From Dust

by Freya Barker

  “You know she does that all the time,” Gunnar says, walking into the kitchen, giving his mom a kiss on the cheek before walking over to me. With his arm slung over my shoulder, he pinches a piece of my pancake off my plate. “Yeah, she used to drive me nuts. Could never get away with anything. She used to say she had eyes in the back of her head, terrified the crap out of me.”

  The kids are chuckling, obviously well-acquainted with the story.

  “Did it to my kids too, but Emmy ... Emmy had her pegged pretty quickly. Didn’t you, girl?” He smiles at his daughter before continuing, “I swear she couldn’t have been more than five or so when mom pulled one of her stunts and Emmy just observed her, until suddenly her eyes slid to the kitchen window. And with a big smile on her face, she started waving at Grammy’s reflection. Mom knew she was busted.”

  After eating five pancakes and feeling like a stuffed turkey at Thanksgiving, I offered to clean the kitchen, which Emily gratefully accepted, taking the kids with her for a trip to the mall where I’m sure she’d do her grandmotherly duty and spoil them rotten.

  “I love you too, Rosie,” Gunnar’s voice rumbles close to my ear and I almost jump out of my skin making him chuckle. “Now you see, if you’d been keeping an eye on the kitchen window, you’d have been able to see me sneak up on you.”

  I turn my head back to let him kiss my smile.

  “Why suddenly Rosie?”

  “Just trying it on for size, but I think I’m sticking with Bird. What’s with the Rosie anyway?”

  “Sofia used to have trouble with my name and instead of Sydney, would call me Cindy.” The wince on Gunnar’s face makes me laugh, Cindy obviously not being one of his favorite names. “She would call me Syd for short and my parents hated it, so they suggested Rose, but Sofia changed it to Rosie. I changed hers to Sofie, another thing my parents hated and that was our little pre-adolescent rebellion. One that lasted into adulthood, I’m afraid.” I chuckle at the memory. “I’m glad I got my sister back. She’s the only one who ever cared.”

  Crowding in behind me, Gunnar blocks any possible escape by bracing his arms on either side of me on the counter.

  “Not anymore. You have an entire family here. Here with me and the kids, and my mother.” He rolls his eyes when he mentions his mom, putting a smile on my face, ‘cause I know he loves her to distraction. “And in addition to that, you have the crew at The Skipper. They’re as much your family as you are theirs.”

  I turn in his arms and wind mine around his neck.

  “Thank you,” I whisper against his lips.

  “What for?”

  “For the orgasm you’re going to give me on that counter I just wiped,” I smile at his pained groan.

  “I like the way you think,” he growls in my neck, his hands sliding down the front of my yoga pants.

  “Thought you might...” I manage right before he finds me wet.

  ~Two weeks later~

  “So are we gonna come back every week, just like your sister?”

  We’ve just piled the kids and the leftovers of an impromptu picnic at the side of the creek in the car. Emmy had insisted on bringing flowers and Dex brought his favorite ball cap, each putting their gifts reverently on Daniel’s grave.

  “I was thinking more like once a month,” I say carefully, twisting in my seat so I can look Dexter in the eyes. “As much as I love feeling close to him, we have our lives to live and I think wherever he is, he knows we carry him with us in our hearts, even when we’re not there.”

  “Okay.” Dex nods his head as he gives his easy consent, but when I look at Emmy, she’s studying me thoughtfully.

  “Do you wish you could turn back time?” she asks, and Gunnar’s hand holding mine clenches at the question, but I keep my eyes on her when I answer.

  “That’s a tough one, and I’m glad I don’t have that choice to make because as much as I miss Daniel, I don’t think I could ever give you and your brother up. Or your father. I love you all too much to let go.”

  The small smile that slips on Emmy’s face is evidence enough that she likes my answer.

  “Good enough?” I check, holding on to her gaze.

  “Yes,” she says firmly. “Good enough.”

