A Shattered Moment

Book 1: A Fractured Lives novel

by Tiffany King

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; New Adult Romance

Synopsis

In the new series by the bestselling author of the Woodfalls Girls novels, six friends—fresh from high school graduation—discover that the future can come at you from out of nowhere.

This is Mackenzie’s story…

Mackenzie Wilson once had hope for what life had to offer, but everything changed on the night of her graduation. A year later, the only way she can find comfort is by keeping her head down and hoping she remains unnoticed at college.

When Bentley James discovered Mac in that twisted SUV, he was just a newbie EMT on his first call. It was a gut-wrenching moment that made him realize not everyone can be saved—and sometimes they don’t want to be.

A chance encounter on campus brings Bentley back into Mac’s life. Despite her initial resistance, he sets out to discover the girl hiding beneath a shield of seclusion. He evokes painful memories in Mac—but also feelings. As the spark between them grows, Mac must decide if she can let go of the past and believe in something as fragile as love…

Release date: May 5, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

contents

prologue

graduation night 2013

The breeze blowing through the open windows of the SUV was hot and sticky thanks to the blanket of humidity that was normal for this time of year. Not that my friends and I cared. Even with sweat running down our backs and our hair plastered to the napes of our necks. We were too amped-up to worry about something as pesky as the weather. Today we were free. This was the moment we had discussed at length. The moment we had planned for and dreamed about. We didn’t need drugs or alcohol to experience our current state of euphoria. We were high on life and the anticipation of what the future held.

Laughter filled the interior of the Suburban, drowning out the roar from the oversized off-road tires as we cruised down the highway. It was the sound of exhilaration and triumph fifteen years in the making. Fifteen years of friendship that had stood the test of time. Through the muck of adolescent squabbles, preteen dramas, and the turbulent years of high school, we had made it to the other side of graduation. Our friendship was unbreakable. We made a pact many years ago over mud pies and juice boxes. We swore we would always be friends. No matter what the obstacles, we managed to stay inseparable. Our parents, who had also become close over the years, had coined us the “Brat Pack.” They would laugh every time they said it, like it was some inside joke only they were privy to. I guess you had to be older than forty to get it.

I swept my eyes around the vehicle, listening to the loud music blaring from the radio as the wind played with my hair. With the exception of my family, anyone who had ever meant anything to me was here.

Zach was always our driver. His parents gave him the keys to the Suburban when he turned sixteen, knowing it was the perfect vehicle for our group. We were used to doing everything together, so it only made sense that the first of us to obtain a coveted driver’s license would receive a vehicle big enough to carry everyone. The Suburban was a year older than we were and had its fair share of dings and rust spots, but it was trusty and reliable.

If he minded becoming our designated chauffeur, he never complained. That was Zach in a nutshell. He was the guy everyone liked, and for good reason. He was the first to lend a hand or volunteer his services, or even listen if you needed someone to talk to. He had been the captain of the football team and class president junior and senior year. Zach was a born leader, which is why he was bound for FSU in the fall on full scholarship. He had also always been my stand-in boyfriend. It was an on-again/off-again routine we had fallen into. I knew I could always count on him. My plan was to avoid a serious relationship before college. Zach had provided the perfect buffer. All along we had planned to spend this final summer together before we headed off to separate schools. If Zach promised, I knew I could bank on it, or so I thought.

I pulled my thoughts away from their current path. There was no reason to muck up the evening we’d been planning forever. Instead, I moved my eyes to Dan and Kathleen sitting in the third row with their heads pressed together. They had been a thing since we were kids. Not a thing like Zach and me, but a real couple. Their love had been forged over shared cookies and building sandcastles. It had always been Dan and Kat/Kat and Dan. In the beginning, their parents tried to rein in their kids’ feelings for each other, but that was like telling the sun not to shine. They were the image of soul mates. The pending separation of our group would be hardest on them. Kat’s parents insisted on the idea of her and Dan attending separate colleges, at least for the first couple of years. They wanted her to be sure that Dan would be more than a childhood romance. Kat confided to us that she only planned on giving it a year, if that long. This is why I’d always kept things casual. As close as we all were as friends, the idea of planning your college career around a guy seemed extreme to me.

