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

  “Not half bad, Low. You’ve transformed Jeb into an emo rocker. I’m impressed,” Delilah says with a head nod.

  Before Jeb realizes what I’m doing, I snap a picture of my masterpiece. His eyes widen in surprise, and he gasps, making his cat eyes look all the more ridiculous. I lock my phone before he has a chance to snatch it from me.

  He eyes me suspiciously and leans forward. “Whatcha gonna do with that picture, Low? Send it to Loverboy?”

  I huff and turn away, afraid my expression might betray me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Hmmmmm,” Delilah says, tapping her finger to her chin. “It has been an interesting few weeks for Marlo, hasn’t it, Jeb? Do you think Ever would agree?”

  I toss Delilah her eyeliner and stand up. I mosey over to the couch, plopping down, while concentrating all my effort on ignoring the two meddlers staring me down.

  “Oh, Ever agrees, all right,” Jeb says, his words dripping with innuendo.

  Me: Jeb is giving me a hard time about you, so he had to be punished. Lip stain is next. What have you told him?

  My message sends, and I toe-tap nervously, waiting for his response.

  “Sorry, I can’t hear you. My ears automatically filter out mindless drivel.” I hope my stalling works while I wait for Ever’s response. Hurry up, man!

  Ever: That asshole is yanking your chain. All he knows is that you work at the market. He’s fishing.

  “So we work together,” I say, shrugging. “So what? That doesn’t mean jack.”

  I smile, feeling smug with the knowledge that Jeb is in the dark.

  “Where do you run off to every night, Low? I mean, we don’t see you until after ten o’clock some nights,” Charlotte says with a devious smirk.

  She looks over at Jeb with a conspirator’s grin, and that’s when I know. They’ve been talking, and this is NOT good.

  “You know, come to think of it, Ever is gone every night until late, too,” Jeb offers.

  I feel a trio of stare downs coming my way, as I type furiously.

  Me: They’re onto our rooftop rendezvous. Bastards are comparing notes.

  “All of you should spend more time studying and less time cataloging my every movement,” I say with a sniff. Waffling is my name, and stalling is my game.

  Ever: Tell Jeb his skin is as smooth as calamine lotion.

  “Come on now, little Low. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Just admit you’ve fallen victim to Ever’s masculine wiles, and you want to have his broody little babies,” Jeb says with a chuckle.

  Me: Wha?

  “I can see their little pouty faces already.” Delilah laughs.

  Ever: Trust me.

  All right, here goes nothing. I stand up, walk over to Jeb, and lower my hand to his face. “You know what, Jeb. I’ll admit that—” I pause for a moment and run my thumb over his cheek. “Your skin. Wow, it’s as smooth as calamine lotion.”

  His eyes widen in surprise, and he jerks away from me. He jumps up to standing and eyes both Charlotte and Delilah with suspicion.

  “I-uh-I need to go wash this paint off my face. It itches like hell and I’m about to scratch my fucking eyes out. Charlotte, come help me?” Jeb pulls her up and drags her across the common room before she can respond.

  Delilah watches them leave with a look of confusion, and I take the opportunity to text Ever.

  Me: Worked like a charm. What the hell, man?

  Ever: Let’s just say that what started out as a remedy for poison ivy became a fetish of sorts. That’s all I’m gonna say.

  Me: And even that is TMI.

  Who knew a bottle of pink lotion would save me from fessing up to our new friendship? There isn’t really anything to hide. What’s the big deal if Ever and me are friends? But, the truth is, it feels like more than friendship sometimes. Nothing outside the lines has happened between us, but there’s a tiny whisper of “maybe” in the air. Saying anything out loud may burst the fragile bubble where secret friendship resides. I’m not ready to do that just yet.

  Me: Crisis averted.

  It isn’t until later that night, sitting up on the roof by my lonesome, that I remember Ever’s grocery challenge. I open up my phone to text him back, and hesitate. The truth is, I want more than just his words tonight. I feel strange admitting it to myself, but I miss the sound of his voice, his laughter. I think … I might miss him. Like all of him, even the prickly parts.

