As Dust Dances ~ Samantha Young Read online

  As Dust Dances

  Copyright © 2018 Samantha Young

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without prior written permission of the above author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  This work is registered with and protected by Copyright House.

  Edited by:

  Jennifer Sommersby Young

  Cover Design by:

  By Hang Le

  Interior Design & Formatting by:

  Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting

  Contents

  AS DUST DANCES

  Also by Samantha Young

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  Hold On

  Fight or Flight

  Other Adult Contemporary Novels:

  Play On

  Into the Deep

  Out of the Shallows

  Hero

  One Day: A Valentine Novella

  Fight or Flight

  On Dublin Street Series:

  On Dublin Street

  Down London Road

  Before Jamaica Lane

  Fall From India Place

  Echoes of Scotland Street

  Moonlight on Nighingale Way

  Until Fountain Bridge (a novella)

  Castle Hill (a novella)

  Valentine (a novella)

  One King’s Way

  Hart’s Boardwalk Series:

  The One Real Thing

  Every Little Thing

  Young Adult Contemporary titles:

  The Impossible Vastness of Us

  The Fragile Ordinary

  Young Adult Urban Fantasy titles:

  The Tale of Lunarmorte Trilogy:

  Moon Spell

  River Cast

  Blood Solstice

  Warriors of Ankh Trilogy:

  Blood Will Tell

  Blood Past

  Shades of Blood

  Fire Spirits Series:

  Smokeless Fire

  Scorched Skies

  Borrowed Ember

  Darkness, Kindled

  Other titles:

  Slumber (The Fade #1)

  Drip Drop Teardrop, a novella

  Samantha Young is a New York Times, USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestselling author from Stirlingshire, Scotland. She's been nominated for the Goodreads Choice Award for Best Author and Best Romance for her international bestseller On Dublin Street. On Dublin Street is Samantha's first adult contemporary romance series and has sold in thirty countries.

  Visit Samantha Young online at www.authorsamanthayoung.com

  Twitter @AuthorSamYoung

  Instagram @AuthorSamanthaYoung

  Facebook www.facebook.com/authorsamanthayoung

  Want to keep up-to-date with all of Samantha Young’s latest sales, preorders and new releases? Never miss out on these sexy, emotional stories with their hot Scots and sassy heroines by simply following Sam on BookBub.

  Follow Samantha Young on BookBub

  For the most part writing is a solitary endeavor but publishing most certainly is not. I have to thank my wonderful editor Jennifer Sommersby Young, a talented, witty lady who always keeps me right. You’ve made me a better writer, friend. Thank you.

  Moreover, thank you to Viviana Varona for giving Killian and Skylar’s story that final look-through, ensuring I’m sending their love story out into the world as polished as can be.

  This is a story I became truly immersed in while writing. The world around me ceased to exist until all of Skylar’s tale spilled out of my fingertips. In order to have that kind of extraordinary alone time with this book, I have to thank my mum and dad for taking care of my wee babies while their momma was off living in another universe. I love you all. Thank you for understanding!

  And thank you to my bestie and PA extraordinaire, Ashleen Walker, for handling all the little things and supporting me through everything. You’re my Rockstar.

  The life of a writer doesn’t stop with the book. Our job expands beyond the written word to marketing, advertising, graphic design, social media management and more. Help from those in the know goes a long way. Thank you to my awesome publicist KP Simmon of Inkslinger PR. KP, you make my life easier! Thank you for all you and your team do!

  And thank you to every single blogger, instagrammer and book lover who has helped spread the word about my books. You all are appreciated so much! On that note, a massive thank you to all the fantastic readers in my private Facebook group Sam’s Clan McBookish. You make me smile every day!

  Moreover, thank you to Hang Le. You create the most beautiful art and the cover for AS DUST DANCES is no exemption. It’s one of my favorite covers EVER. I can’t stop staring at it. It fits Skylar’s story so perfectly.

  And thank you to Christine Borgford at Type A Formatting for making this book look stylish for my readers.

  As always, thank you to my agent Lauren Abramo for making it possible for readers all over the world to find my words. I’m so grateful for you.

  Finally, to you my reader, the biggest thank you of all.

  * * *

  Glasgow, Scotland

  MY MUSIC FILLED THE AIR, creating a surrounding bubble of melody and familiarity in a city still strange to me in so many ways.

  It was an overcast day on Buchanan Street. The gray clouds silvered the blond buildings and dulled the boldness of the red sandstone architecture that made up a part of Glasgow’s identity. Busking on the main shopping thoroughfare in the city center, I stood far enough from the shop entrance behind me to not bother the staff, but not far enough out that I’d feel in the way of shoppers passing by. I played my beloved Taylor acoustic guitar and sang. Unlike some of the buskers I competed with on a regular basis, I didn’t have their fancy portable PA systems with amps and mics. I had to rely on the quality of my voice and my playing to draw people in.

