by Freya Barker
Except Leena. She doesn’t even seem to notice my mood—she’s too happy with her newfound freedom. I use the term loosely, since she’s never far from a watchful eye for now. It was Syd’s suggestion to offer her the empty apartment over the pub. She’s learning to live on her own, building her confidence, but never has to look far for a friendly face or a helping hand. On top of that, she doesn’t have to worry about how she’ll get to work. She’s helping Dino in the kitchen for now, until she starts college in September.
The only things even remotely able to put a smile on my face are observing how my sister slowly awakens to the big world around her, and my daily talks with Tana, and occasionally Flynn, when she’s still awake.
God, I miss them something fierce. Even knowing it won’t be long before they head back from Minnesota isn’t enough to brighten my mood. At this point, every day is one day too long.
“I asked you,” Gunnar finally says pointedly, and I immediately feel guilty. The rest of the crew has been at it since ten or eleven this morning. They’re busy doing lunch. Besides, I’ve known the guy for eighteen years: I know he doesn’t ask unless he has no other choice. I’m behaving like a bear with a burr up his butt.
I fish my keys from my pocket and hand them over. “Sorry. I’m just—”
With a sharp wave of his hand, Gunnar brushes it off. “I get it, but you’ve got to get your ass in gear.”
Truth is, he does get it. I spent many a time in the past weeks in his company, over a beer at the bar or a scotch in his office, waxing poetic about Tana and Flynn. He knows what they mean to me.
I’d expected ribbing over the whole insta-love thing, but every one of my friends has found their own ‘significant other’ in the past few years. They don’t question the validity or depth of my feelings.
Micucci’s is a busy place any day of the week and it takes me forty-five minutes to scour the massive store to gather all the items on my list. By the time I get back to The Skipper, it’s already coming on four.
The kitchen is empty when I carry in the boxes of produce. It’s possible Dino, our chef, is having a beer at the bar out front. He doesn’t talk much, but he likes to chat with one of our regulars, Arnie, from time to time.
I stack the vegetables in the appropriate bins in the large walk-in pantry, and cut up the boxes before tossing them out back, next to the bin. My phone rings just as I walk back inside.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I answer when I see Tana’s name pop up on the screen.
“Hi. How’s your day?”
“Already too long. I’m not good at this waiting,” I grumble, making her chuckle.
“I hear you.”
“So how come you’re calling in the middle of the day?”
“I have a favor to ask. I’ve been trying for the past two hours to get Flynn down. You know how she gets when she’s too wired up.” I hum sympathetically. “Anyway, I was hoping you could sing to her? I’ve tried but I can’t carry a tune to save my life. Apparently my daughter has sensitive ears because she keeps telling me to hush. Could you? Please?”
I’d do fucking anything for her or Flynn, but I’d rather not be caught singing Christmas carols in February. Now that I would never be able to live down. “I don’t know...”
“Man!”
“Hey, baby,” I coo hearing Flynn’s voice. Tana put me on speaker: she’s putting the thumbscrews on.
“Wooweee, pweeze.”
“Not fair, Montana,” I feebly protest, even though we both know who wins.
Still, as I start singing the first lines of Flynn’s favorite, the “Coventry Carol,” I go in search of a place I won’t be disturbed. Gunnar’s office is a good choice since he’s generally home when his kids come out of school, for at least a few hours. I push open the door and I hear the words from my mouth reverberating back to me.
I freeze in the doorway when I see Tana, carrying her daughter, coming toward me.
“What?”
“Surprise,” she says, smiling as she pulls my head down for a kiss, which is all the encouragement I need. Folding both of them in my arms, I cover Tana’s mouth with mine, showing her exactly how much I’ve missed her. It takes me a while to notice a squirming Flynn wedged between us, who is trying to get my attention, or the applause and catcalls from the traitorous bunch of so-called colleagues.
It takes Gunnar’s booming voice to herd everyone out, so we can have a moment in private. I have a ton of fucking questions, but I not so patiently wait for the crew to file out first.
