The Fourth #ExtremeWednesday!!!

Hi Everyone :)

So excited that it is release week for Shredded!  Thanks to everyone who has bought Shredded, read Shredded, tweeted or Facebooked about Shredded ... I really appreciate and love you guys so much!   Thank you, thank you, thank you!

To celebrate, I'm putting up a new and exclusive excerpt of Shredded.  Hope you like it :)

Blurb:
In this intense and exhilarating New Adult series debut, a hotshot snowboarder and a rebel with a cause try to let go of the past—and find a future with each other.

Twenty-one-year-old professional snowboarder Z Michaels is the bad boy of Park City, Utah. He’s always had his pick of any girl in town—and on the competition circuit. But underneath his cool exterior is a young man in turmoil, trying to take the edge off tragedy by overindulging in sex and shredding the slopes. In fact, Z’s rash behavior is a thinly veiled attempt to blunt his emotional suffering with physical pain.

Ophelia Richardson isn’t like any girl Z has ever met. Though she’s from New Orleans, she’s no Southern belle—and she’s not shy about being miserable in frozen, godforsaken Park City. But after nearly dying in the same drag-racing accident that killed her boyfriend, she needs a place to heal, both physically and emotionally. The last thing Ophelia wants right now is a boyfriend—especially one as rich and reckless as Z. But Ophelia soon discovers that he isn’t what he seems. If anything, Z may be even more damaged than she is.

Feeling alone in the world, Z and Ophelia find a connection unlike any they’ve ever known. But their tormented pasts pull them in every direction, forcing their relationship into a downhill slide before it even begins—unless they can find the strength in each other to trust, grow, and love again.

Advance praise for Shredded
“Z from Tracy Wolff’s Shredded is so hot he will melt your heart!”—New York Times bestselling author Monica Murphy

“Shredded features two gorgeously damaged characters and an amazingly written story that kept me on the edge of my seat! Love it!”—Toni Aleo, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Assassins series


Excerpt:

“I’m not doing it.”

“Come on, Ophelia. Just try.”

“I don’t need to try.” I cross my arms over my chest and look anywhere but at Z. “It’s not going to happen.”

“Yes, it is.”

I make a frustrated sound deep in my throat. “Just because we had sex a few times doesn’t mean you have the right to tell me what to do.”

“No,” he agrees. “But the fact that I beat the hell out of an asshole who was trying to rape you in the woods yesterday does. It’s not safe for you to keep doing that walk between the lodge and your room. Especially not at night.”

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

“That’s part of the problem, isn’t it?” He leans back against the car, shoves his hands in his pockets even as he crosses his long legs in front of him. “You don’t know how to ask for help.”

“I ask when I need it.”

“You need it now.” He pulls his right hand from his pocket, and clutched in his fingers is the key to his Range Rover. He presses it into my hand. “Get in the driver’s seat, Ophelia.”

“No.”

“It looks like we’re going to be here a while, then.”

“No, you’re going to be here a while. I’m walking to the bus. I want to go shopping.” I talk big, but I don’t move. It’s like I’m frozen in place, the key he gave me burning my palm as surely as if he’d handed me a live flame.

“I told you I’d take you shopping. But I want to give you a driving lesson first.”

“I know how to drive. In fact, I’m probably a better driver than you are.” Remi spent months, years, making sure I could handle a car in any eventuality. It was his big condition before he ever let me behind the wheel to drag-race.

“Of course you know how to drive. But you’re from New Orleans. When’s the last time you drove on ice or snow?” When I don’t answer, he continues. “Yeah. That’s what I thought. But you can’t hide from it forever. You live in one of the biggest snow towns in the freakin’ country. You need to know how to deal with the weather.”

“I am dealing with it.”

“No, you’re running away from it. But that stops now.”

Our eyes lock and I glare at him, pissed that he sees through my smokescreen and even more pissed that he’s forcing the issue. Who knew that Z, who spends most of his life coasting from one party to the next, could dig his heels in so adamantly? But he has, and I have a feeling we’ll be here all day if I don’t give in to him.

I’m almost willing to do it, to just stand here and wait for hell to freeze over or Z to give up. But at the same time, there’s a part of me that knows he’s right. That I can’t spend my whole life avoiding driving. The snow and ice have given me an excuse so far, but at some point . . . at some point I’m just going to have to do it.

