Hardly seems fair, if you ask me.
I pluck the cotton balls out of my mouth and toss them in the trash, smacking against the pieces of furry lint tickling my tongue and pallet.
“Blech,” I say, holding my neck, while my throat muscles strain to swallow against the ick.
“Here, take a swig,” Celia says, handing me her bottle of water and laughing.
My fingers wrap around the bottle, cold and wet with condensation, and I stare. My eyes zero in on the cap … the tiny ring of plastic below it … the seal broken and half the water gone. I squeeze the bottle tighter to mask the faint tremble in my fingers, and the flimsy plastic cracks in response.
Celia tips her head in question, eyes darting from me to the bottle quivering in my fist.
Why can’t I do it? After all this time, why the hell can’t I just take one sip?
I push the bottle toward Celia, and she takes it back, albeit puzzled. I shake my head and laugh it off.
“The nurse in me won’t allow it, Cece. I’m a weirdo,” I say, with a shrug.
Sara laughs and wiggles her freshly painted “Do You Li-Lac It” toenails. “The nurse in me slapped on a blindfold months ago. Kids are filthy animals, man. Last week, I had to cut Gage’s fingernails just to get them clean.”
“Cain had to do the same thing not that long ago,” Celia mutters, rolling her eyes. “Freaking man-child.”
“Aw, but you love him, Cece,” Alex croons, obviously feeling better about her “Suzi Nails New Orleans” pink piggies.
Celia’s face gets all moony, and I take my cue to zone the hell out, letting them swoon and sigh without my usual commentary. I find it’s best to let them get their fill of fairytales, unicorns, and butterflies; only then will they readily admit their boys don’t pee rainbows and fart glitter. They actually already know that, but roll their eyes and laugh off the disgustingness that is Adam, Cain, and West with stars and hearts dancing in their eyes.
Sometimes I narrowly resist the urge to fart on them myself. I doubt they’d think it was cute then.
Don’t judge.
“Don’t you want a little of the magic, Marlo? The growing tingles of new love? The butterflies?” Celia asks wistfully.
“My butterflies are dead,” I mutter and shrug. “Hostile living conditions.”
She barks out a laugh.
Only then do I look around and realize she and I are alone. Sara and Alex are long gone, and I’m not sure how I’d missed them leaving. One thing’s for sure, I don’t like the knowing look in Celia’s eyes.
“Is everything all right, Marlo?” Celia asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
“I’m good,” I say with a yawn. I stretch my arms over my head and arch my back for effect. “Just tired.”
Celia picks up her water bottle and plays with the cap, watching me. She’s too perceptive for my liking, and she’s making connections I’m not keen on her making. If one of my friends had to find out about my past, I would have given anything for it not to be the damn therapist.
But that’s not how things go down. The fact that Celia is a therapist is the exact reason why she and I had found ourselves in the emergency room in the middle of the night with a frightened out of her wits rape victim. She being the counselor on crisis call, me being the SANE on duty.
SANE, meaning sexual assault nurse examiner, a job I’ve done for years. Something about helping in this capacity is healing for me. No one should ever find themselves huddled in a hospital bed, scared and broken, but I hope having someone like me, who’s unfortunately lived through a similar circumstance, gives my patients a measure of comfort.
Working as a SANE also tones down the part of me that feels like a giant coward. I never filed a report, never faced my rapist in court, and never tried to stop him from hurting someone else. Every time I walk into the ER, every single time, I think about that. I was a coward then, so I stand tall now. I admit to them I wasn’t strong enough back then, but I can be their rock, their support, if they let me. It’s the least I can do.
The very least.
“You can’t take a sip of my opened drink, can you?”
She holds the bottle out to me in challenge, and I shake my head and wave her off.
“It’s not just you, but you know that.” I sigh, irritated. It’s not like her to test me like this. “It’s just … it’s a glitch of mine. A remnant from the past. It’s nothing.”
“Okay.” She smiles and puts the water on the side table, out of my reach. “I’ve never seen you react that way, that’s all. You seem distracted lately, and I worry about you.”
