Pulled Back (Twin Flames Series) Read online

  PULLED

  BACK

  BOOK TWO:

  A FLAME REBORN

  DANIELLE BANNISTER

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

  Copyright © February 2013 by Danielle Bannister

  All rights reserved

  Bannister Books

  First Edition

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this novel, write to:

  Danielle Bannister, 18 Morgan Lane, Searsmont, ME 04973

  Pulled Back: a novel about twin flames re-connecting.

  ISBN: 13-978-1482046403

  ISBN: 10-1482046407

  BISAC: Fiction / Romance / General

  Acknowledgments

  I need to thank first and foremost, the fans of Pulled, without whom, this sequel would never have been written. Pulled had always been in my mind, a one-shot book. When the fans demanded more, however, it pushed my thinking beyond what I had envisioned, and forced me to discover there was more story left to be told. I can only hope you like what you helped me create.

  Next, I need to thank my beta readers. Those few dedicated readers who went beyond the call of duty, to find what needed to be mended before presenting it to my editing team.

  Speaking of which, a big thanks goes out to my editors, Mary-Nancy Smith at Eagle Eye Editing and Jen Oldham. What would I have done without you two? I'd probably drowning in commas and semi colons!

  And finally, to my husband, Jason, and my kiddos. They reluctantly allowed me the time needed to take this journey with you.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Author Bio

  Do not stand at my grave and weep.

  I am not there, I do not sleep.

  I am a thousand winds that blow on the snow.

  I am the sunlight that ripened grain.

  I am the gentle autumn's rain.

  When you awake in the morning's hush, I am the swift uplifting rush;

  of quiet birds in circled flight, I am the soft star that shines at night.

  Do not stand at my grave and cry.

  I am not there.

  I did not die.

  -An Irish Prayer

  Prologue

  Friday, October 2011

  Brenda’s body ached. She’d been scrambling around the nursery wing for the last twelve hours. It was all she could do to keep her eyes open.

  In the early morning light at Webster General Hospital, the steady rhythm of three newborn heart monitors filled the quiet halls.

  Brenda found herself struggling with the injustices of life. While she had been busy helping the docs with three different mothers who all decided to go into labor at once, on the floor below her, three of the local college kids were dying. From what Brenda heard, it had been brutal. A jealous boyfriend killed his girlfriend and her lover, and then killed himself. Brenda didn’t know all the details, but heard one of the friend's of the deceased talking to a reporter about the tragedy. Three children were taken from this world, while three more were getting the chance to start fresh. It was all part of the irony of life.

  As she gazed at two of her new charges, she felt ready to drift off to sleep right along with them. That's when she heard her name being shouted from down the hall.

  “Brenda!”

  Even without looking up, she knew to whom the glottal-fried voice belonged to: Marilyn. Marilyn was a scrawny white woman who had teeth that were too big for her mouth and a nose that was ready to stick in any place it didn’t belong.

  “You off?” Marilyn asked, leaning against the counter as Brenda pulled on her sweater.

  “Yup. Been a wild night with these two,” Brenda replied, gesturing toward the glass wall behind her that held Jada and Tobias: her two lovebirds.

  Marilyn craned her neck to look at the infants.

  “I thought you had three of them? What did you do? Lose one?”

  Brenda frowned. Hawk, (of all things to name a child) had yet to join Jada and Tobias in the nursery. That suited Brenda just fine. There was something she just couldn't put her finger on behind that boy’s pale-blue eyes. They made her shiver whenever she caught a glimpse of them.

  Ignoring Marilyn, Brenda focused her gaze on baby Jada and said a silent prayer for her mama who was upstairs in the O.R. after hemorrhaging during the delivery. Although the odds were grim, Brenda still prayed her hardest. A girl needs her mama. Without one, a woman grows up not feeling whole.

  It gave Brenda great comfort to know that, for now, baby Jada had little Tobias to keep her company. Her heart swelled when she looked at the two of them. They were both swaddled and snug in their blankets. Their tiny faces pressed close to the thin layer of plastic that kept them apart. Oh, how Brenda wanted to remove that single barrier and allow them to snuggle up to each other as they so clearly wanted to do, but she couldn't. There were policies that forced her hands into submission.

  At least those two weren't crying anymore. Brenda only wished she had figured out why they had been so upset sooner. She might not have suffered with the headache she got as a result of their unhappiness.

  After all, who would have ever guessed what would have stopped their cries? The very idea was ridiculous.

  When Brenda had first placed them in the nursery, she thought she'd give the two of them a little distance, thinking they might wake each other up. So, she put Tobias on one end of the nursery and Jada on the other. That had been a big mistake. There was an all-out-riot by those infants! Screams of agony so powerful and inconsolable that it had actually scared Brenda. Nothing in her 20 year arsenal of pediatric nursing seemed to calm those babies down, until, quite by accident, another nurse came in to help. She had merely picked up Tobias and walked over to Brenda, who was trying her best to hush Jada, when they both suddenly stopped crying and started cooing.