  I have lukewarm feelings about Ever. There, I said it.

  Not hot and steamy or anything. Maybe a hair warmer than tepid. That’s what I’m going with. Two degrees warmer than tepid.

  I open my contacts and scroll to his name.

  Broody Bridge Troll.

  What? He earned it fair and square.

  I hit the call button and put the phone to my ear. It rings once.

  Maybe this isn’t a good idea.

  Rings twice.

  I should hang up before I wake him up.

  Rings three times.

  “Hello, Ever’s phone.”

  Her voice is like spun sugar, fashioned into a knife and driven straight into my gut. Where else would he be going every weekend, if not his girlfriend’s house?

  How could I have been so stupid?

  “Sorry,” I whisper, my voice wavering. “Wrong number.”

  I hang up, toss my phone to the side, and bury my face into my cradled arms.

  Did I say tepid? Correction.

  My feelings for Ever are ice cold. Polar snow caps.

  Marlo

  “WHERE WERE YOU last night? I waited on the roof until after eleven,” Ever says the moment I meet him at the back of the classroom.

  I run my thumbs underneath the straps of my book sack and shrug. Before he can say another word, I turn on my heel and walk out the door, hitting the streets of New Orleans in record time.

  After my ill-timed phone call on Saturday night, I made the decision to stay the hell away from all things Ever for as long as humanly possible. He obviously has a girlfriend, and as much as I wish it was, her name is not Marlo Rivers. I’m a lot of things, but a boyfriend-stealing skank isn’t one of them.

  Avoiding the rooftop and eating meals at odd as hell times bought me a little time, but here it is, Monday afternoon. Time to face the music … the sad sack, stupid music.

  “Hey,” he says from behind me, catching up quicker than I hoped.

  I shut my eyes and suck my lips between my teeth, reciting my new motto where it pertains to Ever.

  He’s not your boyfriend. He never was. Quit being a stupid twit.

  I’ve said this to myself a thousand times over the last two days, and I still can’t get it through my thick skull … never mind my traitorous heart. That bitch needs a healthy dose of shock therapy.

  Sometimes the idea of something amazing, the promise of what’s to come, can sting twice as badly as an outright rejection. I could feel things changing between us—evolving into something new and exciting. As days passed, his features morphed from troll-like to something that can only be achieved with the aid of whiskey goggles. But with Ever, no alcohol was needed. Those freckles peppered across his nose begged to be touched. I wanted to lace my fingers in the loops of his jeans and jerk him close. I wanted to bury my face in his neck and just … sniff. Yes, I said sniff. Don’t judge.

  He’s not your boyfriend. He never was. Quit being a stupid twit.

  He falls into step beside me and bumps my shoulder, waiting for me to explain my sudden weirdness. I feel like I should blame it on Aunt Flo. She petrifies boys and men alike, and he would definitely give me a pass on being a twat waffle. On second thought, maybe I’ll save her for another day. She’s my ace in the hole, and I’m not willing to give her up just yet.

  “Hey,” I say, putting on a saccharine smile, hoping it doesn’t resemble the crap face.

  “What the hell? Why’d you stand me up? And what the hell are you running from? Is there a fire I don’t know about?”
r />   The words fall out of my mouth before I can stop them. “You make it sound like a date. Jeez, can’t a girl stay in her room and study once in a while?” Cue super-girly eye roll and huff.

  Way to play it cool, Low. Damn…

  “What? No—I mean, I know that. I know it’s not a date or anything. But I thought we were going to hang out, that’s all,” he says, looking more hurt than I can stand right now.

  He’s like a solar eclipse, but instead of blinding me, looking directly at him turns me into a swooning dipshit. I’m already acting like an idiot, so I opt for antique window shopping as we pass shops on Royal Street. I may not be able to meet his eyes, but his gentle tone undoes me a tiny bit.

  “I know it’s kind of been a thing between us, meeting up there each night, but I’m getting behind on my work,” I say, looking his way for a millisecond before going back to admiring cameo necklaces and century old costume jewelry. “I don’t think I’ll be able to hang out as much as I have been. My dad will freak if my grades slip, ya know?”

