Ever Over After (The Over Duet #2)

by J. A. Derouen

  Ever flicks his fingers in my direction, and suds splash on my cheek. “Whatcha doing back there, Low?”

  I slap his ass and laugh. “Enjoying the view. I need to get out of here, though. Busy day ahead. Ross … Rachel … Phoebe.”

  “Regina, Regina Phalange,” Jeb says in a girly tone.

  “Don’t be jealous.” I wink at him, and he scoffs.

  “Low, as nice as slumber-partying with you sounds, I get hot women drunk as they lean over the bar and swoon at their mysterious tattooed bartender. Thank the good Lord for low-cut dresses and cleavage,” he says, not looking the least bit apologetic.

  Ever winces and chuckles. “Hard to believe, but that asshole has groupies. They can’t get enough of him.”

  I lift up on my toes and press my lips to his. “Tomorrow night … I fully intend on getting my fill of you.”

  He bites my lips as I pull away. “Icing. Lots and lots of icing.”

  Marlo

  MY BUTT IS numb, my muscles loose and sagging from lack of movement, and the crumbs of my sandwich sit on the coffee table in front of me as I chuckle at Joey wearing every single piece of Chandler’s clothes.

  An illustrious Friday night in the life of Marlo Rivers. Could I be any more lazy?

  The thought makes me smile. For once, the idea of domestication and quiet nights at home don’t make my skin crawl. Instead, I’m home while my … gulp, boyfriend … works, enjoying a little “me” time. Tomorrow night, I’ll enjoy a little “him on top of me” time. Or “behind me.” Oooooh, or most definitely “tongue buried inside me.” Yes, definitely that.

  I hear a knock on the door and frown. It’s way too late for visitors, and I’m not fixing the messy bun on top of my head. There’s a hole in the crotch of my yoga pants to boot, but I don’t foresee any crotch shots in my future, so I stomp to the door as is. I peek past the shade, and see Celia’s toothy smile. I swing open the door and scowl when I see her carrying a howling pet taxi, along with Mr. Biscuit on a leash, tangling himself in her legs.

  “No solicitors allowed, and I don’t want any Girl Scout Cookies, little girl,” I deadpan and edge the door closed.

  “Hey!” Celia shrieks, slapping the door with her palm. “You promised me you’d watch them, and we’re leaving first thing in the morning. Don’t you dare back out, Marlo!”

  “Or what?” I narrow my eyes and purse my lips.

  “Or I will bring the wrath of Cain down on you.” Her voice is eerie and sinister, and I have a fire and brimstone moment as I take in her glaring eyes and tiny balled fists. “That man’s guts are made of rotten animals, and I will point all those noxious fumes right at you, Marlo Rivers.”

  Yeah, fire and brimstone gone, and replaced with abject disgust.

  “Keep your man and his butt away from me,” I say, grabbing the pet taxi holding Celia’s howling cat, Edna, also known as Eddie. “I’ll take the pooch and the kitty.”

  “Good choice,” she mutters as she untangles herself from Mr. Biscuit and walks inside.

  “Where are y’all going, anyway?”

  “Dallas. One of my favorite poets is performing, so Cain surprised me with tickets.”

  My laughter quickly turns into an unladylike snort at the thought of Cain Bennett at a poetry reading. “Cain? At a poetry reading? Ya think he can hold his rotten animal bowels long enough not to offend the yuppies and lesbians? He knows he can’t wear camo, right? And no dip—there’s no spittoons at poetry readings.”

  She scoffs and places a delicate hand on her hip. “Now, you know Cain doesn’t dip.”

  I raise my eyebrows and wait for her to argue my other points, but she doesn’t. She knows her Neanderthal too well to protest. She knows him and loves him, camo and all.

  “I’ll put all their food, supplies, and instructions right here on the counter.” She places a huge bag on my kitchen counter with a thud.

  “Please tell me the hound’s blessed ThunderShirt is in there. I wouldn’t want him to get weepy on me,” I say, with a laugh, as I bend down to inspect Edna. I jump back when she hisses and swats the metal grates with her paw.

  “Of course it is. It may take them a little while to get adjusted, but they’ll be fine,” Celia says as she unlatches Mr. Biscuit from his leash and I release Edna from her cage.

