Low Over High
Copyright © 2016 by J.A. DeRouen
Cover Design by Daniela Conde Padron of DCP Designs
Editing by Madison Seidler
Proofreading by Alexis Durbin
Formatting by JT Formatting
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
License Notes
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Title Page
Playlist
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Epilogue
Preview of Ever Over After
About the Author
Acknowledgments
America’s Sweetheart – Elle King
Sweet Jane – Cowboy Junkies
In My Veins – Andrew Belle
Same Mistake – The Echo-Friendly
Unsteady – X Ambassadors
Devil’s Basement – Jonathan Tyler & the Northern Lights
Medicine – Daughter
Oblivion – Bastille
You Ruin Me – The Veronicas
Losing Your Memory – Ryan Star
Youth – Daughter
Wicked Game – Stone Sour
Bother – Stone Sour
Gravity – Sara Bareilles
Compass – Zella Day
I FANCY MYSELF a purveyor of truth, a sifter of lies, a cutter of bullshit. It’s not a gift—something innate that popped up at the most opportune time. Wouldn’t that be convenient? Nah, it’s all skill, honed razor-sharp after one too many trips down the rabbit hole.
Some may dismiss my talent as misplaced and misguided cynicism, but they’d be wrong. Clichés about hope and faith in mankind are concocted unicorn farts, an effort to keep the dreamers dreaming. Experiences don’t lie—people do. The dreamers of the world would do well to remember that lesson.
You’re welcome.
There’s a reason romance novels and sappy rom-com movies end with a kiss and a promise of happily ever after. Nobody wants to see the shit storm following the prince’s declaration of undying love. No one’s interested in the princess’s dashed hopes and bucket o’ tears. Talk about a box office bomb. It’s much more lucrative to sell the dream … cue the bouquets of sad sack roses and the vomit inducing love ballads.
While I’m not proud of the circumstances that led me to this way of thinking, I respect the journey. I’m thankful for the wisdom it imparted. The road to enlightenment can be dark and foreboding, but the destination makes it all worthwhile. Thank you, dickheads of the world, for being you … so I could become me.
And who am I?
I’m Marlo Rivers. Certified bullshit cutter. I’m not interested in the woo, and I’m more than sure there’s no prince waiting for me at the end of the rainbow … and I’ll hold my fucking breath on that pot of gold, too. I’ll slay my own dragons, thank you very much.
If I deem a man worthy of my time, he should consider himself lucky, indeed. I’m the lone unicorn of the female race—a mythical legend, really. I’m the woman who wants nothing but the present, has no interest in a man’s past, and refuses to entertain talks of the future.
The fucking unicorn.
Screw mystery, intrigue, and all the stomach dips and butterflies that accompany it. I want the truth. Every time. It’s not pretty, but it’s real, and that’s what I want and need in this life. No flowery words, no confining strings, and no phone calls after the fact—it’s the only way I roll.
If a guy wants to stick around for repeat performances, he has to reciprocate my “no questions asked” policy. My book of life stays locked up tight, and I make it a point to leave the past where it belongs. My bed, my rules. Get out if that’s a problem. No hard feelings; the only thing that should be hard is … well, you get my drift.
But that’s the thing about the past—it’s a defiant child, refusing to stay in time out. No matter how deeply buried, it can always pop up when least expected and sink its fucking claws into the flesh of your heart. No, not my heart—I no longer have one. I foolishly gave it away years ago, but I still feel the ripping in my chest as I fist the crumpled note left on my porch.
There are different types of silences. Contemplative silences, filling the void with thought and opportunity. Anxious silences, fueled by the erratic beat of a heart and rushing adrenaline. There are contented silences, lazy and gentle like a sigh, filling you with peace. And then there is the quiet filled with fear. I swore to myself I would never feel the creeping, sinking feeling of fright needle its way through my skin again, but it consumes me as I stare at the crumpled letter, the poisonous poem. Yes, I’ve avoided this day, ran from it, for the past eight years.
And, still, we meet again.
But to truly understand … to feel my dread and fear my future as I do, it’s important to know what happened in my past.
Or who…
Marlo
Eight years ago…
“LOW!” MY DAD bellows up the stairs as I smash my pillow over my head and groan. “I know you hear me, young lady. Rise and shine, valentine.”
Along with his booming voice, the smell of bacon wafts into my bedroom. I peek my head out from under the pillow, because seriously, who can resist bacon? And that’s when I see it.
My trunk, all packed, latched shut, ready to make the trek from Texas to Louisiana. Today is Friday … Funday … Set Ma
rlo Free-day. By this afternoon, I’ll be settling in for my senior year of high school at Orleans Academy, located smack dab in the middle of the French Quarter. I’m trading the green pastures and cow patties of China, Texas for the concrete jungle and jazz music of New Orleans.