“Class of 2013, bitches!” Jessica yelled from the second row, where she sat with my best friend, Tracey. Filled with exuberance and more adventurous than the rest of our Brat Pack, they were usually also the loudest. They were ready to take on the world and would stretch their wings wider than any of the rest of us in the group. I actually felt a little jealous, wishing I had an ounce of their fearlessness. Tracey’s eyes met mine briefly before darting away. I grimaced without saying a word. Nothing would mar today. That is the vow I made to myself. Tomorrow would be soon enough to analyze what I had discovered.

I shifted back around in my seat as Zach drove over the causeway. We all whooped with our hands in the air as we reached the top. In the remaining light of dusk, we could see the dark never-ending expansion of water in the distance. We were close to our first destination of the evening.

Zach slowed to a crawl; maneuvering the Suburban around an old Lincoln Towncar going twenty-five miles per hour, even though the speed limit was almost double that. I had respect for my elders, but anyone who says teenagers are the worst drivers has obviously never lived in Florida.

Of course, Zach didn’t mind. He was patient and cautious, even after jerking the wheel to avoid a moped that darted in front of us. The bikini-clad girl perched on the back didn’t even bother looking at us as she flipped us off.

“Stupid asses, huh?” Zach laughed, shooting me a smile I thought I returned until I saw his face fall slightly before he looked back to the road. Sighing, I turned my head to look out my window. Of all the days for me to discover what had probably been going on under my nose for some time, why did it have to be today?

Seeing Zach’s smile drop, I realized I wasn’t fooling anyone. I could put on a facade that everything was okay, but deep down, three of us in this vehicle knew differently.

Minutes later we arrived at the public parking lot at New Smyrna Beach. We piled out of the Suburban, breathing in the salty sea air. Kat linked her arms with mine and Tracey’s while Jessica linked my other arm. Our human chain was complete when the guys bookended us on either side and we raced down the grassy slope to the long expansion of sand. We kicked our shoes off the instant our feet touched the sand, which had already started to cool now that the sun had gone down.

Laughter rang through the air as we raced toward the dark water without slowing. Our graduation robes flared out behind us like capes. With the wind whipping them around, we almost felt like we could fly as we splashed into the incoming waves. Nothing could hold us back. We were invincible.

•   •   •

We never made it to our second destination that night. Sadly, we weren’t invincible.

I would later be asked countless times what happened, forced to recall what I remembered about the accident that changed everything. Clarity of the events was never an issue. I breathed it—had nightmares about it. It would haunt me for the rest of my life.

Zach had just merged onto the interstate, heading toward Orlando. Everything happened so quickly and unexpectedly. My mind was still focused on what had transpired as we left the beach. Not on the careless driver on the highway who acted like we were never there.

It was Jessica screaming after the semitruck slammed into the side of the Suburban that will be forever burned into my mind like a bad song that refused to go away. The oversized advertisement for fresh strawberries that ran the length of the trailer was the last thing that appeared upright after Zach jerked the wheel to avoid another collision. I would later learn that our momentum combined with the impact from the trailer were the culprits for what happened next.

With the horrific grinding sound of metal against metal and the sickening smell of burning rubber, the wheels on the right side of the Suburban left the road, sending us airborne. I had heard once that when you’re in an accident, everything passes in a blur of slow motion. That is total bullshit. It’s instant chaos. Fast and scary are more accurate—and loud. So loud you feel like your ears will burst. So hectic you can’t tell where sounds are coming from. It’s a jumbled mess of groaning metal beat out of its original shape, shattering glass, blaring horns, and worst of all, screams of pain from your friends. And yet, through it all, I remember every detail with painstaking lucidity.