That point might as well be now, especially since Z is currently doing his impression of the immovable-object-meets-unstoppable-force paradox. Either way, I’m smart enough to know I’m screwed.

“Fine,” I tell him, stomping around the car to the driver’s side. “I’ll do it.” But if he starts to crow about getting me do to what he wants or if he acts arrogant in any other way, I am so out of here.

However, Z is surprisingly low-key when he slides into the passenger side, almost as if he knows how ready to bolt I am. And maybe he does. He figured out about the driving thing when no one else has yet, not even my mom or friends back home. Which means he’s looking a lot closer than I thought he was, seeing so much more of me than I thought I was revealing.

“Driving on snow is not that much different from driving in rain,” he tells me after we’ve both put our seatbelts on. “In rain you worry about hydroplaning. In snow you worry about the same thing, especially since there actually is that layer of water between the car and the road. So, to compensate for it, you have to learn to use the car’s own forward momentum instead of pressing on the gas all the time.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, confused already.

“Put the car in second instead of drive,” he tells me. He parked the Range Rover near the front curb earlier so that I wouldn’t have to worry about backing out of a spot yet. “And just let it creep forward. Don’t touch the gas or the brake; just let the car move forward on its own.”

I do as he says and we start moving at about one mile an hour. After a minute, I glance at him from the corner of my eye. “We aren’t going to get very far at this speed.”

He rolls his eyes at me. “Bored already?”

“No. Just . . .” Impatient. Impatient to get started, impatient to finish. Impatient to get my life back. Or at least this small corner of it.

“I get it,” he tells me, dropping a hand on my knee, and I think maybe he does. God knows he seems to understand everything else. Strange, when a few days ago I would have said he didn’t understand anything.

Shredded Comes Out Today!!!!

Hi Everyone!

I am so, so, so excited for you to meet Z and Ophelia!!!  For me, Shredded is one of those books-- I struggled with it while writing it (Z's not an easy guy to get to know) but now that it's done, I love it so much, and really hope that you will, too!

To celebrate Shredded's release, I'm putting up an exclusive excerpt every day this week-- culminating with an excerpt from Book 2, Shattered, on Friday of this week.  So remember to stop by and take a look!  Here's a link for Amazon and here's one for Barnes and Noble, just in case you're interested ....
XOXO

Blurb:
In this intense and exhilarating New Adult series debut, a hotshot snowboarder and a rebel with a cause try to let go of the past—and find a future with each other.

Twenty-one-year-old professional snowboarder Z Michaels is the bad boy of Park City, Utah. He’s always had his pick of any girl in town—and on the competition circuit. But underneath his cool exterior is a young man in turmoil, trying to take the edge off tragedy by overindulging in sex and shredding the slopes. In fact, Z’s rash behavior is a thinly veiled attempt to blunt his emotional suffering with physical pain.

Ophelia Richardson isn’t like any girl Z has ever met. Though she’s from New Orleans, she’s no Southern belle—and she’s not shy about being miserable in frozen, godforsaken Park City. But after nearly dying in the same drag-racing accident that killed her boyfriend, she needs a place to heal, both physically and emotionally. The last thing Ophelia wants right now is a boyfriend—especially one as rich and reckless as Z. But Ophelia soon discovers that he isn’t what he seems. If anything, Z may be even more damaged than she is.

Feeling alone in the world, Z and Ophelia find a connection unlike any they’ve ever known. But their tormented pasts pull them in every direction, forcing their relationship into a downhill slide before it even begins—unless they can find the strength in each other to trust, grow, and love again.

Advance praise for Shredded
“Z from Tracy Wolff’s Shredded is so hot he will melt your heart!”—New York Times bestselling author Monica Murphy

“Shredded features two gorgeously damaged characters and an amazingly written story that kept me on the edge of my seat! Love it!”—Toni Aleo, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Assassins series

Excerpt

He doesn’t react right away. And when he does, it’s not at all the way I expect.

Maybe it’s the insulated snowboarding pants or maybe it’s his too-cool attitude, but Z doesn’t screech or yell or even curse. He just looks at me, that too-gorgeous-for-his-own-or-anyone-else’s-good face of his frozen in surprise. Whether it’s because I dumped the drink on him or because he’s finally figured out that I played him, I don’t know and I don’t care. All that matters is he gets the message and leaves me the hell alone.

Still, some instinct deep inside me whispers that not much surprises him. The fact that I did makes me happier than it should.

