Shattered: An Extreme Risk Novel Read online

  Shattered is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Flirt eBook Original

  Copyright © 2014 by Tracy Deebs-Elkenaney

  Excerpt from Shredded by Tracy Wolff copyright © 2014 by Tracy Deebs-Elkenaney

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States of America by Flirt, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  FLIRT and the FLIRT colophon are trademarks of Random House LLC.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-8041-7775-7

  Author photograph © Kevin Gourley

  This book contains an excerpt from Shredded by Tracy Wolff, the first Extreme Risk novel. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the content of the final edition.

  www.readflirt.com

  Cover design: Caroline Teagle

  Cover image: Ray John Pila/ImageBrief

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Other Books by This Author

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Ash

  Chapter 2: Tansy

  Chapter 3: Ash

  Chapter 4: Tansy

  Chapter 5: Ash

  Chapter 6: Tansy

  Chapter 7: Ash

  Chapter 8: Tansy

  Chapter 9: Ash

  Chapter 10: Tansy

  Chapter 11: Ash

  Chapter 12: Tansy

  Chapter 13: Ash

  Chapter 14: Tansy

  Chapter 15: Ash

  Chapter 16: Tansy

  Chapter 17: Ash

  Chapter 18: Tansy

  Chapter 19: Ash

  Chapter 20: Tansy

  Chapter 21: Ash

  Chapter 22: Tansy

  Chapter 23: Ash

  Chapter 24: Tansy

  Chapter 25: Ash

  Chapter 26: Tansy

  Chapter 27: Ash

  Chapter 28: Tansy

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Shredded

  BY TRACY WOLFF

  Full Exposure

  Tie Me Down

  Ethan Frost Novels

  Ruined

  Addicted (coming soon)

  An Extreme Risk Novel

  Shredded

  Shattered

  Prologue

  “It’s quite a day here at the X Games in Aspen, Colorado. Most of America’s Olympic snowboarding team is here—along with those from other countries—and the conditions are excellent. Lots of powder, with light wind. It’s going to be an incredible night here at the Men’s Snowboarding SuperPipe Eliminations. And I, for one, can hardly wait to get started.”

  “Me neither, Mike. There is so much talent in this competition that I don’t even know where to start trying to predict who’s going to make it through to the finals, let alone who’s going to take the top three seats at the end of the weekend.”

  “I know what you mean. These guys are amazing. I’ve been a fan of snowboarding for over a decade and I’m telling you, I’ve never seen the sport as exciting as it is right now. This last year, these boarders have pushed themselves—pushed their bodies and the sport—until the results are spectacular. I expect to see tricks today that no one even thought possible a year ago. That’s how much this sport is changing every season, every day.”

  “Absolutely, absolutely. Of course, there are a few favorites that we’ve got to root for here in the SuperPipe. Z Michaels has been shredding the snow this year and if I have to pick a favorite to take home the top prize, it’s going to be him.”

  “I agree. But he’s not the only one to watch. Luc Jennings has a really good shot at making the top three, along with Ash Lewis.”

  “I don’t know about that. If you’d talked to me a month ago I would have said Ash and Z would be duking it out for the top spot here at Aspen. But with the tragedy that’s recently befallen Ash … he’s shaken. I mean, anyone would be, losing his parents like that. And with his little brother still hospitalized, it’s just a mess. You hate to hear about this happening to anyone, anytime, but to Ash Lewis? Right as he started his quest for Olympic gold? It sucks, man. It just sucks.”

  “It really does. He’s such a sick boarder and such a great guy. He’s been with his brother pretty much nonstop since the accident, even missed most of the Olympic trials to sit by his bedside. He made the team anyway—based on his performance at that first competition—and they’ve given him room to grieve. But from what I understand the coaches laid down the law. He needed to be here today or lose his spot on the Olympic team.”

  “That’s harsh, but understandable. These games are huge, and it’s a shot for boarders from all over the world to go head-to-head before the Olympics. Still, I’m not sure how ready Ash is for the SuperPipe. The other competitors have been here for days, getting used to the pipe and the slopes, but Ash flew in just a couple of hours before the slopestyle competition this afternoon—”

  “Come on, man.” My best friend Z grabs me by the upper arm, pulls me out of hearing range of the announcers. “We need to get going.”

  I know he’s right. Just like I know the last thing I need to be doing right now is listening to what the announcers are saying about me. Especially when they’re talking in those sad voices, like they pity me. Like I’m the one who died or something.

  I don’t need their pity. I don’t need anything. After all, I’m just fine. I’m healthy, strong, in one piece.

  And alive.

  Don’t forget I’m alive. Not like my parents who died in a car crash on the way to see me board at the Olympic trials. And sure as hell not like my little brother, Logan, who’s in a coma in the hospital back in Salt Lake, broken into a thousand different pieces.

  I don’t say that to Z, though I know he’ll listen … and get it. In fact, I don’t say anything to him at all, even though he’s pretty much been the only thing keeping me sane these last few weeks. Well, him and Luc and Cam and Ophelia. They were there when the news came through about my parents and they’ve been there for me pretty much every minute since.