  The next few seconds are a blur of flying fur, growls, and hisses. Mr. Biscuit nearly knocks me on my ass in hot pursuit of Eddie. Eddie greets him with a snap of her teeth and a paw to the face before darting down the hall. He runs after her, undeterred by her beating. Celia and I giggle, until we hear a crash coming from my bedroom. Celia’s eyes widen, and I race after them.

  “I’ll just set up Eddie’s litterbox while you wrangle the kiddos,” Celia calls out, sounding like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

  “Yeah, sure, leave me with the vicious beasts,” I mutter as I round the corner into my bedroom. Eddie’s perched on top of my windowsill, back arched, fur standing on end, with sounds reminiscent of a bobcat brewing in her belly. Mr. Biscuit, on the other hand, barks and jumps in glee, trying to entice the cat to play with him. I imagine the meeting would be like Freddy Krueger playing with Mary Poppins, so I squat down and scratch Mr. Biscuit behind the ears to distract him. I’m on my ass, French kissing a dog before I know what hit me.

  “Cut it out, ya big bully,” I grumbled, wiping the drips of slobber from my face. I roll onto all fours and crawl toward the adjoining bathroom. Before I reach the door, I feel Mr. Biscuit fast on my heels. I scramble faster, but he launches his front paws onto my back and commences to humping.

  “Aw, hell no, you perv,” I holler, swatting him off me and continuing to the bathroom. I find a hand towel under the sink, tie it into a knot, and throw it in his direction. His teeth clamp down on the washcloth, and he forgets all about the licking and humping, thank God. I exhale a breath and look toward the window, huffing when I see Eddie curled in a ball, fast asleep.

  “Throw me to the wolves, why don’t ya? We girls have to stick together,” I grumble, but she doesn’t budge.

  A shrill whistle comes from the front of the house, and Mr. Biscuit drops the washcloth and takes off.

  “What the—”

  I get up off the floor, and head to the front of the house. Before I make it out of the bedroom, I hear Mr. Biscuit growling and barking.

  “Call your damn dog off before he takes a hunk out of my calf.”

  I know that voice … oh shit…

  Ever

  JEB AND I lock up the restaurant after a busy dinner shift, and I have every intention of heading to my apartment and crashing so I can get to the market early tomorrow. We’re teaming up with Tommy Nguyen for an Asian/Cajun fusion menu, and we’ve got a ton of prep work to do before we open up shop.

  I get in the car and turn the ignition, and then sit there. Jeb backs up and sees my hesitation and cracks an imaginary whip in the air, laughing. I give him the appropriate finger salute as he drives away.

  I know I should go home, but I can’t make my car drive in that direction. To my matchbox apartment, all alone, with the pulsating walls, always moments away from closing in on me. That place is so damn stifling.

  My mind flickers to Low—feet tangled in her sheets, back arched, just begging for me to undress and slide in behind her. There’s no choice. No contest. I throw the car in reverse and head in the direction of her house.

  When I get to Low’s, there’s a car in the driveway I don’t recognize, but I park on the side of the road, undeterred. We’d agreed we were the real deal. She told me she was in this with me, and I’m not one to hide. I secretly hope it’s a friend of hers, so we can start pushing our relationship into the light of day. That’s been the plan all along, so tonight will start the ball rolling.

  I bound up the steps and rap twice on the front door, resisting the urge to let myself in. I hope to have an extra key in my pocket soon. Who am I kidding, how about an entirely new address? Nothing would make me happier than gi
ving notice to my piece of shit landlord and moving in with Low.

  One step at a time.

  The door swings open just as I raise my hand to knock a second time, and I’m greeted by a wispy-haired, wide-eyed, blonde girl who hits me right about my chest. She’s tiny … pint-sized … and shooting me a skeptical glare. I give her my best grin and extend my hand. She just stares at it, arms crossed, body blocking the door.

  “Hey, I’m Ever. Is Low here?” I ask, peering over her shoulder. She inches the door closed, blocking my view, and I bite back the irritation. I drop the hand she never saw fit to shake and raise my eyebrows. “Do we have a problem here?”

  I sound like a dick, but this girl is acting like she’s the gatekeeper to the house I’ve been crashing at more often than not these days. It sucks to get off on the wrong foot like this, but shit.