And then he smiles, and I know I’m right. Because it isn’t that come-sit-on-the-big-bad-wolf’s-lap-and-let-him-take-a-little-bite-out-of-you smile that he leveled at me a few minutes ago, the one that weakened my knees and nearly melted my brain cells along with those of every other female in the vicinity. No, this is a real smile. A genuine grin ripe with amusement, speculation, and something else I can’t even begin to identify.

But whatever that unknown thing is, I’ve been around the block enough to know that I’m in trouble. That this meeting probably won’t end well between us. At least not for me.

Still, what was I supposed to do? Stand here with my heart pounding and my knees knocking together like some kind of ripe-for-the-picking damsel in distress?

Throw myself at him like every other girl in a hundred-mile radius does?

Let him think I’m going to be just another notch on his snowboard?

I don’t think so.

I did what had to be done, nipped his totally impersonal pursuit in the bud before it got completely out of hand. It’s not that I think I’m in any danger of falling for him—rich, pretty boys like Z make me break out in hives, especially when they’re adrenaline junkies. But still, I’m not taking any chances.

Not after what happened in New Orleans.

Just the thought of Louisiana, of Remi, has my stomach churning and my chest aching. I’ve been doing so well, too.

Minding my own business.

Getting my life back in order.

Looking into classes at the community college so I won’t be stuck in this dead-end job—this dead-end life—forever.

At least until Mr. My-Balls-Are-Even-Bigger-than-My-Bank-Account here comes along and decides to mess with me just because he can. Fury burns through my veins at the thought, and I glare at Z. Suddenly I’m itching to dump another cup of coffee on him. One that isn’t iced this time. But I need this job, and already people are pointing and staring. If my aunt or uncle passes by and sees all the commotion, I’ll be out of another job. And seeing as I’ve already gotten banished from the gift shop and one of the restaurants in the twelve days I’ve been here, I’m kind of running out of options.

Annoyed but resigned to doing some kind of damage control, I pull out a clean rag from under the counter and thrust it toward him. “Here. You can use this to clean up.”

“I’ve got it, thanks.” His grin widens, and it only ticks me off to see that my ire amuses him. At least until he reaches for the back neckline of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one smooth movement. By the time he starts dabbing at his black pants with it, my anger is a thing of the past. And so are my brain cells.

I can’t help it. I try to stay pissed, but it’s hard to actually formulate thoughts—any thoughts—when I’m confronted with a half-naked Z.

I mean, the guy’s an alien. He has to be, because human beings just don’t look like this. At least not outside of magazine shoots and Hollywood movies. And maybe not even there.

Despite the winter weather, his skin is a soft, golden bronze that’s a testament to just how much time he spends outside with his shirt off—despite the snow. His arms are big, his shoulders well developed. And his abs. Omigod, his abs are a work of art. Forget six-pack. This guy has an eight-working-on-ten-pack, and for a second—just a second—my eyes nearly cross as I imagine what it would be like to lick a path straight from his collarbone to his navel.

He shifts a little under my scrutiny and for the first time I notice the scars he’s got—on his arm, his chest, over his ribs, down the side of his abs. Way too many scars for a normal guy to have. But he isn’t a normal guy, I remind myself. He’s a snowboarder, one known for taking crazy risks and doing really wild stunts. Is it any wonder his body is so torn up?

Not that the scars make him look bad. Just the opposite. Somehow they only reinforce the beauty of all that hard-packed muscle and golden skin. The same way his ink does. I try to look away, but I can’t. I’m fascinated by the tattoo that covers the entire right half of his upper body. It’s a wall of tribal-looking flames in shades of black and gray that start somewhere below his waist and lick all the way up to his shoulder, over his pec, and down his right arm. It’s beautiful, really well designed, and sexy as hell. On his left side is another tattoo, this one a bunch of words in a fancy black script that I’m too far away to read. But I want to. Suddenly I’m dying to know what words are so important that a guy like Z would brand himself with them.

Something tickles the side of my chin and I have an abrupt, mortifying fear that it’s my own saliva. That I am literally standing here drooling at the work of art that is Z Michaels. I dash my hand over my chin just in case. Turns out I haven’t lost complete control of my salivary glands—it’s just a lock of hair that escaped from my bun.

The realization snaps my brain back into action. A few seconds too late, but I’m a big believer in better late than never. Or at least I am now.