I slide my flip flops back on my feet gingerly, grab my purse, and dig out my keys. I basically do anything and everything to get the hell away from Celia—the meddling little fairy.
“Nothing to worry about, Cece.” My tone is terse, and I cringe internally at the sound.
“Marlo, wait,” she says, placing a firm hand on my upper arm. “When we talked about … everything … you told me no one from your past would ever come looking. You told me you weren’t afraid.”
“Yes.”
“Is that still true?”
“I’m not afraid, Celia,” I say with a forced smile. “You don’t have to worry about anyone looking for me.”
She releases a pent up sigh, and her shoulders slump. “Thank goodness, because I was gonna go all Robo-Cece on somebody’s ass. Or maybe I’d just sic Cain on ‘em. Either way, you know I have your back, right?”
“Whatcha gonna do, beat down the bad guys with your glittery wand? Nobody brings a fairy to a fight.” I laugh and bump her shoulders.
If there are fairies in the world, if there’s such a thing, I guarantee Celia is the head fairy in charge. She fits the role so perfectly, Cain even nicknamed her Tink.
“I’m feisty, girl. Don’t underestimate me!”
“Never,” I whisper, and it’s true.
In fact, every single word I said to Celia is the absolute truth. No, I’m not afraid. And she doesn’t have to worry about anyone looking for me, either.
Ever is the one who should be scared, because he’s forgotten who he’s dealing with. And now, I’m looking for him.
My eyes drop down to my freshly painted “Vampsterdam” toes, and a wicked smile curls on my lips as I think: How fitting?
Oh yes, Ever Montgomery, shit’s about to get bloody.
Ever
“THAT’S A HELLUVA trip to the dock, Jeb. The redfish alone made the drive worth it. Those filets are pretty. I’ll blacken some, maybe make a courtbouillon with the rest,” I say, surveying the ice chests loaded with redfish, shrimp, and oysters.
“You’re gonna chargrill those oysters, right?” Jeb asked, already salivating like a St. Bernard waiting for his steak as I nod my head. “Butter, garlic, parmesan … the works, right?”
“Uh, yeah, for the restaurant. Not for you, asshole.”
Before the words leave my mouth, he’s grabbing handfuls of oysters out of the ice chest and tossing them in a plastic bucket.
“Two dozen before opening appetizers. You know, as a thank you to the staff.”
“For the staff, huh?” I chuckle and shake my head.
“I can’t help it, man. I’m a giver.”
“Damn straight. You’re giving me a chapped ass as we speak.”
Jeb raises his arm, oyster fisted and ready to chuck at my head, when the bell on the front door jingles. We don’t open for a few more hours, and I’m sure I flipped the sign to Closed before I left last night.
Jeb cranes his neck toward the counter separating the kitchen from the dining area. “Sorry, we’re clo-osed,” he stutters, his voice getting lower toward the end. He turns his head toward me, eyebrows raised and mouth fashioned into a grimace.
The kitchen door swings on its hinges, and Marlo waltzes in, breezy and bitchy all at the same time. Her curls fall around her face and shoulders in wild abandon, reminding me of a gypsy, but one look at those piercing green eyes has me lea
ning more toward Medusa. Hands to her waist, hip cocked, and ready for battle. Her sass fills the room as she stands in the doorway, her gaze trained on yours truly.
God, she’s beautiful.
“Heeeeeey, Marlo. Long time no see,” Jeb says, his voice a squeaky falsetto, and his lips curved into a painful-looking smile.
“Well, I’m here,” she says, ignoring Jeb and his greeting, her words doused in the sweetest venom. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”
“Do you see me complaining?”
I close the lids of the ice chests, my eyes never leaving hers, an unruffled smile playing on my lips, but I see the skittish look flitting in her eyes. She walks farther into the kitchen and tosses her purse and keys onto the counter. She throws her hands in the air and widens her eyes, obviously waiting on me to say something.
“Let me make you breakfast,” I say softly. “Then we’ll talk.”
I’m already grabbing ingredients when she starts her spirited protest.
“Breakfast? I don’t want any goddamn breakfast.” She leans over, both hands splayed on the counter, poised and ready for battle. “I want to know what I have to do to get you gone. That’s all.”