“Good to see you smile,” Syd says with a mischievous grin, and I’m sure she’s had something to do with this.
“About bloody time.” Viv, the pub’s manager, and my longtime friend punches my shoulder in passing. “Although for the life of me, I can’t imagine what she sees in you,” she teases with a wink.
The big chef is next, and I know it’s coming. “Who knew you had such a lovely singing voice.”
Tana hides her face in my shirt, but I can feel her chuckle. I’ll deal with her later.
“Bite me, Dino,” I mutter under my breath as he passes, but little pots have big ears.
“Bite me!” Flynn chirps, and I roll my eyes to the ceiling when she giggles at the sound of her own voice. It’ll be a while before she gets tired of that one.
Gunnar is last and claps me on my shoulder, grinning. “Good luck with that. You have the weekend off. Go home.” He hands me my keys and I give his back. “The bags are in the back and a child seat is installed.” He leans into Tana and gives her a peck on the cheek. “Good to finally meet you. It’ll do wonders for his mood, I’m sure.”
I wait firing off my many questions until I have Flynn safely strapped into her seat, and we’re pulling out of the driveway.
“How did you get here so fast?” I ask, grabbing for her hand and entwining our fingers.
“We flew.”
“But—”
“We had a meeting of the minds the day before yesterday. I can give you all the details later, but the short version is I couldn’t wait to see you, and this was the fastest way to get here. Dad got it in his mind that he wants to drive across the country, so he and Mom will drive my car and hopefully, eventually, get here in one piece. And Mom is happy as a clam since she doesn’t have to wait long to see us again. She’d like to be closer to us.”
“As in move here?”
“Maybe,” Tana says, smiling at me. “They’re working out the details, but it may involve them taking over my place in Haverhill.”
“No shit.” It comes flying out of my mouth before I can check it, and I throw a quick glance over my shoulder to find Flynn already nodding off.
“No shit,” Tana confirms softly.
“So does that mean you’re definitely moving up here?”
“Looks that way.”
I can’t help the stupid grin I know is plastered on my face as I turn into my street and pull in my driveway. Turning off the engine I turn to her.
“Any idea where?”
Her eyes flick to my modest two-bedroom house before she looks back at me.
“I was kinda hoping...here?”
It takes me two seconds to get out and around to the passenger side, where I yank open her door and pull her from the vehicle. Her arms circle my neck and her legs wrap around my hips.
“Then welcome home, Sweetheart.”
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, I thank my editing team: Karen and Joanne, who work so hard to perfect my words and guide me every step of the way.
My beta readers on this book: Debbie, Pam, Sam, and Deb, who scrutinize my story, and give me such helpful feedback every time.
I can’t forget the ever-growing group of readers in my Barks&Bites group, whose support is invaluable.
I’m grateful for the always wise counsel and valued friendship from my agent: Stephanie of SBR Media.
Thank you to Ena and Amanda of Enticing Journey, who help promote my new
book releases, and do with great care and professionalism.
A very special thank you this time to my publicists, Debra and Drue of Buoni Amici Press. In the short five or so months since we started working together, they have helped my growth and visibility in a way I could never have accomplished on my own. These ladies know their business and I have no idea how I survived so long without them.
As always, the greatest thanks belongs to my readers. To all of you who decided to take a chance, and dove into one of my books for the first time. There are pieces of me in each and every one of my stories and I’m honored you spent your valuable time reading them. Love you all.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Freya Barker inspires with her stories about 'real’ people, perhaps less than perfect, each struggling to find their own slice of happy, but just as deserving of romance, thrills and chills, and some hot, sizzling sex in their lives.
Recipient of the RomCon “Reader’s Choice” Award for best first book, “Slim To None,” Freya has hit the ground running. She loves nothing more than to meet and mingle with her readers, whether it be online or in person at one of the signings she attends.
Freya spins story after story with an endless supply of bruised and dented characters, vying for attention!
