Ever Over After (The Over Duet #2)

by J. A. Derouen

  “You’re right. What the hell was I thinking?”

  “You weren’t, and you’re welcome. What would you do without old Uncle Jeb to set you straight?” He shrugs his shoulders and clucks his tongue. “Now get outta here so I can make magic. I guess it’s not magic, just alcohol … but I guarantee you, some assholes will leave here thinking they can fly.” He raises his eyebrows and nods.

  I laugh. “That they will. Liquid courage … magic … same thing.”

  Speaking of courage, I need to find Marlo.

  Marlo

  EVER’S HAND WRAPS around the length of my hair, twists, and pulls. He draws me to him, my back melding into his front, and thrusts inside me in one fluid motion.

  Yes.

  The sting of my scalp, the bite of his teeth into the base of my neck, the feel of him gliding into me slowly, rhythmically, powerfully—it’s punishing in the most delicious way. It’s so good … too good.

  I power down onto him, increasing the speed and force, and he grips my hip with his free hand. He puts just enough pressure to slow me, and I huff in frustration.

  “Why are you fighting me, Low?” he whispers into my neck, his lips brushing my skin with each exasperating word. Exasperating because he won’t give up. Completely infuriating because my body loves it. My mind is in complete revolt, all lights blaring red, but my body is a whore for him.

  We’ve been going at it for weeks. I’d sworn the first time was the last time. I’d promised myself I’d give in just that one time and get him out of my system. It had been exhilarating … mind-blowing … it had been sex hopped up on steroids and Red Bull.

  After he’d left that day, I’d slept twelve hours straight. The fatigue and weariness etched in my features had melted away like a bad memory, and I had been resurrected. Dreams be damned, Marlo was back and better than ever.

  It’d lasted two days. The dreams had come back, and after experiencing the real Ever, in the flesh, they were even more vivid. Since they had been in technicolor before, now my dreams were damn near virtual reality. Nothing but Ever, in the flesh, would do.

  So when I’d found the man in question lounging on my porch steps after a twelve-hour shift, after no sleep for a total of thirty-six hours, I’d welcomed him inside. Welcomed is an understatement. I’m pretty sure I’d had his dick in my hand before he got the key in the lock. Then I’d promptly kicked him out when I was done with him. This routine of us hitting it, and then him hitting the door has been going on for weeks now, and I feel his patience waning.

  He wants more.

  I won’t give it to him.

  He pushes to the point I want to walk away and tell him to fuck off. But I can’t walk away, because … I don’t know. I just can’t.

  “Faster,” I spit out through clenched teeth as I ram myself onto him.

  He pulls back.

  I growl. Legit. Growl.

  He presses his lips behind my ear and chuckles. “I want to see your face when I’m inside you. I want to make you feel good. Stop taking from me, Low, and let me give it to you. You’d fucking love it,” he whispers into my sensitive ear. He thrusts into me. Plants himself inside me and grinds slowly.

  “No.” The word is clipped, my heart battling with itself. I straddle the line between keeping my sanity in check and free-falling into the black hole that is Ever.

  No … never again … I won’t survive this time. Some lessons you don’t just learn. Some lessons are tattooed on your soul.

  I pull away from him and slam back down. Again. Again.

  Until he plants himself inside and stills, releasing a throaty moan.

  “Can’t you feel this? I know you do.”

  “Just fuck me, Ever.” I keep my tone void of emotion, willing him to return to the task at hand. Wishing he would leave the sentiment at the door, where it belongs, far away from me. My emotions are already tangled cobwebs without his constant prodding.

  Am I sad? Am I pissed? Am I completely overwhelmed?

  I’m all of those things. Not to mention horny as a teenage boy in a brothel. I think I may be losing my mind.

  He runs his thumb over the ridge of my spine, starting at my ass and drifting up, up, up, until he reaches the base of my neck. He presses his forehead to my temple and releases a pent up sigh.

  “Time passes, memories fade, but feelings are forever. I know you can feel this, Low. So give in to me.” His words wash over me, tears rushing to my eyes, burning my nose.

