Low Over High (The Over Duet #1)

by J. A. Derouen

  “He’s not the only charmer.” Evelyn laughs and heads to the door, bags in hand. I follow behind with a quick wave to Etienne.

  “Goodbye, sweet Evelyn. Until next time, my dear,” Etienne calls out as the door shuts behind us.

  I shuffle into the residence hall a little after nine o’clock, and I’m surprised by how quiet it is already. I shiver when the cool air conditioning hits me, and goose bumps erupt on my arms and legs. Even at night, the air feels like breathing through a wet wool blanket. Breaths aren’t just breaths—they’re gulps. New Orleans air must be swallowed.

  For the first time in the last few hours, I feel relaxed. My jaw unclenches, my shoulders loosen, and my mind unwinds. Tonight was overwhelming, and not all in good ways. Getting to know Evelyn had been enlightening, but things had shifted when we’d returned from Creole Market. Oliver had beat us home, and I’d gotten to meet a brand new Evelyn. This Evelyn wasn’t just put together; she was “on.” I’d felt her constant need to sell me to Oliver and the other way around, too. Oliver, on the other hand, had seemed impassive about it all—distracted and maybe even a bit uninterested. I’m chalking the entire night up to nerves—on everyone’s part.

  Whatever tension had hovered over us at dinner, Evelyn had been ecstatic when I’d accepted her invitation for a standing date on Thursday nights. Oliver had given a thin smile at her suggestion and had said he liked that idea. I’d accepted, deciding to take Oliver at face value instead of reading his body language, which had told me, spending another dinner with me was the equivalent of Chinese water torture.

  Right back atcha, dude, but I didn’t come here to see you, anyway. So deal.

  I balance the plastic container of cupcakes and slip off my shoes. I’m going to make Jeb one happy rule breaker. Chocolate cupcakes with pecan pie filling and buttercream frosting should put him firmly in my debt. Even Oliver the Stiff Shirt had moaned when he’d taken a bite.

  Dinner had been amazing, too. I’d never eaten food like that before, and my mouth waters just thinking about it, despite my food baby bulging against my skirt. I really need to pop a button or two before I smother to death. The muffalettas had been piled high with spicy meats, cheeses, and an olive mixture I can’t even do justice describing. It seems wrong to just call them sandwiches—hence the word muffaletta, I guess. The spicy jambalaya had left my nose running and my stomach singing. If Evelyn wants to feed me like this every week, who am I to say no?

  Once I make it up the stairs to the third floor, I step into the kitchen to put down the cupcakes and my shoes so I can fish my keys out of my purse. I hear steps coming up the stairwell, and I peek out the doorway to get a look. I move back in enough time so my cake-destroying arch nemesis doesn’t notice me.

  I wonder where he’s headed at this time of night …

  I leave my things on the kitchen counter and go into stealth mode. I channel my inner-ninja and tiptoe up the stairs, staying a safe distance behind Ever while keeping his footsteps in earshot.

  I reach the fourth and last floor of our building, and Ever is gone. I peek into the fourth floor kitchen—nothing. Then I see another door on the far wall with a tiny crack in it. I slip through the door and quietly climb the metal staircase that leads to another metal door.

  The rooftop.

  I crane my neck to see through the crack Ever left in the door, afraid he may hear if I inch it open any more. I see his outline sitting with his back against a large air conditioning unit, elbows wresting on drawn up knees. The flick of a lighter pierces the silence, and the glow of the flame illuminates Ever’s face. He draws in a deep inhale, holds it, and then releases a string of smoke into the night air. If I’m not certain at first, the rancid smell floating in the air settles it.

  Who would have thought Mr. Stick Up His Ass Broody Pants is a dope-smoking, weed-toking, friend of Mary Jane?

  I stifle a laugh, unsure why I find this revelation so funny, but I do. Hey, no judgment here. We all deal in different ways, and there’s nothing wrong with a time out in life. If he wasn’t such a dickwad, I’d ask for a puff or three.

  He draws in another long puff and jerks back when the joint pops between his fingers. He scrunches his face and examines the joint like a child who’s just been slapped.