Oh. Hell. Yes.
A surge of adrenaline rushes through me just as my dad peeks his head in the door.
“Ooooooooh, Marlooooooooo, I’m about to get the pitcher of water for your lazy butt.”
I glare at him and settle back into bed, just to be obstinate. I’m a freaking expert at obstinate.
“Is this how you treat me on my last day at home? You’re gonna regret being so mean. You’ll miss me when I’m gone,” I say with a pout. “Besides, I set my alarm last night. I was waking up in fifteen minutes, anyway.”
Dad’s mouth quirks up on one side, and he shakes his head. He reminds me of a pudgy Michael Landon, all gooey brown eyes and feathered hair. Just replace the end-of-show life lessons with a litany of four-letter words, and they’re practically doppelgängers.
“Rowdy the Rooster sounded his alarm two hours ago. I don’t know how you missed it.”
“Oh, please! I tuned out that asshole ages ago.”
“Language, Marlo Rivers,” he says, with absolutely no conviction behind his words.
“I learned from the best,” I sing-song as I roll out of bed and stretch. I turn to face him with a smile, and stop short. Propped against my doorway, temple resting on the frame, his expression is pensive. Every part of him, from his muddy work boots to his crossed arms, all the way up to his gentle eyes, whispers heartache.
“What in the hell am I going to do without my girl?” he whispers, his eyes burning a hole in the carpet as he tries to muster up his manhood.
I need to turn this sappy crap around, because he’s not the only one with a reputation to uphold. Growing up the only girl in the house, with my dad and younger brother, Declan, I’m no cry baby, either.
Dry it up, old man.
“What are you gonna do? If I had to guess, you’ll walk around the house farting and scratching your butt far more often than the law should allow, and Declan will become an even more disgusting creature than he already is.” I fake a smile as I push back the burning in my nose and the tears threatening to spill.
He shoots me his best disapproving glare, but he doesn’t deny it. “I bet Nana will keep us in check. Speaking of, she’s downstairs making French toast and bacon for your farewell breakfast.” He raises his hand in protest when he notices my frown. “Now, take it easy on her, Low. She’s just worried about you.”
“And Evelyn,” I say.
He lets out a labored sigh and nods his head. “Yes, and Evelyn. You know, Nana raised you just as much as I did. She was a mother when Evelyn couldn’t be, so yes, she’s protective. I’m proud of you, for forgiving Evelyn for the past, for understanding things far beyond your years. I need you to forgive Nana, too, for not letting go of the past. They both love you. They just don’t like each other very much, but that’s not for you to worry about.”
I know he’s right. Nana was against me attending Orleans Academy from the start. I know she’ll miss me something fierce, and I’ll be sick without her, too. Her house is only a short four-wheeler ride away on our thousand-acre ranch. The path to Nana’s is a hard dirt trail, the grass never having a chance to sprout.
Evelyn, my biological mother, took off when I was three years old. Declan had just turned a year. From that day forward, Nana served the role of both grandmother and mother. There is no “poor me” story here; no need to drown my sorrows or relish some overpriced psychologist with stories of my fears of abandonment and commitment. I was loved, harder and bigger than most people are granted in a lifetime. I can shoot a target with a rifle at 300 yards, bait a fishing line, and drive a tractor better than most country boys, thanks to Dad. I can accessorize better than a Hollywood starlet, and bake a cake that would make Betty Crocker hang her head in shame, thanks to Nana. And there is never a shortage of hugs at our house.
I never felt the loss of my mother. I’m sure I’d cried when she’d left, and I bet I’d missed her in the way a three-year-old child would, but I have no memory of it. Nana had slid right into her place, and life had gone on the way it always had on Rivers’ Ranch. It was like Evelyn was erased off the chalkboard of our lives, never to be thought of again. Until two years ago, that is, when Evelyn had taken a wistful look back at what she’d left behind. And that was when I’d began to wonder about the whos and whys of the woman who’d left us all those years ago.
“I’ll be sweet, Dad. I know she wants what’s best,” I say, hating to hurt Nana with my choices. She’ll forgive me in time. It’s her way.
“Jeez, shake a leg, Low. There’s a Rivers men burping contest planned for tonight. We’ll never make it back in time if we don’t leave soon. I’ve already got the root beer in the fridge,” Declan complains as he passes in the hall, wearing nothing but his tighty whities, while he scratches his butt.
I raise my eyebrows at my dad, and he shrugs. “Totally his idea.”
“Stay away from that dope, young lady,” Nana says as I stifle a giggle.