  They dealt with the police and the hospital shit when I couldn’t think.

  They took care of the funeral for me when I couldn’t cope.

  And at least one of them has sat beside me every single day at Logan’s bedside, even when I can’t talk, can’t function, can’t breathe.

  Especially then.

  Z worked his magic on the Olympic coaches, getting them to give me unprecedented privileges these last few weeks as I’ve tried to wrap my head around the fact that my entire life has pretty much imploded. But even he couldn’t fast-talk them into letting me skip the X Games, and so I’m here, feeling totally unprepared and totally apathetic about all of it.

  Neither is a feeling I’m used to. I’ve wanted to board pretty much from the time I learned to walk. My parents put me on a snowboard for the first time when I was four, and I swear, I’ve never looked back. From that moment on, all I’ve ever wanted to do was ride. Everywhere. All the time.

  Until now.

  “You doing okay?” Z asks as we start the steep climb to the waiting area for SuperPipe competitors.

  “Fine,” I tell him.

  He looks at me for a second, his eyes searching my face. I stare blankly back at him, refusing to acknowledge just how much he does empathize. How can he not after living through his own sister’s death all those years ago? And the
last thing I want to do is mess with his head right now, when things are finally, finally going so freaking well for him.

  He wants to say something else, I know he does, but I guess he’s as worried about messing with my head as I am about messing with his. I almost tell him not to worry. My brain’s so fucked up right now that there isn’t much that could make it worse. Except maybe another phone call, this one telling me that my brother is dead, too. It sounds morbid to even consider it, but the truth is that’s all I’ve been able to think about since I got to Aspen.

  Logan, dying alone in that hospital room because I’m here, worried about the Olympics. Worried about making a perfect 1440. Worried about boarding.

  The next few minutes pass in a blur. I’m watching the monitors, watching the others do their runs on the pipe. Usually, I’m analyzing every rider, studying what they do well—and what they don’t. That or keeping an eye on Z, trying to make sure that he’s doing okay. That his head is in the right space. It feels weird to stand here knowing that this time my friends are watching me. Worrying about me.

  That this time everyone thinks I’m the one who might freak out.

  Not that I plan on doing that. No way, no how. I’ve got to stay in control, got to keep it together. If I don’t, I’m afraid I’ll shatter into so many pieces they’ll never put me back together again. It’s been a month since the accident and every day feels like the first one. Like the shock is brand new again and again and again.

  It’s almost my turn. They’re herding me toward the deck and, for the first time ever, I’m not ready to go.

  But it’s not like I have a choice. This is it. Ride now or lose the Olympics. Turn in the run of a lifetime or lose my dream forever.

  The guy in front of me is good—really good—but not unbeatable. I watch him throw down a 1260, followed by an inverted back 1080. He ends with a triple cork. It’s a strong run, but I can beat it in my sleep. And Z, Z can annihilate it.

  “You ready?” the organizer at the top asks me as I finish strapping on my board.

  For some reason, the question hits me hard. I wasn’t ready for any of this. I wasn’t ready for my parents’ deaths. I wasn’t ready to be my brother’s guardian. And I sure as hell wasn’t ready to walk away from him. To leave him, in a hospital, alone.

  “Ash?” he repeats. “You good to go?”

  I nod, take a deep breath. Try to get my head where it needs to be. But as soon as I shove off, I know this isn’t going to work.

  The commentators are talking, the crowd is cheering, I’m dropping in on the pipe—my favorite place to be—and the truth is, I just don’t feel anything. Not the cold, not the adrenaline that usually rips through me. Not the sharp prickle of awareness about how easily this can all go wrong. I’m numb, completely numb.

  But it doesn’t matter because I’m down the pipe, building momentum, carving back up. It’s time for my first trick—a sick, inverted 1280. I need to go for it, need to hit just right to get the momentum so early in the run. I’m there. I can feel it in the slide of the board against the snow, in the angle of my body in the wind. And I just don’t give a damn.

  I miss the trick, don’t even try for it.

  I can hear the confused muttering of the crowd, the blankness in the announcer’s voice. But it’s like they’re talking about someone else. Someone whose future—and past—I just don’t give a shit about.

  I come down the side of the pipe fast, then, like I’m supposed to. But instead of carving up the vert on the other side, I turn. Coast. Board a straight line down the center of the pipe. All around me, people are talking and calling things out. Maybe they’re booing. Whatever it is, doesn’t matter anyway.

  I get to the end of the pipe, and Luc is waiting for me, face white and mouth tight. “What’s going on, man? You hurt?”

  I shrug off his hand as I kick out of my board. He doesn’t say anything else, just watches me with wide, anxious eyes. I turn away, but I can still feel his eyes on me. Feel him staring at me, staring through me.

  In the old days, this would be the time for me to shoot him a reassuring smile. The time for me to crack a joke or tell a story, maybe even throw a fake punch or two.

  Because I’m the one who always keeps us on an even keel. Who makes sure everything is smooth and right and normal. But I can’t do that now. I can’t act like everything is fine when my whole world is anything but smooth, anything but normal.

