Shredded: An Extreme Risk Novel: Flirt New Adult Romance Read online

  That little glimpse is all I need, the extra bit of reassurance that settles nerves I never knew I had and gets me down to business. I shove off and jump onto the top of the dumpster they’ve got set up for us to ride. I spin off that, hit the ramp into a solid double back rodeo. The landing’s perfect, and I coast backward down two sets of rails, adding in a little flip at the bottom of the second one for the hell of it.

  I can hear the crowd cheering, but I can barely hear it above the adrenaline rush. I’ve got this. I can feel it in my fucking boots. I’ve got this.

  I hit the second ramp, pull off a nice little triple cork 1260 for my girl, do another rail, and push my speed as I head into the big ramp that marks the end of the run. I hit it hard, grab decent air, and that’s when I bust out with the YOLO flip. For a second, just a second, I think I’m not going to land it. That this has all been a dream and I’m going to fuck it up like I’ve fucked up so many other things.

  But then Ophelia’s face flashes in front of me, her eyes shining a bright, bright emerald, and I know that it’s all real. That it’s all good.

  I land like a dream, then coast down to the bottom of the hill as the crowd goes crazy.

  Ash and Luc are waiting for me at the rope line, and they fucking jump on me the second I’m clear. “Holy shit!” Ash screams. “Holy shit!”

  “You did it!” Luc yells. “You fucking did it!”

  “The score’s not in yet.” But it doesn’t matter. It’s going to be good. We all know it. I barged that run. I fucking barged it.

  Instinctively I turn toward the stands, searching for Ophelia. She and Cam are battling their way through the crowd trying to get to me. The commentators are saying something, but all I can hear is my girl screaming my name.

  She gets to me just as the score is announced. It’s perfect. A perfect fucking score.

  I won.

  Holy shit. I won. Everyone has one more shot, but there hasn’t been another perfect score this whole competition. I fucking won this shit.

  The crowd is going nuts, and so are we—Luc and Ash, Cam and Ophelia. I try to maintain just a little bit of swagger, but it’s no use. I can’t stop smiling. I don’t think I’m fooling anybody, and you know what? For the first time, I don’t care. Nothing has ever felt this good.

  My girl is in my arms.

  My friends are all around me.

  And there is a perfect fucking score on that board up there.

  If I never have another day like this, it’ll be okay. Because I have this moment and that’s everything.

  My phone rings, but I ignore it. Nothing and no one is as important as right now.

  “We’ve got to go,” Luc says after a couple of minutes, when my phone rings a second time. “We’ve got to get back up there before we’re all DQ’d.”

  “I know, I know,” I tell him, then lean down and kiss Ophelia one more time.

  “Thank you,” I whisper against her lips. “Thank you for giving me this.”

  She shakes her head and cups my face in her hands as tears roll down her face. Before she can say anything, though, Ash grabs me by the collar and pulls me toward the lift. “Later,” I mouth to her.

  She nods, her smile so big and bright that I’m nearly blinded by it.

  We’re almost at the magic carpet when Ash’s phone rings. “It’s probably Mitch,” he says as he reaches for it. “Wanting to congratulate you since you won’t answer your phone.”

  But he looks confused when he sees the number.

  “Who is it?” I ask, suddenly feeling uneasy, though I don’t know why.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t answer. If it’s important, they’ll call back.”

  But it’s too late. He’s already dragging the phone open. “Hello?”

  He doesn’t say anything else for long seconds, but his face slowly drains of color.

  “Ash? Man? What’s wrong?”

  Luc crowds in, too, looking as worried as I feel.

  He doesn’t answer, but the phone slips from his grasp and hits the ground, hard. Seconds later he does the same thing.

  “What the fuck?” I glance at Luc, but he’s as baffled as I am.

  “Ash?” I say again as I crouch down next to him. “What’s wrong?”

  “My family,” he croaks.

  “What?”

  “Accident on the way up here. Logan’s in surgery and my mom and dad … My mom and dad are dead.”