She narrows her eyes at me, and I push my lips together and busy myself with my pancakes. Nana’s so funny. It’s all “that dope” to her. Weed, cocaine, crack, or freaking fertilizer—it makes no difference in the world. “Poor boy/girl/man/woman, he was on that dope.” I’ve heard it a hundred times, and it always cracks me up.
I shovel in a mouthful of pancakes and nod solemnly. My full mouth serves as plausible deniability. There’s no reason for her to know smoking a joint in the barn with our neighbor, Darryl, happens more often than not on Saturday nights. Who can blame me? There are only so many bonfires, cow tippings, and Friday nights at the Sonic Drive-In a girl can stand without a little herbal enhancement. Seriously, this one horse town practically drove me to the ganja.
“Don’t entertain those street performers, either. You take out your wallet on the street and give ‘em some money, someone’ll see and you’ll surely get mugged.” She douses her pancakes in maple syrup while nodding her head knowingly.
“I won’t be venturing out much on my own, Nana. The school is strict about—”
“And if they tell you they know where you got your shoes, just walk away. It’s a trick,” she interrupts while jabbing her syrup-covered fork at me.
I chew my pancakes and wait to see if she’s finished. It’s been a laundry list of rules and warnings since my big toe hit the kitchen tile. A few moments pass, and I think she may finally be finished.
“I don’t think that—”
“And you are not to leave the dorm after dark, even if it’s to go see that Evelyn. It’s too dangerous in that city for a young lady.”
That Evelyn.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say in concession. I look across the table at my dad, and he shoots me a sympathetic smile.
She runs her fingers down my cheek and grabs my chin, tilting it up to meet her eyes. She squeezes her lips to together in a scowl. “My baby turns eighteen in two months, and I won’t even be there to see it.”
“If it was on a weekend, I would come home, but it’s in the middle of the week. There’s nothing I can do,” I say as I watch her shut down right in front of me. She’s not hearing any of it. “I’ll video chat with you and Dad, and that way you’ll get to see me for my birthday.”
She huffs and leans back in her chair, crushing my hopeful suggestion. “What do I know about a video chat? If I can’t hug you for your birthday, then what good is it?”
“Sorry, Nana,” I whisper, unsure of what I can say to make her happy.
I stand, and bring my dishes to the sink. I turn to clear the table, but she shoos me away. “Out of my kitchen. You need to get loaded up and on the road.”
Dad squeezes my shoulder on his way to the sink with his dishes, and Declan raises his eyebrows in a “better you than me” gesture. I’m already
packed up and ready to go. The only thing left to do is load my trunk.
“Dad, can I say goodbye to Fisher? I won’t be long, I promise.”
“Quick, Low. We need to get on the road,” he says.
I throw on my shoes, and I’m halfway out the door when she calls my name. I turn back to the kitchen, but she doesn’t turn around to face me.
“I’m heading to the grocery store, so I won’t be here when you get back,” she says to the kitchen window, and my heart sinks.
“But Nana …” I feel the tears struggling to push past my eyelids.
“You know how I feel about goodbyes,” she says, and turns her head back to meet my gaze. “But I love ya, girl. More than you’ll ever know.”
I race out of the house and toward the garage before a single tear spills. I love her with all my heart, but I can’t help the tinge of anger bubbling up inside me. I wish she would let me hold her tight, cling to her until the very last second, but it’s just not her way.
I take off on my four wheeler, opting for the open fields rather than the worn path, hitting every thistle as I speed toward Nana’s house. The thistle milk sprinkles my legs, now prickled with goose bumps from the cool wind. The morning fog and rising sun collide in a mix of haze and vapor, dueling between chill and warmth. It won’t be long before the Texas heat burns off the morning dew, leaving stifling heat in its wake.
I hear Fisher barking the moment my tires crunch the gravel of Nana’s driveway. He meets me halfway and races at my side all the way to the porch. It’s a wonder he’s never been clipped, but he’s as nimble as he is massive. Fisher is a Rhodesian Ridgeback, bigger than most canines and smarter than a lot of humans. As far as I’m concerned, he is human, and my best friend.
The truth is, he’s the only friend I care about leaving. I’m not a slumber party and middle-of-the-night whispers kind of girl, so I don’t really fit in with the crowd in China. I’m not close enough with any of the girls in town for them to miss me, and boys are … well, just boys. Fisher, on the other hand, he’s my confidante.
I sit down onto the porch steps, and he swaggers to me and plops his head in my lap with a pitiful sigh. His sad eyes look up at me as I thread my fingers through his golden coat. I swear he knows what’s happening. He’s gotten more morose with each day.
Low Over High (The Over Duet #1) Page 1