  “Oh, yeah. Right—I mean, I get it.” He slips his hands into his pockets and slumps his shoulders. “We still have the market, though, right?”

  He sounds so hopeful, and it tugs at my heart. I want to turn back time and never dial his number Saturday night. I need an eraser to wipe my memory clean.

  He’s not your boyfriend. He never was. Quit being a stupid twit.

  “Yeah, sure thing,” I say, keeping my tone light and noncommittal.

  The thin line of his lips and the quick head nod tells me he understands what I mean without me saying it out loud. This thing between us needs clipped wings. Mission accomplished.

  Not being a cheating ho bag really sucks sometimes…

  “Dude, I’ve got it,” Ever says, narrowing his eyes at Remy. He’s standing directly behind me, close enough for me to feel the heat of his body. Close enough to make a statement.

  “Ever, I’m headed toward Esplanade, anyway. You’re going in the opposite direction. Besides, she asked me to walk her.” Remy cocks his head in challenge.

  I step forward amidst the silence and stand next to Remy. I deflate a bit when I see the hurt lurking behind Ever’s irritation. It almost slips, but I keep my expression hard and unrelenting.

  It’s been nearly a week since I shut Ever down, and it’s getting harder each day. I want to shove him and tell him to go call his giggling girlfriend, but I’m no crybaby. Despite my cold shoulder, he keeps trying. The thing I dread the most is when he finally gives up. Acting like I’m basically mute on our walks to and from Creole Market, showering Remy with attention in an effort to ignore Ever, it’s eventually going to work. As much as it’ll break my heart, he’ll move on, probably sooner rather than later.

  “I walked you to Evelyn’s last week, Marlo. I don’t mind doing it again.” He keeps his focus totally on me, intent on making me refuse him myself. He won’t take Remy’s word for it.

  “I know, but Remy offered this week, and I’m going with him.”

  Without another word, Ever nods and swipes his bag off the counter. He turns on his heel and stalks to the door, ripping it open as the bell slams against the glass.

  “Ever,” I say before he leaves. He stops in the door, but doesn’t turn around. “I’ll see you at school,” I say when I can’t think of anything else to say. He shakes his head and keeps walking.

  And I feel like the jerk.

  “Ready?” Remy asks, interrupting my thoughts and offering me his elbow. I slip my arm through and smile.

  Instead of taking the sidewalk, he leads me through the French Market, in between the booths of sterling silver jewelry, eel skin purses, and pop art, while exchanging fist bumps and waves with several of the vendors. I watch him as we walk, taken with the way he looks, which is entirely different than I’m used to. He’s unconventional, and so at ease with himself and his surroundings. His rumpled and worn clothes have a way of looking cool instead of homeless—a little bit vintage and a lot of don’t give a flying fuck.

  Being here with Remy makes me feel more connected to the Quarter. When I’m with the other students, I feel like a tourist. When I’m with Evelyn, I feel like we’re spectators. She’s too refined and elegant, too clean to get entrenched in the culture. But Remy feels like he’s a moving part of it all. He’s gritty and real, immersed in this place and these people. He’s as much a part of New Orleans as the water meter covers that pepper the sidewalks and roads.

  “How long have you lived here?” I ask as we snake our way from booth to booth.

  “All my life,” he says. “I’ve been prowling the streets of the Quarter since I was a kid, panhandling when I should have been at school.”

  “Where were your parents? Your momma?”

  He rolls his eyes and laughs. “No dad. But my mom? Here and there … mostly there.”

  What a huge departure from my life. It’s hard for me to fathom such a thing. Did young Remy walk these streets at night, alone and afraid? Did he wonder where his next meal would come from?

  He bumps my shoulder. “Hey, I’m not some sad story you hear on the news. You don’t need to feel sorry for me, Low. These killer looks and puppy dog eyes kept me rolling in it. The ladies loved me. Even at eight or nine years old, I could make it rain.”

  I burst out laughing. “Is that so?” I cup my hands over my mouth and make a roaring sound. “Hold onto your underwear ladies, here comes the ten-year-old Casanova extraordinaire, Remington Steel.”