  When I turn back to face the front, I notice the matching small smile on Gunnar’s face, but other than a little squeeze of my hand, he says nothing.

  He doesn’t need to.

  The rest of the ride is mostly silent and it isn’t until we turn into the alley behind the bar that the kid’s start talking in excitement. I let Gunnar field the questions about the big fundraiser his mom spearheaded in two short weeks. A ticket only function, with Emily preparing all the favorite family menu items that had ever graced The Skipper’s menu over decades, with Dino’s help. A veritable feast that would hopefully raise enough money to start Abby Winslow’s treatments. It would also be the official launch of the foundation. At least fifty tickets had been sold already, thanks to the many community contacts Gunnar, his mom, and their friends have in Portland, and more would be sold at the door.

  I watch the alley go by and contemplate how far I’ve come.

  The remains of the shed where I’d started my rise from dust are still visible, although most of the loose rubble has long since been removed. Not so for the other side, where the building I was forced to defend myself is a stark reminder of how deep I’ve had to dig and how fierce I could be when it comes to standing up for myself.

  The dumpster, where Viv first found me, half-starved and fearful, before she coaxed me inside with the promise of a hot meal. The first of many.

  And finally we pull up to The Skipper, where I found a purpose, my self-worth and the man pulling open the door, reaching in to help me out. My love.

  “Why are you crying?” he asks me gently as the kids skip up the steps and through the back door, none the wiser.

  “Grateful, that’s all. Been quite the journey,” I suggest, looking back down the alley before lifting my eyes to his deep green ones. “But I don’t regret where I landed. Not for a minute.”

  The soft but all-consuming kiss he shares with me holds no words, yet tells me everything I ever need to know.

  “Oh for crying out loud!” Viv’s voice bounces off the brick and concrete. “Would you get your horny asses in here already?”

  Gunnar’s mouth smiles against mine before pulling away.

  “Ready to make some money?”

  “Hell, yes.” I smile as I grab his hand and pull him with me into the pub where a crowd is already gathering.

  A banner on the far wall, opposite the bar, stops me dead in my tracks. And if I thought I couldn’t love him anymore, I just fell a little deeper.

  ‘Daniel’s Hope Foundation’ is printed in big bold letters.

  Turning around I throw myself into Gunnar’s arms to the clapping and whistles of the crowd. “Good enough?” he asks cautiously echoing the question I asked in the car earlier and my face cracks open in a huge smile.