  He continues my slow and methodical undoing, and I sink my teeth into my cheek. His lips and tongue caress my neck as his nails rip through my heart with every word. I bite back the tortured sob lodged like a bowling ball in my throat. I swallow back the tears swimming in my eyes.

  I rip his fingers from my hip and pull away, clawing for air, needing to break the surface and just breathe.

  He wraps an arm around my hip and shushes the cries I didn’t realize were coming from me.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispers over and over. “I’ll stop. I’m sorry.”

  His hand returns to my hair, and he’s relentless. He powers into me with such force, all I can think about is pleasure. Pure and untethered pleasure.

  Ever

  I ZIP MY pants and clench my jaw, waiting for the marching orders that are sure to come. It’s been a whole sixty seconds since I pulled out of her, so I’m sure the words are ready and waiting to fall from her tongue. Marlo is nothing if not consistent.

  These past few weeks have been a mixture of the best moments of my life and the most frustrating and patience-testing times I’ve ever experienced. Marlo has let me into her body, but her heart and mind are a completely different story. Her soul? No fucking way. I’d bet my ass Marlo’s soul is buried somewhere near the core of the Earth. Maybe it’s hiding out underneath a pile of corpses—all the men she’s eaten alive and spit out when she’s done.

  Yes, “all grown up” Marlo is a bonafide man-eater.

  Every time I see her, she makes it abundantly clear what she wants from me and where I stand. No past … no future. I agreed to her terms, hoping she’d soften in time, but my patience is growing thin. Her resolve, on the other hand, is strong as oak.

  “Fuck me, Ever.”

  “Faster, Ever.”

  “Shut up, Ever.”

  She’d pulled me across her bedroom by my dick last week. She’d literally led me around by my dick.

  I’d nearly left that day. I should have left. But I can’t walk away, because … I don’t know. I just can’t. That’s what she wants.

  Honestly, who in the hell knows what she wants? I doubt even she has the answer to that question.

  I eye her expectantly as she leans against the living room wall, head bowed and fists clenched above her. She’s yet to face me—nothing new for Marlo. The bottom of her knee-length T-shirt pokes haphazardly from the panties she’d hastily pulled up when we’d finished. She bangs a closed fist into the wall and shakes her head.

  “Feelings are forever, huh?” she says in a strangled whisper.

  “I’m sorry?”

  She turns to face me, and her expression is chiseled stone. “Your little speech.” Her lips purse in irritation, and she glowers. “Time passes, memories fade, but feelings are forever? Fuck you and your feelings.”

  I bite back my frustrated response, knowing it’s exactly what she wants. I won’t fuel this thing she’s trying to build up in her head. The truth is, I can’t figure out where all this resentment comes from. Had I checked out on her all those years ago? Absolutely. Without a doubt. But my twin brother had just died. Can’t I get a little bit of compassion, here?

  “Boy, would I love to know what I did to make you think I’m the devil incarnate,” I mutter as I pull my shirt over my head.

  She glares at me, but then trains her features back to calm. “Never mind. Drudging up old ghosts isn’t on the menu today. No past, no future, right?”

  In that moment, she seems to resent her rules just as
much as I do. The thought makes me smile.

  She gives her head a tiny shake and plasters a smile to her face. “See ya next time?”

  She’s happy again, downright bouncy, with her mask firmly back in place. I feel her taking two steps away from me. That’s how it is between us—one step forward, two steps back. I’ve been chipping away at her walls bit by bit with an ice pick, but it’s time to break out the sledgehammer.

  It’s time to shake things up.

  “I’m meeting with Sara and Adam after work tomorrow night to discuss the wedding. They’re coming to the restaurant after closing. I told them I’d cook them dinner while we chatted—why don’t you tag along. I’ll even let you choose the menu.”

  I busy myself with collecting my wallet and keys, avoiding her eyes. I make my request like it’s nothing out of the ordinary. I pretend this is old hat for us. She’s not the only one who can play pretend.