  I giggle and nudge him with my elbow. “Get it? Steel?” I point to his crotch and bust out laughing.

  “Yes, Captain Obvious, I get it.” He laughs and keeps walking. “Don’t believe me, but it’s the truth. I could talk my way into a meal, some extra cash, a hit of this, a pinch of that, no problem.”

  “A hit of this?” I ask, feeling awkward. One look at Remy tells me he’s no saint, but it’s hard to imagine a child doing the things he’s talking about.

  “A pinch of that,” he says with a nod, and watches my reaction. He looks away and sniffs. “I only live a block or two away from Evelyn’s house.”

  I stop walking and turn to face him. “How do you know where Evelyn lives?”

  Only now do I realize it, but I never gave Remy the address to Evelyn’s house. He mentioned Esplanade when we were at the market, and he’s leading me straight to her house, but it never occurred to me to wonder how he knows where we’re going.

  “They’re customers at the market, remember? I’ve made many deliveries to her and Oliver over the last few years. Nice digs,” he says, and if I’m not mistaken, there’s the slightest touch of acid in his tone.

  “Oh, of course,” I say, feeling silly for questioning him. Why else would he know where she lives?

  We’re in front of Evelyn’s house in no time. I let go of Remy’s elbow and unlatch the wrought iron gate that separates the courtyard from the rest of the world. One step out of the gate is a bustling city, but inside is an oasis of lush greenery and trickling fountains, feeling miles away instead of mere steps.

  “You should stop by my place one night on your way back to school. You would dig my roommates,” Remy says. It feels as if he threw in the last part when he sensed my hesitation.

  “Yeah, maybe so,” I say with a shrug. “Thanks for walking me. See ya next week?”

  It’s Thursday night, so I won’t return to the market until Monday. The weekend is nearly here, which means no market and no classes. It also means no Ever. With all of the ignoring I’ve been doing this week, it shouldn’t be much different than any other day. Except he won’t be alone, and I know that now, which totally blows.

  “Sure thing,” he says, and then he leans in for a hug. I pat him on the back in return, but he squeezes a bit too tight, lingers a bit too long, and I feel strange about it. It’s nothing I can put my finger on—it’s more of a gut thing. It makes me pull away from him quicker than manners dictate.

  He doesn’t seem to notice and smiles.
He points at me as he walks backward down the sidewalk. “Be safe this weekend, all right? You’re not in the country anymore, Marlo. There’s more lurking in the shadows than cows and coyotes here.”

  And just like that, the bad feeling dissipates. He feels casual and friendly again, and I’m sure I’m just imagining things.

  He worries about me because he knows this city better than most. Just because we’re different doesn’t mean he isn’t a friend. It feels good to know he’s looking out for me.

  I close the gate latch behind me, and Remy disappears down the sidewalk. I bound up the stairs to the front door and dig the keys out of my purse. Evelyn had given me a set last week, saying she’s often holed up in her studio with the radio blaring, shut off from the world. At least that had been her initial reasoning for giving me the keys. Then she’d told me she wanted me to feel welcome, like I could come here anytime. She’d acted as if the last part was only an afterthought, but the way she’d waited for my reaction with clenched hands and hopeful eyes had given her away.

  She wants me here. In her home. I’d by lying if I said that didn’t make me feel good.

  I slide the key into the lock and turn the knob. With one foot over the threshold, the air of comfort and tranquility from the courtyard morphs into unease. A tense silence hovers as I part my lips to call for Evelyn. Before I make a sound, I hear shuffling coming from the parlor.

  “I’m so tired of your whiskey lips and limp dick. You disgust me,” she says, the sharp edge in her shrill voice making me cringe.

  “I hate you,” she cries, and I hear a scuffle break out beyond the foyer, peppered with grunts and cries.

  “Evelyn, stop,” Oliver shouts, clearly struggling with her. “Get a hold of yourself. You’re acting like a petulant child.”

  “I. Hate. You!” Each word is punctuated with a grunt, then an ear splintering crash.