“How could you possibly know how many times the vehicle rolled?” That is always the first question asked when I recount the series of events for someone. It was a question that haunted me as well. It was as if I was being cosmically punished for some wrong I had committed. If I knew what it was, I would take it all back. I would trade places with any of my friends over being forever tormented by vivid memories that I could never escape. Each roll of the vehicle was significant by what it did to my friends. The first roll sent Tracey’s head against her window with a thud. The second roll abruptly silenced Dan, who had been swearing from the moment Jessica started screaming. Kat shrieked Dan’s name in anguish, overpowering Jessica’s screams during the third bone-crunching roll of the vehicle. On the fourth roll, Jessica’s screams stopped like someone had flipped a switch. I panicked, believing at any moment my last breath would be snuffed out like the flame of a candle.

We stopped on the fifth roll, finally coming to a rest mid-turn, leaving us upside down. The bench seat Zach and I shared tore away from the metal bolts that attached it to the floorboard and tumbled forward, pinning me to the dashboard. My head exploded with pain as it bounced off the windshield. I vaguely remember wondering why an airbag hadn’t opened. It turns out the old Suburban that Zach had been given by his parents was a year away from that upgrade. A steady hum filled my ears. It was as if I had been swaddled in a cocoon of cotton. I felt absolutely nothing.

one

Mac

one year later

“No, Mom, not this weekend,” I said, rolling my eyes at the phone even though she couldn’t see me. “I have a big test next week in sociology. I have to stay and study.” I sank down on the dorm room bed, which was adjusted to the perfect height for my bum leg.

“But, Mackenzie, you haven’t been home in ages.”

“Mac,” I corrected automatically.

She sighed, but didn’t comment on my correction. I had decided to change my name over a year ago, after the accident. For a while, she protested, which led to the same argument so many times, I could recite it word for word. I think she assumed I would eventually get sick of the shortened version or that if she ignored it and continued to call me by my full name, I would concede and “come to my senses,” as she would say. I could have told her not to hold her breath, but that would be like telling her I was fine, which was pointless because my mom had selective hearing. She didn’t understand what I had endured and probably never would.

I only half listened as she rattled out all the reasons I should come home for the weekend. My eyes drifted to the other side of the room that belonged to my dorm mate, Trina. I noticed her belongings were slowly beginning to disappear. It was no secret she was unhappy living with me. She had certain expectations for a college roommate, like occasional conversation, some exchanged pleasantries, maybe even a friendly smile once in a while. What she got instead was mostly silence mixed with shrugs, an occasional grunt, and a half-darkened room because I usually turned off my lamp at 9 p.m. each night and pretended to be asleep, even if I wasn’t really tired. She put up with it for a while, but eventually gave up trying to coax me out of my shell.

None of it was her fault, of course. I just wasn’t ready to be anyone’s friend. That was my mistake when I convinced my parents I would be better off living in the dorms than making the forty-five-minute commute from home for classes each day like I had done freshman year. I thought I was ready to interact, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. I wished I could find the words to explain myself to Trina, but I couldn’t seem to muster up enough emotion to care.

Mom broke through my thoughts when she switched the conversation to where it inevitably always ended up—the accident. I wondered if we would ever have a normal conversation again. She droned on about the letter that had come in from the law firm that was handling everything for the victims. That’s how we were referred to now—the victims. A full year had passed and the insurance companies were still dragging their feet, not allowing anyone involved to move on. They had proven to be complete scumbags. I couldn’t care less about the money or who was suing who. All I wanted was to be able to have a conversation with my parents without the words “victims” or “lawyers” or “insurance claims.”

I waited until she took a breath in between sentences. “Mom, I can’t talk about this now, okay? I’ll come home in a couple weeks. I really do need to study for my test.”

“Maybe your father and I can drive up to take you to dinner.”

