Abbie Zanders [Zanders - Raising Hell in the Highlands: A Time Travel Romance (A Timeless Love Book 2)

Raising Hell in the Highlands

A Timeless Love Series, Book 2

(Originally Published as Lost In Time II)

P lease note that due to strong language and some steamy romantic interludes, this book is intended for mature (18+) readers. If this is not you, then

1. Shame on you.
2. Give this book to your mother (or other mature adult) and let them enjoy it.

A islinn Isobeille McKenna was a survivor.

When the brutal car crash took the life of her family - including her mother - a full month before Aislinn was even supposed to draw her first breath, she pulled through tiny, wrinkled and screaming, but alive.

She was lucky, theyd said, to have been spared.

When the much bigger kids in the low-income housing parks where she grew up bullied her, she became quite a scrapper. She learned how to turn the most mundane items into weapons rocks, sticks, rusty pieces of tailpipe ripped from rotting junkers and fought back. More often than not she wound up bloodied and slightly the worse for wear, but stronger and a little smarter, too.

She was lucky, theyd said, that she was quick and resourceful enough to hold her own.

And when she entered her last tour of duty overseas with the elite Rangers though she herself could not officially be called one at the time because of her double-X chromosomes - and her assault vehicle was blown off the road by a land mine, the medics somehow managed to piece enough of her back together to send her home, though no one else in the convoy had been so lucky.

Lucky, theyd said.

Luck had nothing to do with it.

Y ou are lucky you get that check from the government every month, the landlord said, greedily snatching up the cash she held out to him. His fingers brushed against hers in the process, sending shudders of revulsion up and down her spine. In Aislinns opinion, the man was one step up on the evolutionary scale from a dung beetle.

Beady black eyes leered at her, blatantly looking her up and down. The pungent aroma of his rank body odor mixed with his rancid breath; it was only through years of training and discipline that she managed to control her gag reflex. There was odious, and then there was Manny.

Some people actually have to work for a living, he sneered.

Aislinn didnt rise to the bait. Manny had probably never done an honest days work in his life. Slum-lord, drug dealer, and part-time pimp didnt count. The man was literally a boil on the ass of society.

Or at least he was . By tomorrow, it was doubtful Manny would be anything. Assuming, of course, Manny did what he always did that is, skim a little off the top for himself before handing over the rent money to the real owners. They were a group of highly-motivated individuals who preferred not to be ripped-off, and were less than pleased when they received anonymous tips concerning Mannys entrepreneurial endeavors to create a little side-business of his own.

Yep, tomorrow was Christmas, and the hard-working, blue-collar tenants of this building would be receiving a gift in the form of one less vile rat-bastard to make their lives miserable. It wasnt much, perhaps, but it was the best she could give them under the circumstances.

Yeah. Everyone should be so lucky, Aislinn responded in a voice devoid of emotion. She forced the door closed in his unshaven face and exhaled heavily.

If he only knew what she had done to receive that monthly check. What she had seen. War. Blood. Carnage. Death. All of her life people had been telling her she was lucky, but she sure as hell didnt feel that way.

So she had a knack for not dying when everyone else around her did. Could that really be considered luck? How was it a good thing to be the only one left behind, to have people look at her, wondering why ? What made her so fucking special?

Maybe the ones who didnt make it were the lucky ones. Freed from living in a world of violence and hate, they were beyond the pettiness and greed that polluted the land and the air and the hearts of so many. Whether you believed in some utopian form of afterlife or not, whatever came next had to be better.

Unless, of course, you were riding the express lane straight to Hell.

Aislinn didnt think she was, but what did she know? Maybe the road to Hell really was paved with good intentions, in which case there was already a special pool of fire and brimstone with her name on it.

These dismal thoughts and a thousand disheartening memories drifted through her mind. She surfed over them on the half-bottle of Jack Daniels, looking down impassively as if she was watching someone elses life instead of her own.

Had it been a movie, it would have done lousy at the box office. One unfortunate occurrence after another, without the occasional comic relief or romantic interest to make it bearable. Scenes of death, of malice, of poverty and cruelty flowing seamlessly from one minute to the next. By the halfway point, most people would have left their seats in search of something better. Those who managed to grit their teeth and last a bit longer would have no doubt been those rare, optimistic souls who always held out hope for a happy ending, though there seemed little chance of that at this point.

Was this the end, she wondered? Or would there be another day, and another, a seemingly endless series of days that stretched out farther and farther, until there just wasnt anything left?

She was so tired. So very tired. At barely twenty-five years old, Aislinn McKenna could feel things were drawing to a close.

The sad little solitary string of Christmas lights an impulse buy from the nearby Walgreens - winked at her. The prism in her vision was the only clue that she had been crying. She hadnt even realized it. Aislinn, as a rule, didnt cry. There wasnt much point, really. Not when it only signified a weakness. Not when there was no one there to hold you, or wipe the tears away, or offer some comforting words. When you were alone, and all was said and done, tears only depleted you of fluids that could be more useful elsewhere.

She had no family. No friends. No life. A status known in the Army as SNAFU Situation Normal, All Fucked Up. It was right up there with FUBAR Fucked Up Beyond All Repair.

The big clock tower a couple of blocks away chimed. Ten bells. Aislinn closed her eyes and let each one settle inside her, the noise somehow soothing. Only when the last one faded away did she open her eyes and screw the top back on the bottle of Jack.

Aislinn brushed her teeth and washed her face, avoiding the haunted hazel eyes she knew she would see if she looked in the mirror. She carefully combed her hair long thick waves of caramel and mocha and dark chocolate and gold now well past her shoulders. Stripping off the army-issue T and gym shorts, she slid into the nicest outfit she had a pair of black jeans, black shirt, black boots with kick-ass heels. What the hell, she thought, glancing down at the ever-present dog tags. On top of them, Aislinn put on the white gold cross, the fine delicate chain feeling exceptionally light in her fingers. It matched the series of hoops and studs along her ears, her nipples, her navel, and her sex, the results of a whole lot of dares and carpe diems .

It was Christmas Eve, after all.