  I can’t help it. I try, I really do, but the giggle bubbles up from my throat before I can stop it. I slap my palm over my mouth, but it’s too late. The giggle is out there, and I can’t take it back.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  Ever’s head whips around, and he squints his eyes into the dark.

  “What the hell?”

  He stands up and puts the joint out on the bottom of his shoe, giving me a few second head start. I should run, disappear into the girls’ hallway before he has a chance to see me. I should leave him wondering—vanish into thin air.

  Yeah, I’m not gonna do that.

  I peek my head through the door far enough so he can see my face. “You wanna smoke it up with the big boys, maybe you should learn how to take out the seeds, bridge troll!”

  And with that parting message, I take off like a shot. I barrel down the stairs, taking them two at a time, almost forgetting my shoes and my stash of baked goods. I hear him running down the stairs, whisper-yelling my name, but I don’t turn around until the door to the girls’ hallway is nearly closed. As the door swings shut and locks him out, I stick out my tongue and one finger salute him … times two.

  And that’s how you do it. Battle. Won.

  Marlo

  “MMMMMMMM, HOLY MOTHER … this is just … I can’t get enough,” Jeb moans, taking another monster-sized bite of cupcake as his eyes roll back in icing induced ecstasy.

  “Best. Breakfast. Ever.” Delilah swipes her finger through the pecan pie filling and licks it clean. “These are truly amazing. Seriously, Low, you have a gift.”

  “A gift I must exploit. You can have whatever you want. My secrets … my body…” Jeb raises his eyebrows suggestively, and I burst out laughing.

  “You are such a whore, Jeb,” Charlotte says as she shakes her head. Jeb reaches for her cupcake, and she slaps him away with lightning speed. “Hey, you gave it to me. You can’t take it away! I’m saving mine for later so I don’t sugar crash during physics. Plus, you’ve already eaten four of them. You’re gonna die of a sugar overdose.”

  Jeb shoots Ever an apologetic glance and shrugs. “Sorry man, I’d share my spoils with you, but my hands are tied. If Marlo smells even a whiff of chocolate on you, my honey pot stops. You see my problem. I’m bound and gagged, my brother.”

  Ever chews and eyes Jeb in disgust. I see the muscles in his throat work the dry piece of toast as he swallows.

  I’m surprised he sat down at the table once he noticed me, but he took the seat directly across from me. He meets my gaze and doesn’t look away when I challenge him, one of many times this morning. He makes me squirmy and uncomfortable, like he may call me out any second, which is ridiculous since I’m the one who’s got the goods on him. Still, he unnerves me.

  I smile despite his glare, and gather my things onto my tray. “I’m glad I could be of service. Jeb, I’ll gladly take your secrets, but you can rest easy. I won’t make you trade sexual favors for sugar. We’re square.”

  I stand and pick up my tray as Jeb grabs my elbow. “Oh, it’s no hardship, Low. I live to serve.” Charlotte punches him, and he lets me go to rub his shoulder. “Ow, woman! You are freakishly strong.”

  “And you’re just a freak. Leave Low alone.”

  I laugh and leave them to it. I feel Ever’s presence behind me as I stride across the cafeteria. Once we clear the tables, he sidles up next to me.

  “You make a habit of spying on people?” he asks under his breath, never looking in my direction.

  “You make a habit of being a supreme asshat?” I shove my tray into the chute and turn to him. “Wait, I already know the answer to this one. Yes, yes you do.”

  I hightail it to the door, but he catches up
to me before I can make my escape. He grabs my elbow and drops his hand a second later when I resist.

  “Just wait a minute,” he says in a strained voice as he runs a hand over his face. “Are you going to rat me out?”

  His words don’t come easy. He drags each one out with great effort, obviously pissed that he has to ask me for anything. It may make me a bitch, but I let the silence stretch a bit longer than necessary. He deserves to squirm.

  “I don’t like you,” I say.

  He raises his eyebrows and waits. So do I.

  He puts his hands on his hips and sighs. Shaking his head, he examines the floor. “Well, I like you.”

  “Really?” I ask, shocked.

  “No, not really,” he says, face pinched in irritation. “What the hell do you think? You’re not my favorite person either.”