Freya
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ALSO BY FREYA BARKER
CEDAR TREE SERIES:
SLIM TO NONE
HUNDRED TO ONE
AGAINST ME
CLEAN LINES
UPPER HAND
LIKE ARROWS
HEAD START
PORTLAND, ME, NOVELS:
FROM DUST
CRUEL WATER
THROUGH FIRE
STILL AIR
SNAPSHOT SERIES:
SHUTTER SPEED
FREEZE FRAME
IDEAL IMAGE
PICTURE PERFECT (coming soon!)
NORTHERN LIGHTS COLLECTION:
A CHANGE IN TIDE
A CHANGE OF VIEW
A CHANGE OF PACE
ROCK POINT SERIES:
KEEPING 6
CABIN 12
HWY 550 (coming soon!)
STANDALONES:
BURNING FOR AUTUMN
(Susan Stoker’s Badge Of Honor World)
January 8, 2019
FROM DUST
Want to learn more about The Skipper
and Matt’s family of friends?
Read on for a sample of Syd and Gunnar’s story in FROM DUST, book #1 in the Portland ME series.
Syd
It’s cold.
I think it’s April, but I can’t be sure. I haven’t been interested in staying connected to the world for so long now, I couldn’t even tell you the day of the week, let alone the time of day. I generally take my cue from what I feel and see. When the sun starts going down, I know the wharf will be virtually abandoned, and I feel I can finally leave the small shed that has been my home for a while now ... a few months? Maybe it’s been a year already, I couldn’t tell you with the way time just seems to drift on endlessly.
The seasons are usually pretty easy to distinguish, but we’ve just had a particularly cold winter and it feels like it is lingering too long. I feel like I’ve been wearing every last stitch of clothing in my possession for a very long time now. It’s been a bitch trying to get them clean at the outdoor tap on the edge of the dock. There’ve been many times this winter that I’ve gone rank with the cold temperatures; too cold to peel off even one of the layers of clothing to wash them, or myself for that matter. Who cares anyway?
Tonight I have a particular destination in mind. I heard the big delivery truck rumble past my shack earlier today, heading for my neighbor: a pub and grub called The Skipper. That usually means it’s Thursday, because on Thursdays, The Skipper serves an all-you-can-eat menu, and that means that tonight, the dumpster in the alley behind the pub will be rich with leftovers.
I usually wait until I’m sure the place is good and locked up, but I haven’t eaten more than a few bites of an apple somebody had discarded on the dock the day before yesterday. It only had a few bruises and I washed it carefully at the tap, but those few, richly flavorful bites put a rare smile on my face. It’s not often I manage to get my hands on anything fresh tasting, let alone a whole apple.
I guess I could panhandle and buy some food like I’ve seen a few others do, but something holds me back, no matter how hungry I get. Begging would not befit a Donner, or so my parents have hammered into me. Funny, that after all these years, that is still as deeply ingrained as guilt is for a good Catholic.
I shake my head before my thoughts start drifting into areas I don’t want to visit and pull my flannel shirt tighter around my shoulders to ward off the chill. Damn, it’s cold.
Keeping to the shadow side of the alley, I tentatively edge my way to the dumpster that promises food for a few days, keeping my eye out for the big motorcycle that is often parked right beside it. Its usual spot is empty, which means the big, burly, and angry looking man isn’t here tonight, or he’s left already. I watch him sometimes when he drives by. I’ve come to the conclusion he must work there since he’s there quite often. With that dark and dangerous air about him, it’s difficult to keep from looking when I hear his motorcycle rumble past my shed. But tonight the coast is clear, and it appears the place is shut down. The only visible light is the weak bulb above the pub’s back door, and that is on all the time.
My stomach starts rumbling, already reacting to the food smells wafting from the dumpster. When it comes to food, I’m thankful for the lingering cold weather. There have been too many times in the heat of summer where I’ve been so overwhelmed with the stench of a garbage can or dumpster, that I wasn’t able to stop from puking, but not so tonight. Tonight I can smell frying grease and garlic. The odd hint of herbs and spices filters past my olfactory sense. I’m hungry and my mouth is watering.
