Ethans Fal (46 page)
Barbara Shane Hoover…words fail me…I am so grateful for your grammar ocd…I can’t even…Francesca, Stacey, Philippa and Angie for their technical help…the furious legs beneath the calm swan..no I’m not the swan…Ethan’s Fall is the swan…I’m the arse-end in charge of the steering. Neda my new publicist…this may be premature but I know we’re going to make a great team so I’m going to thank you in advance.
This bit may look a little strange because I am going to thank people that may have no knowledge that they affected me in any way…but nevertheless I am grateful…so thank you to Kitty French, Stylo Fantome, Christine D Reiss, Tiffany Riesz, Jodi Ellen Malpas, Jodi Marie Maliszewski, M Never, LP Lovell, Pepper Winters, Kelsey Burns, SVC Ricketts, Saya and Lynn. Bloggers: Missy’s Book Blog, Philomela (2 friends), MichelleAfterDarkBookLovers, Stacey, Claire, Amy, Vicki and Vivienne at Fictional Mens Room, Kelly at Our Kindle Konfessions, Jesey at Schmexy Girl, Samantha at RedHotRomance, Mel and Gayle Bloggers from Down Under
I would also like to thank my bestie..Kymme because in all honestly there would be no books if it wasn’t for her…she is always a glass over flowing kind of lovely..The type of friend my kids use as a benchmark to measure all lovely friends…high praise indeed. I love you to the moon and back.
My family…again are quietly supportive…which is probably why I spend so much time on Facebook. Not just because of my books but there is a whole community of filthy minded lovelies happy to share this wonderful book world…you make each day a treat. Sorry back to my family…my husband and children (all grown up) I would like to thank you for not moaning…it is your way of showing your support I know and I appreciate it…One day i’ll write a story you can read…but not this day.
But mostly, I’d like to thank you, for choosing to buy my book and taking the time to read it - a huge, I mean really huge, thank you, you will never know how incredibly grateful and honoured I am that you have and I would be even more so if you are kind enough to
leave a review
on Amazon or Goodreads.
The People who make it all happen.
Dee Palmer - Author
Website -
www.deepalmerwriter.com
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Editor- Philippa Donovan -
www.smartquilleditorial.co.uk
Formatter- Champagne Formats
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Cover Design Angela -
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Like I can
-Sam Smith
Fight Song
- Rachel Platten
Kansas City
- The New Basement Tapes
Heronine
- Dwntwn
It Won’t Stop
- Sevyn Street
Fingerprints
- Kita Klane
Talking Body
- Tove Lo
I See Fire
_ Ed Sheeran
Runaway
- Ed Sheeran
Bloodstream
_ Ed Sheeran
Photograph
- Ed Sheeran
Keep Pushing Me
- Gabriella Aplin
Panic Cord
- Gabriella Aplin
This Isn’t Everything You Are
- Snow Patrol
Other Books by the Author
The Choices Trilogy
Coming Feb
Never a Choice 1.5 - A Choices Novella
I met my husband when I was sixteen and I feel for him because there is no way I am the same person he fell in love with but after twenty ahem… something years perhaps I’m not so bad. He now has a wife that can name her favourite porn star…research of course, never says no…and knows a thing or two about …probably too much ;). He may not ‘get’ what I do but he is a little more tolerant of the voices in my head because now they appear on paper. I love, love writing and hope to be able to do this until I am very old and grey…growing old disgracefully..and dee-spicably, always…xdee
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Where it all began…Bethany’s story starts right here with
Never a Choice
Four Years Ago
“YOU’RE AN IDIOT
!” John jerks me further up his back to get a bit more comfortable and I grip a little tighter with my thighs to prevent me slipping back down before he repeats. “You’re an idiot for working with a busted ankle tonight.”
“Says the idiot carrying me half a mile home at one in the morning.” I kiss the soft hairs on the back of his neck and smile against his warm skin. He smells of fresh cut wood and mint from a recent shower.
“It’s bad enough you have to work on a school night but you needed to rest, it looks like a freaking balloon now.” He lifts my leg, but the dim street lamp fails to highlight his argument as my ankle is covered by my jeans and hidden in the shadow of the dark night. He’s not really mad, he’s never really mad and he sighs as I rest my chin on his shoulder and my arms. hug him just a little tighter.
“I need to work and it looks worse than it is.” He grumbles under his breath and continues to walk me home – well, carry me home. He meets me each night I work late at the local pub. It’s a small village pub and I do a little cooking in the evening, serve food and help behind the bar. It’s not strictly legal but I’m not likely to tell; I need the extra money and the late nights pay better. It’s the only thing John and I ever argue about, I won’t take his money and he thinks Kit, my sister, should contribute more. He gets no argument from me there, but he works just as hard. His money is going toward a place of his own because his Dad has given him notice to quit like some troublesome tenant. He needs every penny and at least I still have a home. He shifts again and I can feel the tension in his shoulders, this is the second time he has carried me today. The first was when the injury happened, when I decided to throw myself off the eight foot stone wall.
For the last seven years when my mum was happy enough to let me wander a little further afield, John and I would do just that. Miles and miles of footpaths and bridleways, fields, riverbanks, and woodlands we explored together and I only ever had the vaguest sense of where we were. I was always in a state of constant surprise that we had managed to find our way home. John would tell me I shouldn’t really leave the house without a ball of string tied to my front door, but I didn’t need the string. I had John, who always knew where we were and where we were going. He had given me a leg up so I could grab the top of the wall and using his shoulders I just manage to pitch myself up and sit on the top. He told me to wait, not to jump, and that he still loved me even though I had hopped off and twisted my ankle so bad he had to carry me home. After nearly three miles across the fields he also told me I was a dumb-ass.
For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, John carefully lowers me to my feet by the back door. The house is quiet but my mum has left the kitchen light on, which filters a warm glow across his soft dark features. He is frowning and I know it has nothing to do with how much his back is probably hurting. “I hate that you have to work, Boo. I hate it might affect your studies.” He is holding my gaze, his eyes serious and pained.