  “More than good enough. It’s perfect.”

  ~~~~~THE END~~~~~

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:

  The seed for ‘FROM DUST’ was planted a few years ago, when a local newscast reported on a tragic accident where a small child had been hit and killed in the family’s own driveway. For some reason the story hit me hard. I didn’t know the family, but I remember thinking the house they showed in the clip was so very similar to my house. It could’ve been my street—it could’ve been my family. And how does one survive an unimaginable tragedy like that?

  That question plagued me for the longest time, because whichever relative was at the wheel that day, they would carry the weight of the entire family’s loss and immeasurable grief for a lifetime.

  How does one survive?

  I didn’t want to minimize the tragedy of such an event with ‘FROM DUST’, but being the eternal optimist that I’m sometimes accused of being, I did want to create a story of how such a person might find a way to ‘live
with it’. And hopefully find some closure along the way, because frankly, what other choice is there?

  I hope I gave enough weight to the gravity of such a scenario, and that by the end of my story, albeit emotional, all of you are able to come away a little more hopeful.

  Thank you so much for reading ‘FROM DUST’, it truly was a labor of love.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

  To my beta-readers who know that I am not served by getting smoke blown up my arse. You need people who aren’t afraid to provide constructive criticism, pick apart your manuscript and point out any weak spots, to built a good book. These people you KNOW have nothing but love and respect for what you do, despite the fact they find fault with your writing. And like you are invested in making you a better author.

  I have been blessed with a group of betas that are all of the above and collectively they make my story so much better.

  Kerry-Ann Bell, Debbie Bishop, Deb Blake, Pam Buchanan, Leanne Hawkes, Sam Price, Catherine Scott, Nancy Huddleston—I love you guys HARD!

  I need to thank a few amazing women who have picked over the book to make sure every last wrinkle was ironed out. Daniela Prima and Karen Hrdlicka who combined pulled out more mistakes than I thought there were left! Oops. Love you girls!

  The amazing Dana Hook, my editor and a woman I love with all my heart, who makes everything flow better, run smoother and look polished and spit-shined!

  The reviewers who took the time to read the early and unedited version, giving me fantastic feedback and writing absolutely wonderful reviews that more often than not had me in tears.

  My mom, who has read every one of my books, even at ninety years-old. She doesn’t flinch at any sexual situation or description and is my most vocal and staunch supporter. Love you, Mom!

  My family who once again have had to play second fiddle to my obsessive writing schedule. They do so with the occasional shrug of a shoulder or a shake of the head, but they love me through it beginning to end. And I adore them.

  But most of all you, my readers, who have been growing steadily in numbers, supporting and encouraging me. Those of you who have come to visit me at one of the author signings, I so appreciate that! It’s wonderful to have an opportunity to interact directly with readers. There is one reader in particular who made my signing in York in the United Kingdom the most magical experience. Vickie Watson fell into my arms crying, making me tear up as well. Her husband had warned me when he spotted me that tears would likely be shed, and he was right! Love you, Vickie! You’re the best. xox

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Freya Barker craved reading about 'real' people, those who are perhaps less than perfect, but just as deserving of romance, hot monkey sex and some thrills and chills in their lives – So she decided to write about them.

  Always creative, from an early age on she danced and sang, doodled, created, cooked, baked, quilted and crafted. Her latest creative outlets were influenced by an ever-present love for reading. First through blogging, then cover art and design, and finally writing.

  Born and raised in the Netherlands, she packed her two toddlers, and eight suitcases filled with toys to move to Canada. No stranger to new beginnings, she thrives on them.

  With the kids grown and out in the world, Freya is at the ‘prime’ of her life. The body might be a bit ramshackle, but the spirit is high and as adventurous as ever. Something you may see reflected here and there in some of her heroines.... none of who will likely be wilting flowers.

  Freya

  https://www.freyabarker.com

  https://www.goodreads.com/FreyaBarker

  https://www.facebook.com/FreyaBarkerWrites

  https://tsu.co/FreyaB

  https://twitter.com/freya_barker

  or mailto:freyabarker.writes@gmail.com

  CEDAR TREE SERIES

  Book #1

  SLIM TO NONE

  myBook.to/SlimToNone

  Book #2

  HUNDRED TO ONE

  myBook.to/HundredToOne

  Book #3

  AGAINST ME

  myBook.to/AgainstMe

  Book #4

  CLEAN LINES

  myBook.to/CleanLines

  The Twisted Series

  by Rebecca Sherwin

  Life is unpredictable. It can throws us happiness, luck, wealth and success at any given time, without warning or premonition. But it can also send trauma, trials and surprises, both unexpected and unwelcome.

  The Twisted series explores a world where happiness is chased but unreachable, life is found and stolen, and love is fought for and sacrificed.

