Ever Over After (The Over Duet #2)
Cover Design: DCP Designs
Release Date: January 9, 2017
Marlo … wild-eyed, untamed, and every single thing I’ve ever wanted from this life. I wasn’t ready for her back then. I was a stupid boy with adult feelings and no idea what to do with them. I squandered away every chance she gave me.
Yes, love like ours either burns white hot or crumbles under the pressure.
And now I’m back to sift through the rubble.
Questions and excuses are two things I have in spades. What I need now are answers.
Answers and Low.
Always Low.
My name is Ever Montgomery, and this is my story of love resurrected.
Her Jeep is in the driveway. A soft top, fire engine red, Jeep Wrangler. Blood red is more like it. We’re talking about Marlo, after all. How fitting. One hundred, no, a thousand, vehicles lined up in a row, and that’s exactly what I’d pick for her. Lots has changed, but some things stand the test of time.
Low … my Low, is on the other side of that door, curled up in bed, her usual sass kept in check by sweet, sweet dreams. I imagine what it would be like to come home to her. Her eyes closed, lashes like butterfly wings resting on her flushed cheeks—an uninhibited smile playing on her naked lips. She’s got nothing on but a white tank top and panties … the elastic edging of the black silk denting deliciously into her flesh. She’s curled in the fetal position, that fabulous ass rounded and waiting for me to palm it, hard nipples pushing into stretched, white cotton.
Damn. Damn.
I shift in my seat, pushing my palm into my lap, mentally chanting to myself to calm the hell down. Nothing like an active imagination and an ill-timed boner to make me really feel like a stalker.
I swipe the card off the dashboard, my rebuttal to Marlo’s note of warning, and fold out of the car. I look both ways as I cross the street, not for cars, but for nosy neighbors who may call the cops or wrestle the possible robber to the ground. Part of me wishes something would happen. I hope Marlo has people who look out for her.
A bigger part of me wishes she’d hear me coming and meet me on the porch for an epic showdown … in the previously mentioned tank and panties, if I had my way.
The need to see her, to run my eyes over every piece of her and remind myself she’s more than a memory, is staggering. There were times when I wasn’t sure. She feels like a lifetime ago … another time … when I was a different person. That’s partly true.
Back then, even in the deep haze of it all, I could feel my love for Low trying to claw its way out, begging to break free. But the cancer growing inside me, that extreme sense of loss, strangled everything else. In the end, I let the fog envelop me and opted for numb.
God, I was an idiot.
I’ll never make that mistake again. Never.
I wedge my note into the seam of the door and place a palm to the paned glass. I clench my eyes shut and rest my forehead on the door, only for a moment. As much as I want to curl my fingers into a fist and knock, it has to be her. I need her to come to me.
And when she does, I’ll be ready.
Low Over High (The Over Duet #1)
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I fancy myself a purveyor of truth, a sifter of lies, a cutter of bullshit. It’s not a gift, but rather, all skill, honed to a razor’s edge after one too many trips down the rabbit hole.
Some may dismiss my talent as misplaced and misguided cynicism, but they’d be wrong. Cliches about hope and faith in mankind are concocted unicorn farts, an effort to keep the dreamers dreaming. Experiences don’t lie—people do.
While I’m not proud of the circumstances that led me to this way of thinking, I respect the journey. The road to enlightenment can be dark and foreboding, but the destination makes it all worthwhile.
But funny 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.
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…
My name is Marlo Rivers, and this is my story of corrupted love.
MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY 18+
Warning: This book contains graphic content which may not be suitable for sensitive readers.
J.A. DeRouen lives in South Louisiana with her husband, son (aptly named “The Professor), and her furry friend, Scout. She holds bachelor’s degrees in psychology and nursing.
When she’s not writing or inhaling romance novels by the stack, she works as a women’s health nurse. She’s been an avid reader and daydreamer since childhood, and she’s never stopped turning the page to get to the next happily ever after.
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