  Don’t miss Ash’s story

  Shattered

  Coming soon from Flirt

  For my mom

  Acknowledgments

  As always, I have so many people to thank for this book. Sue Grimshaw, who is an amazing editor and who I, quite simply, adore. Thank you so much for putting up with all my whining and delaying when it came to Z—I hope it was all worth it in the end.

  Thanks to Gina Wachtel and everyone over at Random House, especially the art department (I know I was a huge pain about this cover—thank you, thank you, thank you) for your support and excitement about my books. It means the world to me.

  Thanks to Emily Sylvan Kim, intrepid agent and brainstorm partner extraordinaire. You are wonderful.

  Thanks to Shellee Roberts, Emily McKay, Sherry Thomas, and Julie Kenner for all the brainstorming help/handholding that went into me actually getting this book on the page. You’re the bestest friends a girl could ever ask for.

  Thanks to my mom who always comes down to help me manage the craziness that is my life just when I need her most. Love you, Mom. You’re the best!

  And finally, thank you to my guys, whom I love more than I can ever say. I am grateful every day for the chance to be your mom.

  BY TRACY WOLFF

  Full Exposure

  Tie Me Down

  Ethan Frost Novels

  Ruined

  An Extreme Risk Novel

  Shredded

  TRACY WOLFF lives in Texas and teaches writing at her local community college. She is married and the mother of three young sons.

  www.tracywolff.com/press_kit/

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Third Degree

  by Julie Cross

  Available from Flirt

  @IsabelJenkinsMD: Got another medical myth to debunk for you today.

  @IsabelJenkinsMD: Myth—humans only use 10% of our brains.

  @IsabelJenkinsMD: This very inaccurate theory is most likely the result of some pseudo-psychologist from 1900 trying to employ motivational tactics

  @IsabelJenkinsMD: in his/her patients on the order of “it’s physically impossible for bees to fly” so let’s all be inspired to do the impossible.

  @IsabelJenkinsMD: The bee flight issue has recently been clarified and there is now a scientific explanation.

  “It’s diabetes.”

  Justin taps his fingers on the receptionist’s desk outside the lab. “The kid’s been in the ER five minutes and you have a diagnosis. Bullshit.”

  I flash Justin a grin so I can keep from grinding my teeth. I don’t hate him. That would require a level of caring that we never reached. I loathe him. Him and his smaller-than-average penis. “He’s been here at least an hour, especially if you factor in the time in the waiting room.”

  “Why do you do that?” Justin snaps. “You know what I meant by five minutes. I know you did. You’re stalling because you don’t really have specific reasons to believe it’s diabetes. You’ve done some freakish statistics in your head and odds are in favor of diabetes.”

  Idiot. “And this is exactly why physical intimacy is all we were ever good at.”

  Justin’s eyebrows lift up. “Physical intimacy is all you were good at, Isabel.”

  Okay, so that stings. Not because I care what that stupid prodigy (though, if we’re getting technical, I started med school much younger than he) thinks, but more that I’m secretly petrified he’s right and the label will haunt me wherever I go. But the intern mantra, Show no fear, plays in my head a few times, gi
ving me a surge of confidence. “Oh, so you admit that I’m good in bed?”

  A flicker of regret flashes across his face, but like me, he knows the mantra. “I don’t recall any beds being involved. Floors, yes. A couple of walls.”

  A lab tech walks toward the front desk and stops when he sees us eagerly waiting. There’s a snort of laughter, followed by, “I bet the two of you would fork over some serious cash for the contents of this folder.”

  I snap my fingers. “Hand it over. Now.”

  “Ignore her, she has no people skills,” Justin says before turning to me, calm as anything. “A hundred bucks, the next three enemas, and a round of kindergarten booster shots on the line. Still going with diabetes?”

  He should know better than to doubt me when giving shots to a kicking, screaming kindergartener in the free clinic is involved. “Yes. Are you still going with lower intestinal bacterial infection?”