  I never felt like a nuisance busking in Glasgow. It was the only time in fact the city didn’t feel like a stranger to me and I to it. I felt like a part of a city that loved its music. If red sandstone was Glasgow’s skin, music was its heartbeat. While I’d made peace with the idea that life had broken me down to dust, the joy of being a beat in the rhythm of Glasgow’s soul smoldered within me.

  Sometimes, especially if I was feeling upbeat and decided to do a twist on a well-known pop or dance song, I’d draw in a crowd. That was usually on a Saturday, like today, when people were shopping and feeling relaxed, where they weren’t rushing past on their lunch break to get back to work.

  Mostly, however, people either kept walking on by, or they dropped some change in my guitar case as they briskly marched on. I even had some regular workers who dropped the change in like it had become a habit. Not that I minded. Unlike those buskers with their fancy PA systems, I actually needed the money. I wasn’t trying to “get found” on the streets of Glasgow by having my bestie film me on his camera phone and upload it to my YouTube channel.

  I was busking so I could buy a meal for the night. And if it was a particularly good day, money to get into the swimming center so I could use one of their showers and a hair dryer. On the days I didn’t make enough money, I had what the local homeless called a “tramp’s wash.” I had to strip off in my tent and use baby wipes to clean my body as best I could.

  Glancing down at my guitar case as I sang, I thanked God that today it looked like I’d have enough for that shower.

  Nodding my thanks at a couple of teenage girls as they dropped some change in my case, I kept singing the melancholy song I’d chosen to fit the weather. “Someone Like You” by Adele. A firm crowd pleaser, it was drawing one like it always did. I pulled it out of the bag when I really needed the cash. I have a good enough vocal range to sing Adele but anyone can have a good vocal range and still not be able to sell a song. You have to be able to fall into the lyrics and sing a song like you wrote it. Which is much easier to do if you did write the damn song. For the longest time, I only ever sa
ng my own songs so that wasn’t a problem for me.

  Busking was different. People didn’t really want to listen to unfamiliar tunes. That might have been an issue for me a few years ago. I wasn’t very good at putting myself in someone else’s place. Or empathizing.

  But now . . . well, now I could sing sad songs like my heart was truly breaking. I’d look into the small crowds gathered around me and see more than a few tears in strangers’ eyes. I loved that part of performing. Making people feel like that. I just hated all the other shit that came with it.

  As I sang about time flying and yesterday being the time of our lives, I felt those words deep in my soul. I controlled a voice crack on the word “lives” and found a familiar face in the crowd.

  Ignoring the frizzle of awareness that zinged down my spine, I kept staring at him, singing to him, telling him with that stare I could give a damn that he was there. He didn’t scare me. He didn’t creep me out. Didn’t he know that I was unshakeable these days?

  I didn’t know the man’s name. I didn’t know anything about him except that he had the kind of presence that made everyone else around him fade. At around six foot he wasn’t overly tall; he had an athletic build so it wasn’t really his size that made you look. It was a quality. I couldn’t tell what color his eyes were because he’d never gotten close enough, just that they appeared dark, and they were intense. There was a hardness to his expression, a remoteness that seemed at odds with his apparent interest in my performance. Today he stood apart from the small crowd, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his head tilted slightly as he listened with that aloof countenance.

  When I got to the part about finding “someone like you,” I drew my gaze to the darkening sky from beneath the brim of my fedora, my tone as mournful as those heavy clouds above. After the final strum of an F-sharp minor lingered in the air, I lowered my head and let the gentle applause settle over me.

  I didn’t take much of a break before I immediately began singing an original song. Like I said, most people wanted to hear songs that were familiar to them, but I was a singer/songwriter and it was difficult for me to not sing what I truly felt at least once during a set. Plus, I’d noticed over the last few weeks that the stranger only walked away after I sang one of my own songs.

  Weird but true.

  Almost everyone who had been standing to listen to the Adele song stayed to listen to my perky, upbeat song with its sad lyrics. When I finished, a few came over to drop change in my case, some offering me praise, even thanks. It was hard to watch the people who walked away without offering me a token of appreciation, so I let them fade out in my peripheral and smiled at those who were kind enough to give me money.

  There was enough there for a meal, a shower, and use of the laundromat.

  If someone asked me for advice about sleeping rough, I’d tell them how important it is to keep your feet clean and dry. Change your socks every day. There was a laundromat a twenty-minute walk from where I’d pitched my tent and a ten-minute walk from the swimming pool. I could wash and dry the few clothes I had and keep my socks fresh.

