The Time Stopper Read Online Free PDF Page B

and I enjoy it immensely for the fiction that it is. Those writers make these things so light and fluffy, it’s like a fairy tale. In real life—at least in my real life—people are self-destructive, violent liars who will cheat and steal if they can get away with it. Outside of the mob, they put on a façade of civility, but as a Reader, I know what hides behind their polite smiles. In the mob, they don’t even try to hide it. The criminals are more honest, in a way. Then again, the depravity of some of the things I Read in Victor’s club and other similar places is mind-boggling. I sometimes can’t sleep for weeks after getting one of those ‘snuff Reads’—
    I shake my head. Man, I need to get back some positivity.
    To do that, I grab some ice cream before leaving the movie theater. Nothing is more positive than ice cream.
    Afterwards, I decide against getting dinner. Instead, I go into the theater bathroom to change into my killer dress, and while I’m at it, I put on some makeup and a pair of high heels. It’s time to have some fun and go clubbing. Why the hell not? It’s my fucking birthday.
     
    * * *
     
    “Are you Russian?” is what I think the guy tries to say to me over the pounding music of the dance club.
    “Da,” I yell, nodding to the beat.
    “Can I buy you a drink?” he says in Russian. Or I assume that’s what he says because I catch the Russian word for drink over the noise, and he also puts his hand to his mouth in that universal drinking gesture. Not to mention, he points at the bar.
    I look the guy over. Tall, broad-shouldered, he looks like the kind of guy I would’ve liked if I’d remained normal. Since I’m trying to be normal tonight, I let him buy me a Grey Goose with Red Bull, my party-all-night drink.
    I love these Russian-owned clubs, even if sometimes the owners are in the mob. The vodka selection is always topnotch, the DJs are great at mixing the tracks, the music they mix is more to my taste, and the bartenders never ask for ID. I have a fake one, of course, but I prefer not to be asked. What’s more, here they never give you that I-know-that-ID-is-fake-but-hey-now-I’m-off-the-hook-little-girl look.
    As I sip my drink, the guy introduces himself and gives me some compliments, but I only hear bits and pieces. Finally, I have to lean in and yell into his ear, “I can barely hear you!”
    “Would you like to dance?” He leans down, yelling into my ear, and I can finally hear him.
    “Absolutely.” I’m about to add his name, but realize that I can’t remember it. Talk about embarrassing. I can’t ask him now. Of course, I can always Split and check his wallet for an ID, so maybe later I’ll do that.
    He’s a great dancer, with a sense of rhythm that I haven’t been lucky enough to run into before. And speaking of lucky, I’ve lucked out in that he’s also just the right amount of grabby. Although, after a song or two, with the buzz from the drink starting to hit my brain, I decide that he’s not grabby enough. I take his hands and stick them on my butt. He, smart guy that he is, gets the point, and from here on out, there’s a lot more touching. He even goes for some ear-nibbling, which I approve of.
    We dance like that for at least ten songs. My legs begin to ache, and my head is spinning. I feel great. I feel as if . . . well, as if it’s my fucking birthday.
    Another few songs, and I’m grinding against him. He clearly likes it—that or there’s a flashlight in his pocket that I hadn’t noticed before.
    “Do you want to get out of here?” he asks me eventually.
    “Sure.” I give him one last grind—in case there’s any misunderstanding as to where this night is headed. “Let’s go to your place.”
    He’s holding my hand as we start making our way through the crowd, and then, suddenly, he stops.
    He’s staring at the chest of a gargantuan bouncer.
    “Leave,” the bouncer growls. He must have sixty pounds’ worth of lungs alone; I can