  “I don’t know. Do we have a problem?” she asks, and I toss my hands up in the air. “Who, exactly, are you, and why haven’t I seen you before?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m an old friend of Marlo’s. We go way back.”

  “Marlo doesn’t have old friends.”

  “And yet here I stand.”

  We eye each other in a silent stand-off, and I refuse to back down. She’s searching for something as she examines every inch of me with a distrustful eye, but I’m not sure what.

  “Open the door,” I spit out. My tone is harsh and demanding, my aggravation seeping into my words.

  And she’s no longer searching. She’s found what she was looking for, and she doesn’t like it at all. She reaches back and grabs the doorknob as she glares at me.

  “If you think for one second I’ll let you hurt her again, you’re wrong. She may not have pressed charges then, but the statute of limitations is far. From. Up.” She digs her finger into my chest, punctuating each word. “Now leave.”

  Her words don’t sink in at first, and, when they do, a shot of adrenaline bursts through my system, rushing through my veins, crackling through to my fingers as they curl into steely fists.

  Press charges? Statute of limitations? What in the hell is going on?

  I step toward the door, my fury and utter confusion blocking the blonde from vision, my only thought being Low, Low, Low.

  “What? Where in the hell is she?” I holler.

  I feel a shove, and then a shrill whistle penetrating my throbbing head. I step forward again, but a piercing pain shoots up my leg before I make it to the door. I look down to find a small dog attached to my calf, snarling like he’s a bloodhound on a manhunt. I try to shake him loose, but he’s locked on and ready for the ride as I fling my foot back and forth.

  “Call your damn dog off before he takes a hunk out of my calf,” I grunt as I hold onto the doorframe for balance.

  “What the hell?” I hear Marlo’s voice from inside the house, although I have no recollection of the door reopening. “Ever?”

  “I’m calling the cops now, Marlo. Stay back,” the blonde bitch hollers over her shoulder as she fiddles with her phone.

  “The cops? Celia, what the hell are you doing? Get Mr. Biscuit off him!”

  Marlo rushes past her and grabs the dog by the collar. “Down boy! Get down.”

  The dog’s jaws finally unlock, and I let out a sigh of relief.

  Then confusion sets in … followed closely by a gnawing sense of dread.

  Marlo

  EVER DOESN’T EVEN flinch when I pour antiseptic in the gouges Mr. Biscuit carved into his leg. He watches me with a look I can’t decipher. Or maybe I don’t want to. As I try to focus on cleaning his gnarly wound, the possibility of Celia saying too much hovers around us all.

  “Did I say I was really sorry?” Celia whispers, shrinking back, doing a damn fine job of fading into the background.

  “You mentioned it,” Ever grinds out. “Maybe I’ll be more likely to accept it once my leg stops throbbing.”

  Celia lets out a tiny squeak and raises her shoulders to her ears. I turn my attention back to the leg … that happens to be attached to Ever … the man drilling holes in my head with his eyes.

  “I’m just gonna…” Celia says, pointing to the door and slowly edging that way. “Cain and I are leaving pretty early tomorrow.”

  I nod my head and give her a shaky smile. She shuffles to the door, but stops when I call out to her. “Good looking out. I didn’t think you had it in you. Never thought a fairy could be so vicious,” I say as she beams. I see Ever scowling in my peripheral vision. “In a totally unnecessary way, though. Maybe ask more questions next time?”

  She nods and looks back at Ever. “Sorry again. And Mr. Biscuit is up to date on his rabies shot, in case you were—”

  “Good to know,” Ever growls under his breath.

  “And congrats on,” she says, pointing between the two of us with a hopeful smile, “whatever’s going on here. Yay!”

  She raises her fists in the air in celebration, then slowly lowers them at our lack of response, her smile faltering. She points to the door again, and hightails it after kissing Mr. Biscuit goodbye. She’s too focused on getting the hell out of dodge to worry about Eddie at this point.

  The door shuts behind her, leaving a thick blanket of silence over the room, other than the occasional doggie scratch or clink of Mr. Biscuit’s collar. It’s a loaded type of silence—the type that, with a single shot, will turn into a hail of gunfire and wreckage.

