by Freya Barker
"Introduce me?" she almost purrs and I'm doing a double-take. Kendra, who is one of the crassest women I know, save perhaps Arlene. Oh, or Beth. But anyway, Kendra is batting her eyelashes at Mal. Not making this shit up, and I'm almost immediately reminded that Joe's not here, because this would be something I'd love to point out to him. But before I have a chance to make the introductions, the murmur of conversations around me stills. I follow the various heads turned to the back of the clinic, to see Fox and Joe coming in from the mudroom—both dressed in tuxedos. I'm sure my mouth has hit the ground at the sight of my handsome men dressed to the nines, but for the life of me, I'm at a loss as to what is going on. Both of them walk right up to me and appear to ignore everyone else, big smiles on their faces when Joe starts talking.
"I thought it only fair that the person who was crucial in bringing us together again after I fucked up something in a way I thought was beyond repair, would be standing beside me when I ask you a question."
"Language," I mumble on automatic response, hearing the muffled laughter around me, but having eyes only for the man in front of me who winks in response.
"I wanted to make sure all our friends, who are also our family, were present. I needed the support of the man who will always be the most important man in your life by my side too. Naomi, I knew over four years ago when I first met you that you were someone special. That you were someone I needed to get close to. I had no idea at the time that my feelings for you would run quite this deep. And not just for you; I've grown to love your son as well. There is no better future I can imagine than one with both of you as a permanent part of my life."
When Joe sinks down on one knee in front of me, the tears that already started rolling down my face unchecked, are now nearly blinding me. I'm wiping furiously so I won't miss a thing.
Fox steps up behind Joe and puts a hand on his shoulder as Joe grabs hold of one of mine.
"Beautiful? With Fox's okay, I'd like to ask you to be my wife."
That fucking smile. Those bright blue eyes only focused on me. Have mercy.
"Yes!" I think I must've yelled as I throw myself in Joe's arms, who falls backward with me on top giggling through my tears. The tapping on my shoulder is Fox, who stands there holding up a box with a ring.
"Mom. You knocked the damn thing right out of his hand."
"Sorry," I say, but don't really mean it, ‘cause seriously? Who cares about a damn ring when I have everything I could ever want in my life with these two men in front of me?
T H E E N D
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
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https://www.facebook.com/FreyaBarkerWrites
https://tsu.co/FreyaB
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or mailto:[email protected]
CEDAR TREE SERIES
Book #1
SLIM TO NONE
Amazon US
myBook.to/SlimToNone
Book #2
HUNDRED TO ONE
Amazon US
myBook.to/HundredToOne
Book #3
AGAINST ME
Amazon US
myBook.to/AgainstMe
COMING SOON
FROM DUST
A Standalone Novel
by Freya Barker
Expected Fall 2015
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, or even 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. 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 a 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 engrained 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 mostly angry looking man isn’t here to night or has 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 for the night. The only visible light is the weak bulb above the pub’s backdoor and that is on all the time.
My stomach starts rumbling, already reacting to the lingering 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 one or another garbage can or dumpster, I wasn’t able to stop from puking. Not so tonight. Tonight I can smell frying grease and garlic. The odd hint of herbs and spices filters past my olfactory senses. 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 among 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 and 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 eyebrows 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 backdoor of The Skipper before and guessed she was an employee.
The 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 backdoor before returning her steady gaze and I shake my head. The thought of being exposed to more pitying eyes would surely undo me. Tempting as it is to walk through 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 referral. “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 cluttering over the side of the dumpster. Meekly I follow behind as she leads the way through the backdoor 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—I’ll 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.