“You know, we have a rule here at the Lost Canyon coffee bar,” I tell him with a little flick of my fingers. “No shirts, no shoes, no service. You should probably go take care of that somewhere else.”

The dark eyes he turns on me are filled with disbelief and maybe, just maybe, a hint of respect. I’ve spent days watching how the female population around here responds to this guy, and I’m pretty sure that I’m the first one to call him on his shit since he hit puberty. Possibly even before.

Just look at the girl he came in with. He was all over her when they first walked into the lodge, just like he’s been every time I’ve caught a glimpse of him the last few days. Not that I was looking for him or anything. But still. Then, within five minutes of being here, he’s hanging out with another girl—the trashy-looking one who threw herself in his path like a pilot on a kamikaze mission.

Though, to be honest, it’s hard to blame him for the second girl. Whoever she was, the look she’d given him had told Z loud and clear that she didn’t mind if he climbed on right there in the middle of the coffee bar. My only surprise was that he hadn’t taken little Miss Can’t-Open-My-Legs-Fast-Enough up on the offer.

Not that it’s any of my business—at least not until he came up to the counter and started in on me. I don’t care if every other girl in town is okay with whatever tiny piece of Z she can sink her claws into. I don’t play that way, even if I am interested in a guy. Which, in this case, I definitely am not. After what happened with Remi, there’s no way I’d touch this guy with a fifty-foot pole.

“Wait a minute,” he asks when he finally gets his slack jaw working again. “You’re refusing to serve me, even though it’s completely your fault that I’m shirtless?”

“First of all, I offered you a towel. You’re the one who decided to take your shirt off. Second, I’m being generous and not charging you for the spilled drink. And third, I don’t make the rules. I just follow them.” Again, I flick my fingers at him like he’s a particularly annoying gnat. “So move along before someone from management sees you and has you removed from the building.”

He snorts, like even the chance of that is too far-fetched to contemplate. Which it probably is. My aunt and uncle love the fact that he comes here to practice with his friends. At dinner the other night they were talking about how to convince him to sign on with them like his friends had. So far they’ve offered him everything but part ownership in the lodge, and he’s turned it all down.

Must be nice to have so much money from endorsements and sponsorships and family that you can just walk away from a shitload of it for no reason at all.

“Management is going to remove me from the building?” he asks incredulously. “You’re the one who just dumped a drink down my pants.”

I feel the need to clarify. “On your pants, not down them.”

“I didn’t realize there was that big a difference.”

“Yeah, I bet you tell that to all the girls.”

Guess What!!!

Wow, wow, wow, you guys!  Entangled is doing something totally amazing with my February 24th, 2014 release.  Right now, Drive Me Crazy, the second book in the Shaken Dirty rock series, is on sale for $.99!!!!!!!  Holy Cow!  I don't know how long it'll be that cheap, so if you're interested, here's a link for Amazon!  Check it out if you get the chance!!!!!!

First Ever Shaken Dirty Saturday!

Hi Everyone! I'm so excited because it is finally time to start talking about Drive Me Crazy, the
second book in my Shaken Dirty rocker series for Entangled!!!!  Woo-hoo!  I love this book.  I really, really love this book.  It's a little different than what I usually write-- both Quinn and Elise are damaged, but it still has a little lighter tone than usual.  For example, they prank each other throughout the book and I have to admit I had SUCH a good time thinking up those pranks with my friends :)

Anyway, Drive Me Crazy is Quinn's book (as  I mentioned above) and it will be out on February 24th.  And for those of you who are wondering ... yes, Wyatt's book is third!!!!  So anyway, here's a quick look at Drive Me Crazy, which is up for pre-order now.  Hope you like it!

Blurb:

His rival’s in his bed, and this rocker is ready to play.Former rivals Quinn Bradford and Elise McKinney are not friends, at least not anymore. As teens, all they cared about was psyching each other out before concerts. But when Quinn—now the keyboardist for Shaken Dirty, the hottest rock band on the scene—returns to his hometown and hears about the car accident that shattered Elise’s career, he’s determined to make things right.
Elise wants nothing to do with an arrogant rock star, despite how bad she so clearly wants him, so Quinn kidnaps the stubborn little piano player and whisks her back to his mansion. A little seduction might be just the thing to keep Elise under his care…and in his bed. But amid pranks both childish and very adult, their past comes rearing back to haunt them. And it might be more than either of them can forget.