  The folder lands in Justin’s hand, but he continues to stare at me, not opening it. He plays this part of our game so well. It drives me nuts. I used to think it was sexy, but now I can’t stand him. Or his penis. The guy didn’t even start med school until he was nineteen. Some prodigy.

  “There’s no family history of diabetes. The kid’s only been sick for five days,” Justin repeats as if I don’t remember details of a patient exam that happened minutes ago. “He was in fucking Mexico last week!”

  “Enough,” the lady behind the desk hisses at us. “If Dr. Rinehart knew you were betting money on a patient’s diagnosis, you’d both be written up.”

  Everyone knows Justin and I play this game, but getting caught doing it by our boss is an entirely different thing. I lower my voice and snatch the folder from his hands, “Yeah, a posh all-inclusive resort where everything is imported from the States.”

  I open the folder, scan the blood-work numbers, and keep my face completely under control as I close it and pass it to Justin before walking off. I’m all the way to the ER doors before he comes jogging up behind me, the folder tucked under his arm. He pounds his palm against the button providing access to the ER.

  “I was right, wasn’t I?” he says. “You did some statistics thing in your head.”

  “Nope.”

  “We both know you didn’t go with a gut feeling because Isabel Jenkins only diagnoses with evidence.”

  I stop in the middle of the hallway and spin around to face him. “There might not be a family history of diabetes, but there is a family history of B-cell autoimmunity.”

  His face falls so fast, I almost feel guilty. Almost. “The uncle with lupus … shit, I didn’t even—”

  “And the paternal grandfather with rheumatoid arthritis. And then on top of that, did you smell his breath? A kid who’s been barfing his guts out and not eating shouldn’t have fruity-smelling breath.” I pat him on the shoulder. “It’s all right. I’m sure those questions weren’t on the intern exam. You probably did just fine. The chief is going to have all kinds of residency options for you … what with all the county hospitals in major cities desperate for subpar surgeons who can perform operations for half the cost of those fancy private hospitals. Like Johns Hopkins.”

  Okay, that was one step too far. It’s so hard to hold back the trash talk when Justin and I are in competition mode. He pushes me and I push him. It seems horrible, but we’re both better doctors because of our head-to-head battles. But maybe we do need to seek out a healthier method of increasing drive. That’s a goal I can add to my when-I’m-a-resident-at-Johns-Hopkins list.

  Justin shoves my hand off his shoulder. “Go screw yourself.”

  I want to be pissed at Justin for not taking his loss like a man and being an idiot, but at the same time, I’m not an idiot. Which means I’m aware of how difficult I can be. If I could figure out what to do about it, I might change, because being the difficult one does get lonely and often comes with large doses of guilt. Which is probably how I ended up naked in a locked on-call room with said idiot (also naked).

  After delivering the orders for treatment meds to the nurses’ station, we both have to walk together into the patient’s ER room, where our boss is waiting for lab results.

  “It’s diabetes,” I say before she can ask.

  Dr. Rinehart turns around and eyes me and Justin. Justin’s busy studying his shoes like a patient just bled out on top of them. Sore loser.

  “Dr. Jenkins,” Rinehart says to me. “You have the lab results?” Her eyes flit in the direction of the fifteen-year-old kid in the hospital bed and his mom seated in the chair in the corner of the room.

  I glance at them for a split second and then focus on my boss. “Yes, ma’am. It’s type 1 diabetes—”

  “Diabetes?” the mom says, then she points at Justin. “He said it was probably food poisoning.”

  “He was wrong.” The grin sneaks up on me for a second, but I smooth my mouth into a straight line again.

  “Wait.” The kid pulls himself to a sitting position. “I have to, like, give myself shots and stuff? I hate needles.”

  “Insulin,” I say. “You’ll need to regulate your body’s blood sugar levels.”

  “For how long?” the kid and the mom both ask.

  I stare at them blankly. Is that a real question, or is she being sarcastic? “Forever.”

  The mom immediately bursts into tears. The kid snatches his cup of water and throws it across the room, splashing the clean white walls.