  I give props to the asshole for being honest. He could have kissed up, tried to smooth things over. Instead, he opted for keeping it real. He’s still a jerk, but at least he isn’t a lying jerk.

  “Good thing I don’t give a shit,” I say. That gets me a huff and eyes trained on the ceiling in exasperation. Whatever. “I may not like you, but lucky for you, I’m no snitch.”

  I turn back to the door, but he’s not having any of it. He grabs my elbow again, and now it’s my turn to be irritated. Can’t he take this generous gift I’m giving him and go the hell away?

  “So that’s it? No dangling it over my head? No blackmail?”

  “Jeez, you are one jaded guy. I’m not gonna blackmail you. That’s not how I roll.”

  “Fine,” he says between gritted teeth and continues to stare at me like I’m a thousand-piece puzzle.

  I motion to the door and shrug. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna go.” I open the door and shoot him a sideways glance. “And be sure you don’t follow me, ‘kay?”

  I hear his incensed growl through the closing door, and I smile in earnest. Who knew pushing his buttons would be this much fun?

  “Who would you choose, Low? Jake Ryan or Blane? I’m with Jake Ryan all the way, baby.” Delilah falls back onto her puffy cloud of pink pillows, her blond curls cascading all around her. She draws up her knees and sighs.

  “Hmmmm, I’ll have to go with Blane. I’m a sucker for the tortured types. Jake is a little too all-American for me.”

  After an evening of John Hughes movies in the rec room with a slew of other Boozman girls, I’m ready for a little down time. I feel like I need a shower and a Brillo pad to wash some of this estrogen off me. Don’t get me wrong, it was a fun and chilled out Saturday night, but it’s a bit much for a loner like me.

  The day started with a trip to Café du Monde for coffee and chicory, and an order of beignets, and it was freaking delicious. It felt a little strange to make the breakfast trip under the watchful eye of my RA, a bit like an elementary school field trip, but the sights and sounds of Jackson Square curbed those thoughts almost immediately. Fortune tellers, musicians, dancers, people painted from top to toe in gold—all these and more littered the sidewalks of the Quarter and perched by the wrought iron gates surrounding Jackson Square. I wish I could grab a bench and people watch for hours. I was so taken with St. Louis Cathedral, I signed up for the trip to Sunday mass in the morning.

  Am I even Catholic? I am tomorrow.

  After a day brimming with activity, I’m in need of an escape, and I know just where to go. I snatch my phone, notebook, and headphones off the desk and slide on my flip flops. When Delilah notices me walking to the door, she sits up in bed.

  “Hey, where are you disappearing to? Who knows when Charlotte’ll be back from the library. Don’t leave me all by my lonesome.” Delilah pouts and bats her eyelashes at me.

  I shove my room key in my pocket and smile. “Now, now Delilah, those puppy dog eyes don’t work on me. You see, I have boobies. Save it for the men in your life.”

  She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. “It works on boobies, too … sometimes.”

  “Well, not these boobies,” I say with a chuckle. I open the door and wave. “I’ll be back before you know it. Don’t wait up.”

  Before shutting the door, I hesitate for a moment and turn back to her.

  “Hey Delilah, do you think…” I say, clenching my fists behind my back, hating myself for asking, “do you think the other girls liked me tonight?”

  A whisper of a smile dances on her lips, and I see it in her eyes—sympathy. I sound needy and vulnerable, but I keep wondering if I didn’t fit in with the girls at home, or if I just plain old don’t fit in. I try not to put too much stock into what others think of me, but nobody wants to be the last pick for dodgeball, I don’t care what they say.

  “Yeah, Low, they thought you were cool, I can tell,” she reassures me with a grin. “I see many mani/pedi dates and slumber parties in your future.”

  I shake my head and chuckle, backing away. “Now let’s not go crazy, here. A simple ‘Marlo does not suck. We won’t glue maxi pads to her locker’ will suffice.”

  “Well, then mission accomplished.”

  She gives me a cheesy thumbs-up, and I nod my thank you as I close the door. I race up the flight of stairs and creak open the door to the roof, wondering if this is the night I’ll have company. I came up here last night and stayed for over an hour, but I never saw Ever. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him all weekend—in the cafeteria or on any outings. I wonder where he could be … no I don’t. I don’t wonder about him at all. Not even a little bit.