  Brenda still couldn't believe it. What those two babies wanted, even more than the milk in their bottles, was each other. They just wanted to be close to one another. It was, by far, the strangest thing, she had ever witnessed.

  Brenda worried what the parents might think when they would have to be separated the next day. They’d probably claim those babies were just colicky, when really, they would just be longing for the other.

  Brenda chuckled to herself. She’d been reading too many romance novels.

  Reluctantly, she turned her attention back to Marilyn whose eyes were pinched close in disgust as she peered into the nursery.

  “Not much to that runt, is there?”

  “Tobias,” Brenda corrected firmly. “And he ain’t no runt. He’s perfect just the way God made him.”

  Marilyn scoffed. “I give that boy a year.”

  Heat bubbled inside of Brenda, filling her cheeks. A protective rage she didn't realize she even possessed washed over her. Her fists clenched as she tried to contain herself.

  “No one wants the runt of a litter,” Marilyn continued, oblivious to Brenda's fuming. “That's probab
ly why his folks are putting him up for adoption.”

  All the fire drained out of Brenda and was replaced with shock. “What?”

  Marilyn shrugged her shoulders without compassion. “I heard the dad talking on the phone to someone about it.”

  So, that’s why no one had been knocking down the nursery door to see Tobias. They didn't plan on getting attached. Tears crept into the corners of her eyes.

  “Things aren’t looking good for that girl’s mamma, either.” Marilyn pointed her cotton-candy pink nail toward Jada. “I just had to bring a crash cart into her room. The dad's an absolute mess.”

  It's times like this that Brenda hated her job. She knew better than to get attached to those who come here, and yet, she found herself doing it every day, more so today than ever before. Angry at the injustice of it all, Brenda turned away from Marilyn and pushed her way into the nursery. The click of the door closing behind her echoed into the hollows of her heart.

  Tears blurred Brenda’s vision, but she found her way over to Tobias and Jada, and gently pressed a hand on each of their precious little bodies. They were still cooing at each other, blissfully unaware of how much their happy little lives would change.

  Chapter 1

  September 2029

  Jada

  The final drop of blood lands in the pink-tinged bathwater around me.

  About time! I hiss at myself, annoyed that it took longer than normal for my blood to clot. Most days it only takes a couple minutes for the bleeding to stop, but today I had to carve the letter 'J.' Because of the curve, it's trickier to keep the blade still. The built up scar tissue doesn’t make it any easier.

  It dawns on me, as I wipe away the last traces of the blood from the tub, that I've been etching my name into my forearm for almost ten years. You'd think I'd be used to the pain at this point. Or, at the very least, that my body would refuse to bleed at all. But the fire burns each and every time. As it should. After all, pain is better than forgetting who I am. Or rather, who I’m not.

  I am not my mother; no matter how many times my father calls me her name in his drunken rages. I etch a letter everyday into my flesh to keep some small part of me whole. A painful reminder that I’m still alive and she is dead.

  Inside my room, I turn on the one overhead light and pull the curtain that is my door, closed. Mechanically, I tie on the black leather band I use to hide the cuts. The rough leather against my raw flesh burns as I tie it tight to my skin. It always amuses me how people think it's just an ‘Urban Goth’ accessory.

  In keeping with the facade, I pull on torn leggings and tank top, black, of course, (wouldn't want to mess with their assumptions now, would I?) The boots go on last before I try my best to tiptoe down the stairs, hoping not to be seen. Instead, I am greeted with the sound of my dad's oh-so-eloquent cursing. Lovely.

  He grunts, hunched under the sink, tinkering with it. Again. Oh, he's gonna be in a great mood today. I walk over to one of the kitchen cabinets and pull out two cups for coffee, not because I'm daughter-of-the-year, but because it's expected. The fewer ripples I make in my dad's day, the better off we all are.

  Plopping down on the counter I hover over the machine, willing it to do whatever it does faster. Stupid, ancient, piece of junk! When I move outta here, I am so getting an Insta Brew, even if I have to sell a kidney to buy it. We only need one kidney to survive, right?

  While I wait, I breathe in the caffeinated aroma, which helps bring me to life. Some days, coffee is the only thing I live for. No joke.

  My father and I have a unique relationship. We each do our best to ignore the others existence. Most days, it's easy. He wakes up, usually hung-over, then finds some sort of work to pay for the rent and his booze. While I do my best to stay out of his way. It's win-win, really. Nine times out of ten, he doesn't even remember I live here. It's the tenth day you gotta watch out for. Those are days he remembers that I'm alive, and his beloved wife isn't.

  He's been sober-ish for about a month now as far as I can tell. He seemed to stop drinking when he made the choice to move back to Mom's home town. I don't expect it to last. But I haven't seen the vodka bottles piling up yet. I avoid him though, just in case. Because, let's be honest. There are mean drunks, and then there is my dad.

  The coffee finally coughs out its last drop from the blasted machine, so I start adding several artificial flavor packets in a feeble attempt to make it taste palatable. Obviously, because of my dad’s work ethic, we can't afford the real beans, but still, this artificial crap is just wrong. It's like giving tofu to tigers.