This time it was my turn to sigh. I understood why she pushed so hard. Hell, for a long time after everything that happened, I needed her. I had become afraid of the dark. Closing my eyes meant reliving images that were too painful to remember. Mom spent many nights during my recovery sleeping in my hospital room in a backbreaking chair that converted into a narrow bed. Through it all she never complained. She was my rock. It was only after I left the hospital that I began to resent the constraints of having her around. At that point, everything was dictated for me. Therapy for my leg, follow-up visits with doctors, and weekly appointments with the psychiatrist were all scheduled for me. I had no say in anything. I knew my parents were only trying to help, but I felt smothered.

“Honey, are you listening?” Mom’s voice broke through my reverie.

“Yeah, Mom,” I lied. I didn’t have a clue what she had said.

“Okay, so we’ll pick you up tomorrow evening at five for Olive Garden, and then maybe afterward we can even see a movie. There’s that new romantic comedy with the guy from that Disney show you used to like.”

“You mean the show I haven’t watched since I was twelve? You do know I’m an adult now, right, Mom?” I pulled the phone away from my ear and silently screamed at it. “Look, my test is really important and—”

“I know, honey, but you have to eat, and taking two hours to relax while you watch a movie should be allowed. I realize you wanted to live on campus for some space, but it’s still just college, not jail.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be my argument?” I asked dryly. “A little space.”

I used the cane I had developed a love-hate relationship with, to rise from my bed. I absolutely hated being dependent on it, but I couldn’t deny its necessity. The hard truth was I would probably need it for the rest of my life. The surgeons had done everything in their power to fix my leg. In the end, despite having more hardware than the Bionic Woman, it was still a mess.

“How’s the leg?” Mom asked like she was hot-wired into my brain.

“Fine.” We all knew it wasn’t anywhere close to fine, but when she asked, what else was I going to say? At least I could walk. I was lucky in comparison to my friends. I jerked my thoughts back before they could stroll down that agony-filled path again. “Look, Mom, I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow for dinner.”

“And a movie,” she persisted before I could hang up.

“We’ll see,” I said reluctantly. “I love you.”

“Love you, too, sweets.”

Glad to have my daily interrogation out of the way, I placed my cell phone into the side pocket of my backpack for easy access. Gone were the days of carrying a purse. The backpack I used was lightweight and completely functional, keeping my hands free—one for my cane, and the other hand ready to catch myself on the rare occasion when my leg would not cooperate while walking on uneven ground. I had learned that painfully embarrassing lesson one time in front of the campus bookstore, falling flat on my ass when a seemingly innocuous crack tripped me up.

I gathered the rest of my belongings and headed for the library, leaving my newly constructed dorm building that resembled condominiums in size and amenities. My dad had complained when we toured the university during my senior year in high school that the campus was too “new looking.” Of course, he was an alumnus of Florida State University, which, he liked to brag, was steeped in tradition and character. Over the years, we had gone to several FSU football games, and to me, there was a fine line between history and just old. I personally preferred UCF’s modern architecture and facilities over aged vine-covered brick buildings. Of course, I had to keep my opinions to myself when I chose UCF since Dad would have a coronary if he heard me criticizing his old stomping grounds.

It was a long walk from my dorm to the library, and my leg had a tendency to lag about halfway there. I slowed my pace, hoping today it would give me a break until I could pass the lawn in front of the Student Academic Resource Center, where everyone liked to hang out. As I approached the popular hot spot, I tried to hide my limp as I passed a group of guys playing a game of Frisbee on the lush green lawn.

I remember the first brochure I opened for the school, before I had even decided to apply. I was immediately enthralled by the pictures of carefree students playing touch football and hanging out studying on heavy quilts lying in this plush expansion of grass. Everyone looked hip and happy. I remember thinking it reminded me of one of the Old Navy commercials on TV. I used to imagine myself in those pictures, spending time with the new friends I was sure to make. That memory was almost laughable now. I had no friends, and wouldn’t even think of trying to play Frisbee. Even something as simple as getting up from a sitting position on the ground required crawling and rocking back and forth as I tried to get my leg to cooperate.