  It is not a simple story – life is not a fairytale.

  Sometimes it’s a fight for Survival...

  Survival

  With intertwining memories and a world of deceit and betrayal yet to be exposed, Survival, book #1 in the Twisted series, is an intense, compelling page-turner, seen through the eyes of Skye 'the Skillet' Jones.

  A mother. A father. Two daughters and a son. A happy suburban family of five.

  An alcoholic mother. An absent father.

  Abandonment. A family ripped apart.

  Oliver. Beautiful Oliver. My twin brother, my protector.

  Fighting. Freedom. Death.

  Cut Throat Curtis. My fire and ice. My light and shade. My pleasure and pain.

  He taught me to fight; to control emotional turmoil with physical distraction. He had pain of his own, secrets he would never reveal, and I should have known it would only be a matter of time until he left, becoming a ghost in a life I no longer knew.

  Thomas. My magic. My fairy-tale. The man who promised the happy ever after I’d never dared to dream of. My prince. My lover. My everything and more.

  But fate was waiting, as always. The merciless force of kismet watched over me, biding its time, waiting to strike; to plunge me into the depths of defeat and leave me with no choice but to succumb.

  It was coming, the twist of fate that would bring me to my knees. It was up to me, Skye the Skillet, to decide whether to bow down and surrender to its will, or fight back, to fight for what I had left.

  To fight for my survival...

  Chapter One

  I had the perfect life. No, really, I did.

  I had everything I ever wanted.

  I had a good job that paid the bills with enough money spare to eat out regularly and go on quarterly holidays in the sun.

  I had a four bedroom detached house, a stone’s throw from the countryside and just a ten minute drive to the city.

  I had a car; I traded it in for a new model every two years. Before it needed an inspection or service, I had a shiny brand new one sitting on my double driveway.

  I had a Rottweiler called Buster. Cliché, I know, but he was the final step. The one before you took the plunge and had a baby.

  And I had the perfect man. We were happy and we were in love.

  See? My life had finally fallen into place.

  But little did I know that in my blissful state of ignorance, I was taking everything for granted. I didn’t know my time in possession of perfection was running out.

  I had no idea I was about to have everything ripped away from me. Again.

  I didn’t see it coming.

  My name is Skye, and this is my story.

  ***

  There has to be a way out. There has to be.

  Almost autumn, 2002.

  “Skye!”

  My mother banged her fist on my bedroom door like she did every morning. Every. Morning.

  I groaned and opened my eyes. I was in my third ‘snooze’ phase of the new day and I was not happy about being woken up before the fourth. Alarm clocks had snooze buttons for a reason.

  “Skye!” she called again, and banged. Again. “If I have to listen to that alarm once more, you’ll be investing in a new one!”

  I groaned again and cursed. I did that a lot at home; I didn’t want to be there. I hadn’t for a long time; not since my father left to live with his new girlfrie
nd and my life turned to shit. It was a day I would never forget. My mother stood by the kitchen window with her arms folded, looking out at the other houses in the cul-de-sac. My father packed his things and we watched from the sofa as he filled his car and pulled off the driveway. There was no conversation; we didn’t get an explanation. He just said goodbye, in a voice that sounded nothing like the one he used when he told us he was proud of us, and he left.

  We had a nice house when he lived with us. I had my own room with a big bay window. It’s funny how you notice the little things when they’re gone.

  Living in a family home soon changed. My mother had never had a job and didn’t even pretend to try and get one when he walked out. She let the government pay for everything and as a result, we had to move – to a two bedroom flat in a tower block.

  It wasn’t so bad, if you ignored the pounding music from the neighbours on one side and the suspicious smell of what the couple on the other side were smoking. Oh, and the old lady downstairs. She would bash the ceiling with her broom because she forgot she lived in a third floor flat provided by the council, instead of the bungalow she lived in with her husband before he died. She was nice enough, if you caught her on a good day, when she actually remembered her own name and what year it was.

  I didn’t hate my father; I didn’t blame him for leaving. I only envied him for being able to escape. And I wished he had taken us with him... Us. My twin brother, Oliver, and me. I just wished he had run away with us both in tow.

  My mother didn’t care that we shared a room. I’m sure, at nineteen, it was illegal. The council didn’t care and our mother didn’t care enough to try to change it. Beth, our older sister...she got out two years earlier. She moved away to university and apart from the weekly call to make sure we weren’t malnourished, she had her own life.

  Oliver and I both held down two jobs so we could feed and clothe ourselves, and pay the water rates; we were two showers a day clean freaks. We worked all the hours we could, which was pointless because she only smoked and drank our money away. A vegetable or a hint of colour was a rarity in our fridge.