  As the powder dissolves, I look down at my dad's butt hanging out of his pants and start an imaginary conversation with the shell of a father I have:

  “Only two more days till school starts, Jada lamb. You excited?”

  “I sure am, Dad! I can't wait to start my senior year.”

  “I'm so proud of you, hun. I wish your mother was alive to see this.”

  I sigh to myself. That talk will never happen, Jada. Keep dreaming.

  Jumping off the counter, I try not to think about school, cause let's face it: schools are cruel, especially to the newbies. I should know. I’ve started nine different schools so far. Each move promised a new beginning and each one fell flat. It didn't matter where we went, there would always be some random thing that reminded Dad of her. Of the life he had before I screwed it up. Then his depression would return, the vodka would come out, something bad would happen and we would have to move. It was the circle of my life.

  I don't blame him for who he turned into. I should, but I don't. I blame people's ridiculous obsession with love. It's unhealthy and unrealistic. People who believe in love are nothing short of brainwashed. They've been made to think the fairytale is real. But, I know the truth: love is a lie mankind made up to give us hope for something, anything, better than what we are.

  Setting my cup down, I move over to the fridge to scavenge for breakfast. The selection is limited, to say the least. “So much for eating,” I grumble to myself.

  “I’ve got a job this morning over at Ms. Philips’ place,” Dad yells, from under the sink. “Her hot water heater kicked the bucket last night.”

  That may be the longest sentence he's ever said to me.

  “Okay,” I say, slipping out of the back door. It's better not to engage in conversation with him if I can avoid it.

  Outside, I sneak a peak over to Ms. Philips' trailer. Her place doesn't look any better than ours, so I wonder if she will actually have the cash to pay for the repairs. She does, however, own a car. Something we haven't had in years. Once gas prices hit nine dollars a gallon in 2020, Dad sold the truck and we've relied on public transportation ever since. Too bad, there isn't any here in Webster. Maybe having a neighbor with a car will come in handy.

  Annoyed, I start walking to school to register for classes. It is supposed to be a ten minute jaunt down the dirt road that leads into town. Already the sun is beating down on me, and it's only eight o'clock. Sighing, I start down the road. If I'm going to survive here in the boondocks, I guess I'm gonna have to learn how to hoof it.

  Tobias

  “Tobs!” I hear my name being called the second I step out of the shower. Water drips off onto the green, cracked tile floor. “Get your ass out here and help me bag this bird before your mom comes home and skins me alive!” I shake my head. It’s Hawk. If he wasn't my best friend, I swear I'd have to hit him.

  I grab a thread bare towel and wrap it around my waist. Prying open the swollen window sill, I duck my head out. Just as I do, an arrow lodges itself deep into the wooden frame beside me—and inches from my face.

  I rip my head back, banging it against the sill. “Damn it, Hawk! You could have hit me,” I shout down at him, feeling my head for a lump.

  He gives me an incredulous smile. “If I had wanted to hit you, I would have. Want me to prove it?” He aims his bow at my head and I duck. Although I know he's kidding, his aim is lethal.

  “Will
you stop? My mom’s coming home, in like, thirty minutes,” I yell.

  “Exactly, so get your butt down here!” he shouts back at me.

  I shake my head, knowing he won't stop pestering me until he gets what he wants. Hawk has a way of doing that. It pisses me off sometimes. “Hang on,” I tell him. “Let me get some clothes on!” I yank the arrow out of the frame and toss it down to Hawk who catches it before it lands. I pull the window back down and feel the welt on my head. Damn.

  Still dripping wet, I climb over piles of dirty clothes and balled up wads of used tissues. I've been hacking up a lot of junk lately and have been too tired to clean up. I sneak a puff off my inhaler and feel my lungs expand. Stupid asthma.

  I rummage through the options I have to wear, sniffing around for what is the least offensive. I was supposed to do the laundry this morning, but I slept in, which is odd for me. Normally, I'm up with the sun, but today... I don't feel all that great. Not that there is anything unusual about that. I never feel one hundred percent, but lately my asthma has been getting worse. I’m hoping it’s just because of the change in seasons and not what I think it is. I'm living on borrowed time with this diseased lung. If my name doesn't get chosen for a donor soon... well, let's just say Hawk will have to learn how to hunt on his own.

  Downstairs, I pocket my inhaler and pop a neon-yellow allergy tab. I still miss the old-school pill form I used to take when I was a kid. At least with those you didn't have to endure the acidic taste as it dissolves on your tongue.

  I run my hands through my chaotic dark curls in a pathetic effort to style my hair and then swipe a toothbrush across my less then perfect teeth. I frown at my reflection. I’m not an ugly dude, I'm just not the type of guy anyone would ever mistake for Hawk; especially with this gaunt, sick look I’ve got going on.

  As soon as I get down the porch steps, Hawk throws my bow at me, which I don't manage to catch. My fingers fumble to grasp the string, but I just end up looking like an idiot when I miss. He laughs at me.