My only goal, as it was every day, was to get to the library without anyone noticing me. Once I rounded the corner and was out of sight, my steps became nothing more than a shuffle the closer I got to my destination. Sweat beaded on my forehead while a steady stream ran down my back. There was no such thing as mild autumn temperatures in central Florida. Even in October, it was still eighty-five degrees and humid. I had exerted a fair amount of energy crossing the campus. My good leg was beginning to shake from shouldering the brunt of the work, while the handle of my cane became slick from the sweat of my palm. I knew I should stop and wipe it off, but I ignored it. I just needed to get to my safe place.

That was what the library had become for me. It was a sanctuary, an easy place to hide among the books and computers. Avoiding conversation was easy since talking in the library wasn’t encouraged. Being there made me feel normal—the way I wanted my normal to be—which was why I would trek halfway across campus every day after classes. Jake, my physical therapist, whom I still saw twice a month, was always riding me about pushing myself too hard, but the walk was better than the alternative of spending evenings at my dorm.

Not that I would ever admit that fact to Mom or Dad. They would press me to move back home again, but that would be the easy way out. All that did was keep me dependent on my parents. It was a struggle living on campus, but I had to keep trying. It didn’t help that no one seemed to respect private space and that every night felt like a giant sleepover. The first couple days of the semester, people barged into my room, looking for Trina, not even bothering to knock. By the end of the first weekend, I grew tired of it and started locking the door, forcing Trina to use her key anytime she entered. She was never quiet with her grumblings, making a point to tell me I was becoming the hermit of our dorm building. Ironically, I discovered the seclusion of the library around the same time that Trina started spending more time away from our room. I should have told her I was rarely there during the day anyway, but that would have required initiating a conversation.

I stopped just outside the library to let out a pent-up breath—taking a moment to wipe the perspiration from the handle of my cane.

A cool blast of air welcomed me as I pulled open the heavy door. Giving my eyes a chance to adjust to the dim interior, I glanced around the large room, grimacing at the crowds of people scattered about. Midterms for the first nine weeks were approaching, making my hideout a popular spot during the past week.

Trying to be discreet, I headed for my normal seat in the far corner of the room. My cane clicked loudly on the floor, echoing through the open space with each step. I kept my head down, trying to make myself invisible, but I could feel everyone’s eyes upon me. Their stares were heavy and smothering. It didn’t help that I was still overexerted from my trek across campus. My breath came out in slight wheezing gasps. I needed to sit. I made the final surge to my secluded seat, stumbling slightly from the floor’s transition from hard tile to carpet. Luckily, my cane helped keep me upright.

Relieved to be able to rest, I sank into the comfortable leather wing chair that I’d discovered weeks ago. If I had my way, I’d hang a sign from it, declaring this spot as mine alone. I closed my eyes, dropping my head into my hands as I waited for my lungs to start breathing evenly again. Maybe Jake had a point. It was possible my brisk pace to get past the crowded scene at the Student Resource Center wasn’t the smartest thing for me to do. My leg ached badly, and I felt slightly nauseous. I fumbled blindly through my backpack for a water bottle I knew I had packed, jumping at the sound of a male voice over my shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I answered, keeping my eyes closed while I gripped the arm of the chair. I could feel the presence of the person beside me, invading my personal space. I counted to ten in my head, waiting for him to leave.

“Do you mind?” My voice dripped like a leaky faucet with sarcasm after stopping at six in frustration.

“Not at all,” the stranger responded without budging.

“This seat is taken.”

He barked out a laugh. “I know. By me.”

Great. Just what I needed—a smart-ass. Dropping my hands, I glared up at the douche bag who couldn’t take a hint. I was just about ready to tear him a new one until his face came into focus.

I knew him, or at least, I remembered him. The one time I had gotten a good look at him would be forever branded into my mind.

•   •   •

graduation night 2013

A male face peered at me through the broken window, shining a small penlight into my eyes. “Do you know where you are?”

I started to nod my head, forgetting it was pinned against the dashboard. I grimaced from the resulting stab of pain. “Yes,” I answered.

“Try not to move,” he instructed. “Can you tell me what your name is?”