  “Not gonna happen, and fuck you for asking,” she says, crossing her arms and huffing.

  I raise my hands in protest and widen my eyes. “Hey, it was a simple dinner offer. Nothing to get upset about.”

  “There’s nothing simple about that offer, Ever, and you know it.” She thrusts her finger at me and scowls. “Wait, you haven’t told them you know me, have you? I swear to God, if you did…”

  Bingo. Just what I need. Marlo’s weakness.

  “If I did, what? What would you do?” She fumes as I chuckle to myself. “You mean, you never told them about me, Marlo?”

  “And what exactly should I have told them?”

  I battle with what to say, what would be the perfect chess move in this game with Marlo, but finally opt for the truth.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you could have told them about a boy who loved a girl with all his might and foolishly lost her,” I say, my eyes unguarded … vulnerable.

  She scoffs. “I remember things a little bit differently.”

  I shrug and widen my eyes in question, waiting to hear what she has to say.

  “I remember a girl who loved a boy with all her might, and he foolishly threw her away. There’s a difference.” She throws her hands up and takes a step back, shaking her head. “I’m not talking about this. I’m not talking about any of this.”

  I nod and sniff, trying to hide my disappointment. I didn’t want to resort to blackmail, but these are desperate times.

  “Okay, then forget about the invite. No problem. I’ll be sure to tell Sara and Adam you said hello.” I’m halfway to the front door when she grabs my shoulder.

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “You want me to be your dirty little secret?” She doesn’t move a muscle, but her eyes tell me yes. “I’m not sure why it means so much to you, but fine.”

  “Because they’re nice people who will almost certainly invite you … everywhere, because that’s what they do.”

  I laugh. “They’ve already done that. Invited Jeb and me to a barbecue at our first consultation. Don’t get all riled up. We both declined.”

  “Good. I don’t want you inserting yourself into my life.”

  I smirk, and the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. “You don’t mind me inserting myself other places, though.”

  I waggle my eyebrows and smile, my gaze zeroed in on her crotch. I see the slightest upturn of her lips, and I give her side a quick tickle as I pass her on my way to the door. She barks out a laugh, and I feel the mood cool down from boiling to a slow simmer.

  I open the door and turn to face her. She’s so beautiful, despite her wicked stubbornness … maybe even because of it. I don’t know what I’d do with a Marlo who didn’t spar like a warrior. I doubt I’ll ever have the chance to find out.

  “I won’t say anything, Low. I’ll let you pretend I don’t exist to you or your friends,” I say, tone low and serious. “But soon, I’ll ask something of you, and I’ll expect you to agree. That’s the deal. That’s the tradeoff.”

  She narrows her gaze on me, trying to suss out my intentions. Good luck with that. She reluctantly nods, and I sigh in relief.

  I should be ashamed, strong-arming her this way, but I can’t muster it up. She’s been dragging me through the rocky gravel for weeks, kicking me in the shins whenever she could, so it’s high time I play dirty, too.

  Now I have a couple of weeks before I cash in my favor, and I can’t wait. I’ve had enough of Marlo Rivers leading me around by the dick. I’m ready for her to hold my hand. It’s only been eight years…

  Marlo

  “NEXT!” LIBBY HOLLERS at the top of her little lungs, her frizzy blonde head tipped to the ceiling, and her fists clenched at her side. Her screechy voice ricochets off the walls of the workroom, located in the back of Alex’s art gallery.

  Bailey hops down from her chair and lays down her paintbrush. Her hot pink sneakers blink frantically as she bounds across the room to meet us. She’s wearing a rainbow tutu and a hair tie reminiscent of Madonna in her “Lucky Star” days.

  “Pipe down, little Libby, or Alex will put the smack-down on our mini spa,” I mutter under my breath, slashing my hand across my neck.

  “Great job, Ethan. I love your use of color,” Alex says, praising one of the other students as she snakes her way between the drawing tables, her belly becoming more of an obstacle each week.