  Ever rests his hand over my arm, fingers wrapping around and squeezing gently, stopping me from dressing his wound.

  “Marlo … who hurt you?”

  The first shot, and it hits me square in the chest. My face pinches at the thought of what he’s asking. I mash my lips together and fight against the onslaught—the emotion, the tears, the motherfucking shame. God, I thought I was over this all-consuming shame, but the mere thought of telling Ever my deepest secret has it creeping up from the grave where it’s so deeply buried. Crawling out of the depths of my heart.

  I shake my head, trying to knock my thoughts loose, and shove away his hand. I lay down the bandages and run my fingers along the seams, sealing the wound shut from outside dirt and germs. I’m meticulous, inspecting my work, picking up the bandage wrappers and used cotton balls. Anything and everything to avoid Ever’s gaze.

  He pushes my hands away and lowers his tattered pant leg. When I turn around, he grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me in between his legs. One of his hands push into my lower back, keeping me close. The other brushes my cheek and wraps around my neck. The confusion and fear brimming in his eyes causes me to close mine.

  No escape. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.

  “Who. Hurt. You?”

  I shove away from him and step back before he can grab me again. I’m in the living room and down the hallway before he grabs my arm.

  “It doesn’t matter anymore,” I say, slipping into my armor with little effort. “There’s no reason to dredge up the past.”

  I swipe at dirty laundry littered around my bedroom, collecting my mess in the crook of my arm, a woman on a mission. On the surface, the goal is to clean up my pigsty of a room, but the true mission is to tune out Ever and get back control of this situation.

  “Don’t do this.”

  “Do what?”

  He hovers in the doorway, arms crossed, blocking my exit. Mr. Biscuit hops gleefully at his feet, begging for attention—what a difference a few minutes makes. Edna lets out a garbling hiss from the windowsill.

  “I see you shutting down right before my eyes, Low. Put down the clothes and look at me.”

  I turn my back and place the pile on top of the rocking chair in the corner. I rise up, but don’t turn around. I want to blink my eyes and erase the last thirty minutes. I want to go back to Moelle this morning, when Ever looked at me with hunger and love.

  He’ll never look at me that way again. If I pull off this final mask, this protective facade, all the shame and dirt and ugliness will be written across my face in
indelible ink. I’ll be a transparent pane of glass, smudges and fingerprints on full display.

  “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to,” I whisper, head lowered, eyes squeezed shut. “Please.”

  I hear his approach, but still flinch when he wraps an arm across my chest and drops his forehead to my shoulder.

  “You don’t get to hide from me, Low. Not anymore.” He presses his lips to my pulse, and a shudder runs through me. “Who hurt you, baby?”

  A tear falls down my cheek as I grab onto his forearm, digging my nails into his skin. His gentle words break me, and I draw in a deep breath before tearing down the walls with my confession. “H-h-he drugged me. I don’t remember much.”

  The words feel like battery acid, crawling up my throat and pouring past my lips like the most potent poison. I swallow back the burn and clench my eyes shut. I silently wish I didn’t remember a thing. Not one damn thing.

  Ever’s arm gets tighter, and he drops his forehead back to my shoulder. His breath sounds raw and ragged. His body rigid and tense. “Much of what?”

  I shake my head as the tears roll unchecked. The gravel in his voice gets thicker with each question, and I feel as if we’re falling into a pit of quicksand. A sob breaks loose from me as Ever sweeps an arm under my knees and carries me to the bed. He cradles me as I bury my head in his neck, afraid to look him in the eyes. Terrified of what I’ll see.

  “Did he hit you?” he asks, running a soothing hand over my unruly hair. His touch is gentle and loving, warring with the feel of his body, as he struggles to be what I need.

  I shake my head into his neck and whisper, “Not that kind of hurt.”

  A strangled cry erupts from his throat, vibrating against my cheek. He pulls me in tighter, crushing me to him, as if he’s trying to protect me from what happened long, long ago.

  “Fuck, fuck.” He presses his lips to the top of my head and leaves them there. I feel his lips trembling on my scalp as he tries to hold it together. At the same time, I give up the useless fight and fall apart. I clutch his shirt in my fists and twist, holding on with all my might as I cry.