Using the dumpster’s frame, I climb up and over the side, trying to be as quiet as I can—just in case. When I settle my feet amid the garbage, I scan the immediate area around me. Jackpot. A box of now familiar looking paper packages sits within reach. One of the things I’ve come to appreciate about hopping The Skipper’s dumpster is that they wrap the leftover food in the paper lining of the baskets it’s served in. Then they gather them all in one of the delivery boxes until it’s time to dump them out. As a result, the leftovers are relatively untouched and it somehow makes the food taste better. Weird how once the thought of eating anything someone else had touched—let alone discarded—would have been enough to make me gag, but now, I’m just grateful. Grateful for the prospect of a full belly, and with the chill still in the air, the option to save some for another day before it spoils.
“Please don’t.”
The soft plea freezes me with a french fry halfway to my mouth. So preoccupied with stuffing my empty stomach, I didn’t hear anyone approach. My hand drops the fry and I scramble to the far corner of the dumpster, looking up from under my eyelashes at the woman peeking over the side of the dumpster. I’ve seen her before; a tall blonde, about my age, with blue streaks through her hair. I’ve seen her go in the back door of The Skipper before and guessed she was an employee.
Her soft eyes and half-smile fill me with shame. Pity is devastating when it’s directed at you, and I’ve never felt it as strongly as I do now. Wrapping my arms around my waist against the chills running through my body, I turn my eyes away so I can avoid looking at myself through her eyes.
“I’ll make you something fresh. Do you want to come in out of the cold?”
My eyes flick to the back door before returning her steady gaze and I shake my head. The thought of being exposed to more pitying eyes would surely undo me. As tempting as it would be to walk thro
ugh that door behind her and be able to sit down to a plate of food, I’m scared that I won’t be able to return to this bleak existence I’ve resigned myself to afterward.
“I’m the only one here. We’ve closed up for the night and I was just putting the last of the garbage out.” She winces at her own words, probably realizing the implication of her garbage reference. “Please ...”
When she reaches her hand out to me, I can’t resist stretching my own to touch it. It’s been so very long since I’ve had any direct human contact that the moment our fingers touch, tears I thought had dried up long ago start rolling down my face. A craving to bask in her warmth some more has me following her gentle pull on my hand and I find myself clambering over the side of the dumpster. Meekly, I follow behind as she leads the way through the back door without a word, only stopping briefly at the threshold. The warmth rolling out of the open door is so inviting, I hesitate, wondering if I step through this door—if I allow myself this comfort—will I ever be able to turn back again. My heart pounds in my chest as I force myself to follow the woman inside the dark hallway, letting the door fall shut behind me.
Gunnar
I hear Viv yelling at me, but can’t take my eyes off that scrawny pile of bones with the biggest eyes and gorgeous copper-colored mane of hair, sitting on my washroom floor.
I need to piss like you wouldn’t believe and I’m this close to fucking wetting my pants like a child. Tearing my eyes away from whoever she is, I stalk past her and relieve myself in the first stall, not bothering to close the door. No time. A groan escapes me when I can finally let go. Fuck, that feels good, and I don’t give a damn that I’m standing here pissing with an audience behind me. I’ve been on the road for a long fucking time and haven’t been able to hit a washroom since the plane I was taking back to Boston from Phoenix hit a pocket of turbulence halfway through the flight. That nasty-ass stewardess—or flight attendant it is these days—was blocking the damn door and sent me back to my seat. Probably because I didn’t care for her obvious come-ons. But who the fuck makes suggestive remarks to a guy who is obviously traveling with two kids? A skank. The moment we landed, we got stuck in a flow of people and I don’t particularly like leaving the kids unsupervised outside an airport bathroom. I figured I could hold out until we were on the road but decided to just hoof it to the bar, first dropping off my guys at their mom’s. Of course she picked that moment to start bitching about dumping the kids on her when we had already agreed on this schedule change weeks ago via e-mail. I’ve been gone for a week with them, visiting my mom, and told Cindy I’d drop them off around 3 p.m. because I’d need to check on the pub. I trust Viv, but it’s a lot to take on my shift as well, and for an entire week at that.
