ABOUT THE BOOK
I’ve been an outcast my whole life. If my scars don’t scare people away, my attitude certainly will.
I don’t know what I am or how I got the power to stop time. What I do know is, there are far too many questions I need answers to.
When I cross paths with a local gang member, his presence unravels a part of my past I never knew existed.
At every turn, danger leaps closer, and I realize that stopping the killer will mean losing everything—including the first man I’ve ever loved.
But I should’ve known better. We were never meant to be anything more than a brief stop in time.
PROLOGUE
I’m dying.
The remaining dregs of life rapidly ebb, leaving me weaker by the second.
People say that when one is on the brink of death, they see their life flash before their eyes.
They’re right, because I see it all now. The ugly parts alongside the beautiful ones.
His demand sounds as though it’s being ripped from somewhere deep within, ripe with agony. “Don’t you dare fuckin’ die, you hear me?!”
But this is how it was destined to end. It’s better off this way.
He’s better off without me.
As my muscles go limp, I’m bombarded by the sensation of floating while a stray wisp of a thought lingers.
It’s ironic that the person with the power to stop time wishes she had more of it.
1
MACKENZIE FORD
Saturday Night
Mandarin Springs, Florida
Over Five Months Earlier
This was a mistake.
“Fuck, yeah. So fuckin’ good.”
The cords of his neck are taut, and I know he’s close to getting off, which pisses me off even more. If I showed the fucker a YouTube video on how to touch a woman’s clit to get her off, guaranteed he wouldn’t give a shit.
More than that, though, he closed his eyes the instant I insisted on getting on top, and I know why. I’m not a moron.
When you’ve got scars running down part of your face and the side of your body, it’s not exactly a sight to behold. They tend to put people on edge. It makes them uncomfortable.
I might have a fine-ass canvas of ink covering the bulk of it, from my left jawline down to my left ankle, but I still keep my shirt on. It’s easier; fewer probing questions to deal with.
But there’s no getting around the section of my face that’s visible for everyone’s viewing pleasure. Or lack thereof. Whatever.
The crazy thing is, if you take away my scars, I'm a solid nine—unless the guy hates tattoos, of course.
Looking at my right side in a full-length mirror, I know what men see. They see a woman whose curves can’t be concealed by jeans and a plain T-shirt. With smooth, perfect skin, a straight nose, and full lips that Botox fans would die for, it creates the illusion that I’m beautiful.
Until I turn. That’s when the guy realizes he’s getting a two instead of a nine, and disappointment sets in.
“Aw, fuck yeah.” His grunted words are punctuated by my pussy sliding down on his cock.
He’d rather do me doggy-style, so he doesn’t have to stare me in the face, but this position is better for me. And since he’s not the least bit concerned with anything other than getting his own rocks off, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
Why do I even bother going to all this trouble? Well, I’d deny it till my last dying breath, but deep down, there are times when I feel so damn lonely and isolated that I crave another person’s touch. A brief moment to feel connected to someone, even if it’s only physical.
That’s why, on occasion, I pick up an out-of-towner at the Freebird to scratch my itch. There’s no worry that I’ll have to face them afterward, and they consider fucking “the scar-faced chick” as something weird and different. But this whole deal has started to lose its luster.
If it ever really had a shine to begin with, that is.
I get that I’m a freak. That there’s not a chance in hell of finding someone who’d accept me for who I am and what I can do. I also can’t trust that another person wouldn’t try to use my ability for their own gain.
“Yeahhh. Just like that, baby.” He rolls his hips, and sure, it feels good, but he’s chasing his own goddamn O and not the least bit worried about mine. Which is why I have no choice in the matter. I need to take control of my own pleasure.
The instant I concentrate and press my thumb and finger together, everything goes still. Including the man beneath me. He lies there as if he’s frozen, and in a way he has.
Frozen in time.
No longer does a light breeze from the air-conditioning unit tousle the corner of the bedsheet. Now the material lies flat, unmoved. The near-lifeless bulb in the shitty desk lamp no longer performs its annoying off-beat strobe-light flicker.
Light from tonight’s half-moon drifts past the curtain’s edges, disrupting the room’s dark shadows. Its glow cuts a path that partially illuminates the man beneath me.
Face perfectly still, his mouth is parted. His chest no longer rises and falls, but he’s not dead.
An eerie silence has descended over the room, but I’m used to it. Used to being the only one impervious to the effect.
I shift on his hard cock and furiously rub my clit, eager to get off. My eyes fall closed as I chase my pleasure and dive deep into a place where nothing else matters.
Where my scars don’t elicit shudders or cringes. Where no one judges me strictly by my looks. Where it feels like I belong.
Where a man exists who could accept me for who I really am and be everything I secretly yearn for.
It doesn’t take long before I tip over the edge, my inner muscles spasming around his cock. With a wake of tremors still rolling through me, I press my thumb and finger together. It’s as though someone’s snapped their fingers, and he resumes moving once again.
His eyes flash open wide when he registers the wetness from my orgasm, only to skitter away from my face in the next instant. It’s as though my face is on par with staring directly at the sun.
He closes his eyes. “Fuck yeah, baby.” It doesn’t take but a few more thrusts before he empties himself into the condom with a loud grunt.
I slide off him, collapsing back on the motel bed, and stare up at the ceiling. His labored breaths mingle with the air-conditioning unit puffing cool air into the room.
Without turning to look at me even though my unscarred side faces him, he reaches for my hand and threads his fingers through mine. “Let me rest, and I’ll rock your world again. Sound good?”
“Mmm.” My noncommittal response evidently satisfies him because a moment later, his chest rises and falls in a steady, languid rhythm. Body relaxed, his mouth is parted slightly.
I wait for the guilt to set in, because I’ve used my ability for selfish reasons yet again.
It never happens.
2
DANIEL MADRANO
Palm Cove
Outside of Jacksonville, Florida