I keep placing ingredients on the counter as she fumes.
Boudin? Check.
Eggs? Check.
Butter and lemons? Check and check.
“Come on, it won’t hurt to have a little something to eat before you go. You can even shout profanities at me while I cook.”
“While I have no doubt shouting at you would make me feel better, I think I’ll pass.”
We both hear the scraping of metal on metal at the same time and turn our heads to find a mischievous Jeb stealing Marlo’s keys off the counter.
“What the hell? Give me my goddamn keys, Jeb,” Marlo says in an eerily calm voice, flinging her hand in his general direction. “I’m not joking. Hand them over now.”
Jeb shrugs and shoots me a winning grin. He turns back to Marlo and tsks.
“No can do, Low Down Dirty Shame. You barged into our place of business, while we were closed, practically breaking and entering,” he says as she fumes. “You’re lucky we don’t call the police. The least you can do is hear my boy out.”
She lunges at him, but he dodges her easily and shoots her a goading grin.
“If you’re gonna fuck me, Jeb, the least you can do is pull my hair,” she mutters as he heads for the exit.
“Believe me, that’s something I would happily arrange,” he says with a chuckle and a jingle of her keys before shoving them deep into his jeans pocket. He jiggles his fingers to his ear like he’s holding a phone and turns his gaze to me. “Ring-a-ding when you’re done, dude.”
I nod and give him a silent word of thanks as he takes off, leaving me with a prickly as hell Marlo. I brush it off and start cooking.
She doesn’t say a word as I juggle the skillets and pots on the stove. The hollandaise sauce simmers as I poach the eggs and remove the boudin from its casing. I form delicious patties of rice and seasoned pork and lay them on the screaming hot skillet. She doesn’t say a word until I grab the leftover crawfish étouffée from the fridge.
“You’re not gonna win me over with your cooking,” she says, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “I mean, I’m gonna eat it, but it changes nothing.”
I empty the étouffée into a simmering pot to warm and quirk an eyebrow in her direction.
“Oh, it changes things a little bit, even if you won’t admit it. Did you ever think you and I would be standing here, sharing a meal again?”
“Let’s not forget one of us is here under duress.”
“I hardly think that’s true.”
“I’m here for one reason and one reason only. To tell you to stop writing me notes. Stop stalking me.”
“Stalking? Really?” I chuckle as I plate the boudin patties and pour the étouffée on top. “Last time I checked, you were the one showing up at my market booth. Waltzing into my restaurant outside of business hours. Really, Low, who’s stalking who here?”
“You’ve got way too many boiling pots of somethings within my reach to test me.”
I balance the poached egg on top of the boudin cake and étouffée, keeping my hands busy to hide the nervous energy quaking beneath the surface. Her words and pinched expression may scream “bitch on steroids,” but she can’t hide the way her eyes rake over my arms, the catch in her breath as she watches me. She’s always loved watching me cook for her. The two of us, dancing and twirling around the kitchen as we’d created had damn near been foreplay for us. Her crossed arms and crabby frown say one thing, but the simmering heat in her eyes tell a different story.
I pour the hollandaise sauce over the egg and drizzle a pattern around the plate before sliding it across the counter. I grab two barstools from the back of the kitchen and sidle up next to her with my own plate and fork. She swipes the fork out of my hand like a starving hostage and pierces the egg. The yolk runs down the stack and I swear I see a bit of drool at the corner of her mouth.
“This is my take on eggs benedict. It’s our best seller at Sunday brunch,” I explain, but there’s no way she hears a word I’m saying. She lets out a moan and dives in for a second bite. Then a third. Then a fourth. I let out a low chuckle. “I take it you approve.”
“Shh. Don’t ruin my food orgasm. I hear your voice and I have to resist the urge to stab you in the eye with my fork. Eye goo wouldn’t go well with this dish.”
I keep silent, hoping she feels the rush of nostalgia like I do. Memories of us pummel me and the urge to grab her stool and drag it between my legs is so intense. Resisting the pull takes all my energy.