  As I straighten, I see Cam and Ophelia making their way through the throngs of spectators. Eyes wide, faces worried, they’re headed straight for me and I … I just can’t deal with any more concern right now. I feel like I can’t breathe, like their care is pressing down on me from every side. Smothering me. Drowning me.

  “I gotta go,” I tell Luc.

  He stiffens, eyes going wide in alarm. “Logan?”

  Of course he’d think that. Of course he’d think something had happened to my little brother. Why else would I be walking away from this? From my dream?

  I look around at the crowds, at the pipe that even now has another rider on it. At the snow that’s been as much a part of me as my blood for as long as I can remember. At my friends. At the Olympic coaches watching me from their booth at the top of the stands.

  And I feel nothing.

  “I gotta go,” I tell Luc again. This time, I toss my snowboard—my state-of-the-art Jones Aviator—at his feet.

  He squawks in alarm, but I ignore it, ignore him—ignore everything—as I turn and walk away. Behind me Cam is calling my name, trying to weave her way through the crowds, but I just walk faster. I’m done. More than done.

  Snowboarding is my past. And my future … yeah, well, right now I don’t feel like I have one.

  Chapter 1

  Ash

  Nothing improves a shit day like fucking a snowbunny in the summertime. The fact that I never have to see her again makes it even better. At least that’s what I tell myself.

  “Can I call you?”

  I pause in the act of buttoning up my jeans to glance at the girl still pressed up against the wall. Her lips are swollen, her makeup smeared, her clothes disheveled. She’s got long blond hair and wide brown eyes. Big boobs and long legs sticking out from under her short, crumpled sundress. A pretty decent smile. And despite the fact that I just had my dick in her mouth, I can’t remember her name.

  For a second, shame wells up. This isn’t me, a voice taunts from the back of my head. This whole careless, one-fuck stand thing isn’t who I am. I don’t treat women like this, never have. That was always more Z’s department.

  Except—I watch as she puts her bra back into place, pulls the top up and the straps onto her shoulders—apparently I do now. Because I don’t know her name and I don’t want to. I don’t want her to call me and I sure as hell don’t want to call her.

  I’ve got too much other shit to deal with right now. An anonymous fuck is about all I’ve got in me.

  Still, I’m not such a douche that I say that to her. “Sure,” I tell her instead, running a careless hand through my hair as I rattle off my number. I glance around for my shoes before realizing that they’re still on my feet. I never even bothered to take them off.

  “I gotta go, babe. Thanks for the—” I break off, gesturing to her red mouth and still shiny lips. “I’ll see you around.”

  And then I’m gone, letting myself out of her hotel room and heading down the hallway. We’re on the top floor of the resort, but I don’t bother waiting for the elevator. It takes too long. Besides, these days, I’m not real good at inactivity. I like to keep going, keep moving. Makes it easy not to think. Kind of like anonymous fucking.

  I take the five flights of stairs at close to a run, walking through the door of the employees’ lounge exactly two minutes and thirty seconds before my twenty-minute break is supposed to be up. That means I’ve got just enough time to—

  “Hey, Ash. How’s it going?”

  I turn at the sweet voice, see Ophelia standing next
to me, her long, blond hair held back in a ponytail that’s already falling out. I smile cautiously. “Good, thanks. How are you?”

  “Tired of smelling like coffee,” she says with an eye roll. “I swear, I need to get another job.”

  I relax a little then, because she’s casual, normal. Not staring at me like her boyfriend, Z, does. She’s making conversation, not watching me like the rest of my friends. She’s not checking to see how I’m holding up. Not looking for cracks to exploit or signs that I’m falling apart.

  “It could be worse. You could be stuck outfitting tourists with gear and teaching them how to climb.” That’s my job. It’s a far cry from shredding the pow with a dozen sponsors footing the bill, but these days, that’s exactly how I like it.

  “Spoken like a man who hasn’t made one thousand, seven hundred and ninety-six lattes so far this week.”

  “I’m a little terrified that you know the exact number.”

  “Yeah, well, anal’s about a lot more than sex.”

  I burst out laughing. I swear to God, I never know what’s going to come out of this girl’s mouth. No wonder Z’s so fucking crazy about her. “On the bright side, I’m sure I’ve fitted almost that many stinky feet for hiking boots this week.”

  She pretends to gag. “Okay, you win.”

  “Always do.”

  Ophelia rolls her eyes again, starts out of the lounge. But then she turns, comes back, dives into me for a quick, hard hug. “You’re doing great,” she tells me. “Screw anybody who tells you differently.”

  And then she’s gone, leaving me with stinging eyes and a hollow feeling in my chest. Fuck. The blow job upstairs was supposed to take care of this shit. If I’m not careful I’m going to turn into a total fucking pussy. One who can’t handle his shit. At all.

  I grab a bottled water from the vending machine, then head down the hall to the rental shop. In the winter, it’s all about helping tourists get their snow gear—boots, skis, snowboards, helmets. I’m definitely not planning on being here for that. But in the summer, it’s not so bad. I rent out hiking boots, oars for the canoes, outdoor games and a bunch of other sun stuff. I also teach mountain climbing and run day hikes sometimes.