“Mackenzie Robinson.”

“Good, very good. Do you know what day it is?” He swept the light through the rest of the vehicle assessing the damage.

“Graduation.”

“Huh?” he responded, returning the light back to me.

“Today was graduation. May twenty-eighth.”

His face was difficult to make out in the dim light, but he was definitely younger with a boyish look. I couldn’t help wondering if he was even old enough to be here. No offense to him, but the last thing I wanted was someone who was new to the job.

He continued to ask me questions while he took my vitals. After assuring me they would have me out soon, he turned to Zach, who was not in my line of vision.

“Is he dead?” My voice was thick as I braced myself to hear the words I assumed to be true. The EMT didn’t answer, which made it much worse. Tears fell hot and fast from my eyes. I was stuck in a coffin with all of my friends. Why was this happening?

two

Mac

“You sorta stole my seat,” he chuckled, pointing to the backpack I had missed that was resting beside the chair. Judging by the array of papers spread out on the table, he’d been hard at work.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry.” Heat crept up my neck to my face as I fumbled around to locate my cane, which had slipped to the ground. After finding it, I struggled to get to my feet with my right leg still quivering. I couldn’t tell if he recognized me. The last time he’d seen my face, it was bruised and battered. I wasn’t even sure why I cared, to tell you the truth. I shook my head to clear the sudden cobwebs that had muddled my thoughts.

He gently pushed me back into the seat. “It’s no biggie. I can move to another chair,” he said, reaching for his backpack.

“I don’t mind moving,” I mumbled even though my legs were begging me to stay put.

“Please. I’m serious. You stay. This is my first time trying to study in the library, but I’ve discovered I’m easily distracted.”

I nodded my head, not sure what the appropriate answer would be. I looked away, hoping that would be the end of our exchange and he would move on. Hearing his voice again was stirring up the demons I worked hard to keep at bay.

I exhaled gratefully when he began to gather his papers.

“So, how have you been?” he asked.

Crap balls. That answered my question. Of course he recognized me. My friends and I had been splashed across the news for weeks after the accident. The media decided to make us the faces of No Texting While Driving campaigns.

Not that we were the culprits. My friends and I were the victims of a crime that was as illegal as drinking and driving, yet everyone seemed to do it. Everyone except Zach, who refused even to talk on his phone while he was driving. Even after all of us pitched in and bought him a Bluetooth earpiece for his phone, he refused to use it. That was the ironic thing about our accident. I couldn’t help wondering what had been so important that the truck driver felt the need to text while he was driving a big rig. Was he telling his wife he’d be home late, or maybe reminding his kids to finish their homework, or was he texting a buddy about going out? Did he regret that text now? Did he even realize or care about the lives he had shattered into a million pieces? There were so many questions, but no real answers.

“I, uh—” I tried to answer his question, but the tall bookshelves surrounding us began to close in on me. I was in no shape to flee, but I could feel the all too familiar signs of a panic attack approaching.

Panic attacks had become my body’s way of dealing with any uncomfortable situation since the accident. They were sneaky bastards, creeping in when I least wanted them to. Like the time Mom and Dad helped me get into a car for the first time after the accident, or when I drove by the scene of an accident six months after I was released from the hospital. I had become an expert at knowing when it was happening. My breathing would become labored, I would sweat profusely, and it was as if there was a voice in my head telling me to run or hide. Consequently, it had been nearly six months since my last attack and I had naïvely convinced myself they were gone for good.

Trying to get a handle on myself before things got too embarrassing, I moved my eyes past the EMT, finding a focal point on the wall just over his shoulder. Joan, my therapist, had given me tips and advice on how to avoid a full-blown attack before it sank its claws into me. It was all about focusing on something you could control. For me, it worked to count for as long as it took to calm down. I had reached twenty when I could feel the stranglehold of the attack slowly releasing me.

“You okay?” the EMT asked, stepping directly into my field of vision. It felt like déjà vu. My eyes became fixated by the soft comforting brown of his pupils. My breathing returned to n