I watch her take a bite, run the prongs of the fork through her pursed lips, practically feel the vibration of her throat as she moans her approval. If this isn’t food porn, then I don’t know what is. I shift on my stool, harder than a man getting a string of lap dances on Bourbon.
Fucking Marlo.
Without pretense or apology, she reaches over and steals a bite from my plate, raising her eyebrows in challenge. I slide the plate over to her with a smile.
“My bullshit meter has a short fuse, Ever. When it’s had its fill, I’m gone, so say what you need to say. Say it, and then we’re done with this.”
“Big threats from a girl with no keys,” I say, picking up the empty plates and walking to the sink.
She pushes off the stool and follows me across the kitchen. “I’m betting Jeb is in spitting distance, but, if not, I’m nothing if not resourceful. You know this about me.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Two minutes … tick tock.”
I huff in frustration and drop the dishes in the sink. I turn to her and cross my arms, matching her stance in battle.
“I just want a chance to clear the air … talk things through with you. Is that too much to ask?”
“Yes. One and a half minutes.”
“You can’t deny there’s unfinished business between us, Low. Words left unsaid. There are things that I need you to know.” The hint of pleading in my voice and the gentleness of my stance do nothing to weaken her resolve.
“Oh, well if you need it, then that’s what should happen, right? To hell with what I want or need,” she spits out. “And, by the way, it’s Marlo. No one calls me Low anymore. And your time is up.”
She turns on her heel and starts across the kitchen, and I’m desperate to make her stay.
“You know, it’s customary to kiss the cook,” I say, the challenge clear in my tone. Marlo never could walk away from a dare, and I’m counting on her competitive nature to win out.
She stops cold and stays with her back to me for long seconds. She turns around, shoots me a saccharine smile, and walks back to me, all sexy swagger and defiant eyes, clearly on a mission. Toe to toe with me, head tipped up to meet mine, her hand reaches out and palms the back of my neck. She pulls me to her, swift and hard, and our lips crash together like a clap of thunder.
And, just like that, I’m drowning in her. Smashing lips, crashing teeth, sliding tongues, and every single thing that is Low, consumes me to the point of drunkenness. I open my mouth, devouring all she is, gulping for the breath that’s been absent for Eight. Fucking. Years.
This. God, just this. If this is all I can have for the rest of my life, whether it be five years or five thousand, she is more than enough. My senses are overflowing after being starved for what feels like an eternity. The strangled groan vibrating deep in her chest pushes me further over the edge.
We pant into each other’s mouths, desperate and wanting. Our hands fist each other’s hair, grounding us, keeping us from being swept away by the undertow. It’s all too much and not nearly enough.
How will I ever get enough?
One of her hands drifts from my hair, trails my neck, and then lands flat on my chest. I place a hand on top of hers, crushing it to my galloping heart, wanting her to feel what she does to me.
She breaks free and travels down, down, down. She fists my straining cock in her hand, jacking once, twice before I groan into her open mouth.
“Fuck, Low … fuck,” I whisper, swiping my tongue over her bottom lip before gently sucking.
She releases me, but keeps moving down, cupping my balls in her fist.
I push myself into her hand, craving the contact, craving her. The delicious squeeze of her fist gets deliciously tighter … tighter … tighter…
“Whoa, whoa, whoa” I whisper, the air ripped from my constricted lungs, the pressure of her fist nauseating me as she crushes my balls in the vice of her steel fist.
Then her teeth sink into the meat of my bottom lip and the taste of metal bursts onto my tongue.
Marlo
I SQUEEZE PAST the point of polite, nearly to the point of no return, then I release all pressure. Ever struggles for breath, gulping as he cradles the crown jewels in his shaking hands.
Hunched over, we’re face to face, and I grin wickedly as he scowls. I lean into him, just inches away from his ear as he heaves. Coming here today was foolish and dangerous. The pull between us is like a dying fire—nothing but ash and smoke until someone kicks up the embers. Before you know it, the flames burn brighter than ever. He conjures this nostalgia from the past and a naive hope for the future, and both scare the shit out of me.
Ever Over After (The Over Duet #2) Page 5