  Dr. Rinehart opens her mouth to speak, her eyes narrowing at me. “Dr. Jenkins, perhaps you should backtrack a little, start with how you came to this diagnosis.”

  I take a good five minutes to go through each symptom presented and how it connects to the diagnosis, and then I move on to the family history connection. By the time I finish my report, Dr. Rinehart is rubbing her temples and a nurse is hooking up the insulin pump I ordered for the patient right before coming in here to deliver the news.

  “I’m not doing it!” the kid shouts at the nurse, fighting her, not allowing another needle to enter his body. “This is fucking bullshit! None of you know what the hell you’re doing!”

  My gaze sweeps the room, taking everything in—the sobbing mom, the adolescent with the flailing arms. Jesus Christ, these people are dramatic. “He’s going to be okay, you know?”

  The mom points at her kid. “Does this look like okay to you? He’s sick and you’re telling me he’s gonna be sick forever. We came here so you could make him better.”

  “He’s alive,” I point out. “He’s not dying. Diabetes is manageable.”

  “Get her out of here,” the mom shouts to Rinehart. “I don’t want her anywhere near my son.”

  I expect Rinehart to defend me, but instead she turns to Justin. “Dr. Martin, I’d like you to get the patient admitted to the pediatric floor, talk the family through the next few steps and let them know what they can expect to see with their son’s health, and then call up our support group specialist.”

  “Yes, Dr. Rinehart,” Justin says.

  I clamp my teeth together, my jaw tense with words of protest. As soon as we’re outside the room, heading down the hall, my mouth opens again, “You’re leaving them in Justin’s hands? He completely missed the family history and odor in the kid’s mouth.”

  “I realize that,” Rinehart says. “But Dr. Martin is only human. He missed something and you caught it. The patient will receive appropriate treatment. His case is nonsurgical, so after he’s admitted we’re all done. Besides, the blood work would have provided the answers we needed regardless of whatever pre-results game the two of you were playing.”

  Dr. Rinehart was the lucky doctor assigned to supervise the youngest medical interns in the history of the University of Chicago Medical Center. And I have to admit, she does have unending patience. It can’t be an easy job.

  I’m dismissed with the wave of a hand, and then a nurse drops a stack of charts into my arms. I sigh and begin sifting through them, screening them for Rinehart to review later. An in
tern from another team breezes past me saying, “O’Reilly wants you in his office, stat.”

  I straighten up. “Did he say why?” My heart is now drumming twenty extra beats per minute. There’s only one reason for the chief of surgery to call me into his office today.

  My residency assignment.

  The girl shrugs and then gives me a patronizing look. “Come on, Isabel, you know you got Johns Hopkins. There’s no way they’d let any other hospital snatch you up.”

  A surge of confidence floods through me. I take the stairs two at a time up to the ninth floor, reciting the stats I’ve come up with to mathematically predict which residency program is most likely to accept me. It’s always been Johns Hopkins. That’s where my dad completed his cardiothoracic surgical residency. And that’s where I plan to be in a couple of weeks.

  When I arrive at O’Reilly’s office, the door is open and my dad’s occupying one of the chairs across from the desk, his white lab coat hanging off the side. Why is he here? This must be good news, and the chief wanted Dad to share the moment with me.

  O’Reilly looks at me, his face unreadable. “Have a seat, Isabel.”

  I toss my long brown hair over one shoulder and tuck my coat neatly under me as I sit.

  O’Reilly’s forehead wrinkles and he tosses a manila folder onto his desk, opening it and revealing a stack of pink pages. “I’ll get right to the point, Isabel. You haven’t been accepted into a residency spot at this hospital—”

  “I understand completely.” Johns Hopkins, Johns Hopkins, Johns Hopkins. It’s so close I can taste the Baltimore crime-capital air.

  Dr. O’Reilly’s gaze zooms in on mine. “You’re not accepted into any residency program.”

  I stare at him, my jaw slack, mouth hanging open. “Wait … what?” From the corner of my eye, I can see that Dad hasn’t moved or reacted. He’s staring down at his hands. Did he already know?