  Libby huffs and straightens our bottles of nail polish, toothpicks, and paintbrushes. Just a few months ago, Libby had been spending art class with her arms crossed and her pout firmly in place, refusing to participate at all. Her attitude had been pissy, but her outfits and accessories on point. I’d flashed her my lavender and gray chevron toenails, and she was a goner. She’d turned her frown upside down, and we’d started Marlo and Libby’s Nail Salon—open for business once a month at the gallery. She had been my first customer, now my partner in crime.

  Her mother had signed her up for Alex’s art class, hoping she would make friends and find a creative outlet to release some of her frustrations. Classroom struggles early on morphed into defiant behavior and acting out, and Libby’s mom was at her wit’s end. Libby may not have been keen on painting with the other children and having them compare their work to hers, but she had been ecstatic about being my assistant. It’d puffed her chest and put a fire in her eyes. It’s amazing what a little confidence can do.

  “Hot pink polka-dots, please,” Bailey says before her tutu even hits the chair. She places her hands on the table and spreads her fingers wide as Libby grabs the cotton balls and polish remover.

  “Libby, you get off the old polish while I grab what we need.” Libby nods and gets to work. “Pink polka-dots, and what color do you want the base coat to be, Miss Bailey?”

  She screws up her lips and squints her eyes, then they widen. “I know! Yellow!”

  “You’ll look like a glass of lemonade,” I say with a smile.

  “Yum.”

  While I paint Bailey’s nails, Caroline comes up behind me and squeezes my shoulder. I look back in surprise.

  “Who knew Alex’s gallery would become the home of the hottest nail place in Providence,” she says with a laugh.

  I shrug and keep working. “You have your art, I have mine.” I bump Libby’s shoulder. “Right, Libby?”

  “Right!” she chirps.

  “You’re right; art is expressed in many forms. All the girls have such beautiful nails, because of you, Libby. Unfortunately, there’s no way for us to display your work at the art show next month. I wish I had just one original Libby Broussard painting to hang on our wall.” Caroline smiles at Libby, whose head is lowered, avoiding eye contact. “Do you think you could try for me?”

  She shrugs at Caroline, meets my eyes, then looks back down at the table. “Maybe,” she whispers.

  “Thank you,” Caroline says with a smile and turns to leave, but not before giving me a knowing glance.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” I say before she walks away.

  “Celia couldn’t make it today,
so I thought I’d stop by. Plus, my instructor is stretched to the point of nearly popping. She won’t let me take over the class, but the least I can do is lend a hand,” Caroline says, shooting a wary glance in Alex’s direction. Alex runs a palm over her belly, the buttons of her shirt straining under the pressure of it.

  “I bet she’s got a nine-pounder in there,” I say. Caroline chuckles and nods her agreement, then walks away to help the other children.

  Libby stays silent as we continue working—me applying the base coat and her adding the tiny yellow dots. Once we move Bailey under the fan to dry, I bump Libby’s shoulder and give her a soft smile.

  “It’s a tough thing to do, isn’t it? Letting everyone see your work?”

  She frowns and nods. “All the other kids are better than me. Their paintings are so much prettier.”

  “Different.”

  “Huh?”

  “All the other kids are different than you. Not better. And what a great thing, to be different than everyone else? What kind of fun would it be if we were all exactly the same?” She shrugs, and so do I. “Let your freak flag fly, high and proud, Libby. I can’t wait to see what you’ll paint. I know it’ll be great.”

  She smiles nervously. “What if they all stare at me? What if they’re all watching?”

  “So what? You pick up the paintbrush, hold your head high, and do your thing. You’ll be nervous at first, but I bet it’ll only last a little while. Then you’ll just be having fun. Sometimes you have to fake it ’til you make it.” I flash my black glitter nails in backward jazz hands, and Libby laughs.

  “Do you?” she asks, and I furrow my brow in question. “Do you have to fake it ’til you make it?”

  I bring my gaze to hers and mutter, “Every damn day, Miss Libby. Every damn day.”

  Her mouth forms a surprised “O,” and I put my finger to my pursed lips. She giggles.