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Acknowledgments
I’m always a little at a loss for words when I sit down to write the acknowledgments for a book. Because while I write the actual words that you read, so, so much more goes in to the book—the writing of it and the producing of it.
So first of all, I’d like to thank everyone at Random House who has done such amazing, amazing things with this book—and with me. Sue, Gina, Kim, and everyone else who has helped make this, and all my books what they are, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
I also need to thank:
My agent, Emily Sylvan Kim, for everything. You are one of my favorite people in the whole world and I adore you.
My dear friends—Emily Mckay, Tera Lynn Childs, Shellee Roberts, Julie Kenner, Sherry Thomas, Monica Murphy—who listen to me whine and who always know just what to say. You are all goddesses and I love you more than I can ever say.
Katrina Tinnon—for everything from heading up the Wolff pack to the bright orange bow. You are the best!
My family—thank you, Mom, for all the times you’ve taken over so I can write. And thank you to my guys, for putting up with all the late dinners, all the times you catch me talking to thin air while I’m plotting out a scene, all the hours I spend holed up in my room when I should be hanging with you, and for all the love and support and enthusiasm you give me every day. I love you.
And finally, I have to thank my fans. Things have changed so much for me this year, because of you, and I am so, so grateful. Thank you so much for giving me a chance, for reading my books and for all of your enthusiastic emails and tweets and messages. They mean the world to me and I will never be able to thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me.
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Tracy Wolff collects books, English degrees and lipsticks and has been known to forget where—and sometimes who—she is when immersed in a great novel. At six she wrote her first short story—something with a rainbow and a prince—and at seven she forayed into the wonderful world of girls lit with her first Judy Blume novel. By ten she’d read everything in the young adult and classics sections of her local bookstore, so in desperation her mom started her on romance novels. And from the first page of the first book, Tracy knew she’d found her lifelong love. Now an English professor at her local community college, she writes romances that run the gamut from sweet contemporary to erotica, from paranormal to urban fantasy and from young adult to new adult.
Read on for an excerpt from Tracy Wolff’s
Shredded
An Extreme Risk Novel
Z
I’m halfway up the mountain on the magic carpet when it hits me that it’s dark. Really dark, not just getting dark. Which sucks because it means I’m done. That was the last run. No more boarding tonight since all of the good runs close down once it hits full dark.
Normally that’s not a problem—I’ve been out here for seven hours already and my body could use a break, especially since my toes started going numb over an hour ago.
But tonight I’m not ready to go in. Not now, when my skin feels itchy and too tight and my brain is spinning with the need to forget—
I cut the thought off as I exit the ski lift at the top of the mountain and unhook my gear. Instead I concentrate on unbuckling my board and checking the screws at the bottom of it to make sure there’s no damage. I totally barged that last run—which was banging at the time—but I carved the last few rails hard. My board took most of the impact, and I want to make sure it’s still solid.
Turns out it is, and I’m just sliding it into the equipment rack to the right of the lift when Cam steps onto the snow behind me. She’s as excited as I’ve ever seen her. “Dude, that last run was wicked! I’ve never seen you do that inverted triple cork before.”
“That’s ’cuz there are too many gaffers around here to get in the way.” The last thing I need is to get tangled up with a tourist who doesn’t know what he’s doing—that’s how shit
turns ugly, fast. But today I couldn’t stop myself from busting out. From the second I woke up this morning there’s been this force building inside me, pressing down on my chest until I feel like I’m drowning. On days like this, taking it out on the powder is the only way I can breathe.
But the run’s shutting down—Cam was the last one up—and the feeling’s back, worse than before. I’m standing here, wind kicking up, fresh air all around me, and still I’m suffocating.
Beside me, Cam dumps her stuff next to mine, then heads for the bench where we normally wait for Luc and Ash to finish up at the half-pipe. I follow her, but the second I sit down next to her the itchiness gets worse. As does the throbbing at the base of my neck.
Nope, sitting here in the dark, waiting, isn’t going to do it for me tonight. Maybe if I’d brought some weed to mellow me out, but my stash is at home. When I’d left the house this morning, I’d told myself I could handle it. That today was just another day.
What a fucking joke that is. I feel like I’m going to explode.
I start to stand up again, to pace off the energy that’s slamming at me from the inside, but Cam stops me with a hand on my arm. “I’m serious. That trick was freakin’ amazing. How long have you been working on it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You probably started trying to do it yesterday.” She shakes her head, looks disgusted. “I’ve been trying to do a 900—any kind of 900—for months now, and we both know how well that’s going.”
I bite my tongue to keep from pointing out that she’s a girl—that no matter how strong she is and no matter how much she practices, I’m going to be able to do things she can’t. Not because I’m a better boarder, because I’m not. She’s totally sick on a snowboard. But testosterone is just one of those things. I’m physically stronger than her, so I can catch bigger air, do more complicated tricks.
“I’m serious,” she continues. “One of these days I’m going to figure out how to do that move.”
