of your ears. And we had a deal. Tricks for treats—that was our arrangement. You didn’t hold up your end of the bargain, friend.”

  Jeb throws up his hands in frustration. “You have a free pass to leave whenever you want, with your new job. My tricks are useless to you. What am I supposed to do?”

  I tap the eyeliner to my temple and look to the ceiling. “What should you do? What should you do?” I gasp and widen my eyes. “I know! Come sit your cute little butt right here and let me practice.”

  He grumbles and pouts, but trudges over to sit across from me on the carpet. He huffs and slumps his shoulders, looking so defeated, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. Jeb is obviously a player from way back, and I won’t let him fool me.

  “This I gotta see,” Charlotte says with a laugh, clamming up when she sees murder in Jeb’s gaze. The laugh may stop, but her smirk remains.

  “Now remember, Low, it’s all about the follow through. Control is key. You want a steady, fluid motion for best results,” Delilah whispers as I pull on Jeb’s eyelid and ready the liner.

  “That’s what he said,” Jeb says, and we all crack up.

  I hold back my laughter and shake out my wrists. “Shut it, Funny Guy. That’s a good way to get stabbed in the eyeball.”

  I pull and prod his eyelids, readying my hand like Delilah taught me. He scowls and flinches away, and I can’t really blame him. Once I get started, I catch on quickly, and his eye doesn’t look half bad. When I finish off his lid with a flamboyant wing on the end, I move to the other side. I can’t leave him lopsided.

  “I’m thinking strawberry cupcakes with fresh strawberries on top,” he says and pulls away for a moment. “That’s what you’re making me next week as payment for this torture.”

  “What? This torture falls under the heading of Back Payment, I’ll have you know. But since I’m such a sweet friend, strawberry cupcakes, it is,” I say, capping the eyeliner and assessing my work.