  Feeling grateful, I was filled with smiles as I thanked people in my fake English accent. I would’ve faked a Scottish accent if I could but it always came out sounding Irish with a hint of Australian. I was good at a generic southern English accent so I went with that. Why fake an accent at all? Well, I didn’t want anyone recognizing me, and if they put my face to my voice and then to an American accent, things might get complicated.

  As people dwindled away, I decided to pack up for the day. It was only three in the afternoon but I wanted my shower badly. Plus, those clouds looked ready to break any minute. It was nearly an hour’s walk to the swimming center from here and as I pocketed my cash, I wondered if it would be foolish to use some of it on bus fare. If I got soaked I might get sick and then what the hell would I do?

  I glanced back up at the clouds and saw one looking ready to give birth to a whole shower of raindrops.

  Yeah, I was going to get the bus.

  Feeling a familiar prickle on my skin, I looked up and saw the guy was still standing there, his arms crossed as he studied me. I scowled at his assessing attitude.

  He’d started showing up to watch me play about four weeks ago. Since then he’d appeared every Saturday, watching from a distance. I knew it wasn’t about physical attraction because I wasn’t really looking my best these days. It had to be about my voice and it freaked me out. Busking was a risk because all it would take was that one person to guess who I was from my voice.

  Hence the fake accent.

  Had this guy figured it out?

  Fuck off, I tried to send him the telepathic order.

  He began walking toward me. I tensed as I put my guitar in the case. This was new.

  He stopped a couple feet from my case and I straightened to full height. I wasn’t diminutive at five foot six but I wasn’t tall either. Still, it was better than being crouched down while this stranger towered over me.

  My expression was challenging.

  His was blank.

  Which was why I was surprised when he offered without preamble, “You can sing. You can write.”

  I frowned, tilting my head slightly as I studied his face. Finally, I replied, “I know.”

  His lips flattened and I wondered if that was his version of a smile. “Let me buy you a coffee.”

  Suspicion flooded me.

  Despite my best efforts to stay as clean as possible, I couldn’t rid myself of the aura of someone who slept rough. I had a large rucksack I carried everywhere and inside was my one-man tent. Once a week I had a shower and on the days that I couldn’t, I sprayed my hair with a can of cheap dry shampoo that I used sparingly. I was careful with the few shirts and two pairs of jeans I had, attempting to keep them as clean as possible. But there was dirt under my fingernails I couldn’t seem to get rid of and most importantly hard flecks of cold reality that I couldn’t wash out of my eyes.

  I was homeless and most people seemed to sense it intuitively. That meant I was familiar with strange men approaching me to proposition me as if I were a common prostitute.

  “Why?” I bit out, hating him as I hated all the men who thought they could take advantage of me.

  He responded with a look of derision. “I’m not looking for sex. I just want to talk. About your music.”

  “Why?”

  “Let me take you for a coffee and I’ll explain.”

  “I don’t drink coffee.”

  He scowled, dragging his eyes down my body again. It was reassuringly nonsexual and insultingly disdainful. When we locked gazes, he said, “Then save your cash and let me buy you a hot meal.”

  “Right now?”

  “Right now.”

  I pondered this, severely tempted. It was broad daylight, we were on Buchanan Street. If his plans for me were nefarious, there wasn’t a lot he could do to me. I glanced to my left, up the street. The red-and-white, candy-striped sign of TGI Fridays beckoned like a seasoned seductress.

  However, the concern over what his interest in me was, and whether he’d discovered my secret gave me more than pause. I bowed my head, hiding my face behind my hat. “Find another form of amusement. No thanks.” I strode past without looking at him.

  He didn’t call out after me, and the more distance I put between us, the more I felt the tension in my neck muscles loosen, my hunched shoulders lowering to their normal position.

  The north end of Buchanan Street started on a hill at the Glasgow Royal Concert Hall. It sloped downward at a gradient, leveling out at around the halfway point. I’d been busking on the level, so it took me less than five minutes to get to the bus stop to the left on busy Argyle Street. Less than five minutes to put the guy to the back of my mind. There was no time for worrying about trivial things in my new life. That was the whole point of it. I only had time to worry about the basics. It was liberating in a way I couldn’t have ever imagined.

  “Busker Girl!” I heard as I approached the bus stop.

  My attention was drawn to the two homeless people sitting in sleeping bags outside the Argyle Street Arcade entrance. Old shopping arcade, not an amusement arcade.

  Since my bus hadn’t arrived yet, I walked over to Ham and Mandy. I met them not long after I’d arrived in Glasgow and found myself without enough cash to stay in a hostel. I think I’d been sleeping in the cheap tent I’d bought for about a week when they approached me one day while I was busking.