  I settle in with my back against the AC unit, earbuds popped in, and notebook open and ready to scribble. Sometimes, I jot down my thoughts, other times I bang out a few lines of awful poetry, and when the spirits move me, I draw fabulous graphic and uncensored doodles. My dick doodle could be award-winning. Only my circumcised sketch, though. I don’t have much experience with peen au naturale. Honestly, my experience with any peen is limited. I’ve seen my fair share, but I haven’t gone all the way to Pound Town.

  So anyone who opens my “journal,” expecting to find the ramblings of a dreamy-eyed teenage girl is in for a rude awakening … and pencil porn. We all have our creative outlets—some are just more lewd than others.

  Before I can choose my tunes, a deep baritone voice croons over the familiar sounds of the city.

  “Swing low, sweet chariot…”

  The voice is like velvet rolling through me, warming me to the tips of my toes. I close my eyes and tip my head to the sky, savoring the sound. It reminds me of peace … unquestionable faith.

  “Coming for to carry me hooooooooome.”

  I hear the splash of water below and I creep to the ledge of the building to get a closer look. The street below is nearly deserted, save for a mop bucket, a hose, and an older man gracing me with an awe-inspiring private concert. His gray beard is long and braided and his apron smudged with a night’s worth of work in the kitchen. Mama Bea’s Kitchen, to be exact, if the sign on the corner is any indication.

  “Swing low, sweet chariot…”

  A banjo kicks in, and I lift my eyes to see three new additions to the impromptu street party. There’s the banjo, another man with a violin, and one more holding what looks to be a pair of spoons. My kitchen crooner points and laughs, but keeps singing, doing his part to contribute to this rag tag rendition of a classic.

  It’s cleansing. It’s beautiful. It’s all the company I need tonight.

  Marlo

  I DON’T SEE Ever again until Monday night, when he shows up on the rooftop twenty minutes after me. His Orleans Academy uniform is rumpled, the knot of his tie loosened, shirt tails hanging, and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks like a wrinkled mess, and I don’t just mean his clothes. His heaves a labored sigh and deadpan stare, but I give no shits.

  “I knew there was a catch to you keeping your mouth shut.” He trudges over and sits on the opposite side of the air conditioner and stares straight ahead. “You want to invade my private hideout, fine. Nothing I can do abo
ut it. Just stay out of my way.”

  “This rooftop isn’t big enough for the both of us,” I say in a gruff tone, with furrowed brows. He looks at me like an alien has sprouted out of the top of my head, and I shrug. “My dad likes old Westerns, what can I say?”

  He points at me and squints. “See that? That right there. Don’t. We aren’t swapping stories and getting to know each other. I don’t want to know you.”

  Well, that hit me right between the eyes. And my heart took a stab, too, if I’m being honest. It gives two crestfallen beats before adrenaline and anger swoop in and save the day.

  “I don’t want to know about you either, ass munch. I know enough already, thank you very much.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, it is. Your mama didn’t teach you any manners, you can’t roll a joint to save your pathetic little life, and your eyes are set too close together.”

  I seem him flinch, although he tries to hide it, and he raises a hand to his nose, squinting.

  “Huh?”

  “Yep,” I say, pointing back and forth between his eyes. “Makes ‘em look beady.”

  He drops his hand and glares. “And for your information, I can roll a damn joint. I bought that one already rolled. The asshole must have forgotten to take out the seeds.”

  “Likely story,” I say as I examine my fingernails.

  I feel guilty for a millisecond, then I see him surveying me. The sucker is sizing me up, and I know for sure I’m going to hate every syllable coming out of his mouth when he’s done.

  “Hold on, is that a journal? Seriously, could you be any more cliché? Wait, don’t tell me,” he says with snarled lips. “Are there lyrics in there? God, of course there are.”

  I roll my notebook into a tube and resist the urge to beat the bastard to a bloody pulp with it. A forced smile curves onto my lips, and I shoot fire at him with my eyes.

  “Not lyrics, no. Not even poetry, really. As a matter of fact, I was just writing about you,” I say, unrolling the notebook and scribbling furiously on the page.