Excerpt:

Before she could say another word, Quinn ripped the phone out of her grasp and threw it as hard as he could. He’d expected it to land on the lawn or in some bushes, somewhere where it would take her a couple minutes to retrieve it. Instead, it soared well over the hedges and landed, with a plop, in the huge stone fountain that filled the center of his courtyard.

For long seconds, neither of them moved. They just stared at the fountain in wide-eyed, open-mouthed astonishment.

Elise recovered first. “You didn’t!” she screeched at him.

But he had. He really had. Amusement bubbled up inside him and though he knew it was akin to suicide, he couldn’t stop himself from bending over and laughing his ass off—all under her vengeance filled eyes.

“You bastard! You dirty bastard!” She fumbled for the door handle and all but fell out of the car. “That’s my phone.”

“I know, I know.” He did the best to swallow his amusement, but every time he looked into her astonished eyes, he just ended up laughing harder. He couldn’t help it. She looked like a puffer fish, all gaping mouth and head about to explode. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

Fueled by fury and a good dose of righteous indignation, she marched up his driveway, across his lawn, and straight up to the cell-phone swallowing fountain. He was right behind her, making sure that she didn’t stumble or fall—she might be more alive than he’d seen her all week, but she was still only three days out of surgery, not to mention heavily medicated.

Once at the fountain, Elise bent over and tried to fish out her phone. But to do that, she had to brace herself on her injured hand and, even with the cast, it wasn’t ready yet to support her. His amusement fled instantly—even before she gave a yelp of pain—and then he was picking her up and carrying her away from the fountain.

“What are you doing?” she screeched, this time loudly enough to break the sound barrier. “Let me down! You can’t just manhandle me whenever you want, Quinn!”

“While that’s a nice thought, Lissy, I was just trying to keep you from injuring yourself worse.” Still, he carefully put her back on her feet.

“You should have thought of that before you dragged me out here to the middle of nowhere!” She stomped her ballet flat clad foot hard and he tried to swallow another round of laughter.

Unfortunately, he failed. But he couldn’t help it. It was just so incongruous seeing her like this—flipping out over a phone. And the minor matter of being kidnapped, but he was choosing not to dwell on that fact.

“I need my phone, Quinn!” This time when her foot came down, it was right on the top of his toes. Since he was wearing flip-flops instead of his normal boots, she actually managed to do a little bit of damage. Not that he intended to let her see that.

“I’ll get it. Just chill.” He headed back toward the fountain. “Not that I think it’ll do much good at this point. That thing is toast,” he told her.

“Maybe if we pack it in rice.”

“Maybe.” Who was he to shatter her illusions, after all? But his band mates had done any manner of things involving their iPhones and water through the years and not once had he ever seen the phones actually recover from the abuse.

Elise’s phone had landed near the center of the huge fountain, and he had to bend over and stretch all the way out to reach it. Poor Elise hadn’t stood a chance.

His fingers had just closed over the dark red case when Elise walked up behind him. “I’ve got it,” he told her, not bothering to look behind him.

“Good,” she answered, right before he felt both her hands in the middle of his back. Then she was shoving as hard as she could and he was falling, face first, into the three foot deep fountain.

***

Quinn came up spluttering and dripping, his once perfectly coiffed hair falling in clumpy strands over his forehead and down his cheeks. A stray leaf was stuck to his chin, while a couple purple flower petals decorated the tips of his crazy-long eyelashes.

She was the one laughing then, hysterical snorts she had no control over. At least until Quinn began stalking toward her with hot eyes and an even hotter look on his face. Her phone was clutched in his hand and Elise knew if she wanted it, she was going to have to stand her ground. But it was hard, when every instinct she had was telling her to flee…or to throw herself at him.

She wasn’t sure what it said about her that the second option was the one she found most appealing. Especially considering the way his white T-shirt was plastered to his muscular chest while rivulets of water ran down the hollow of his throat before disappearing beneath the shirt’s V-neck.

As he stalked toward her, he reached for the hem of his shirt and ripped it over his head before tossing it onto the ground at his feet. Again, the adrenaline coursing through her body urged her to run. And again she just stood there. How could she not when a half-naked Quinn was headed straight for her?

She tried to rip her eyes away from his naked abs—taking off his shirt had definitely given him an unfair advantage—but she couldn’t do it. Not when she was getting her first glimpse of his chest, which, to answer her question from a couple days before, was definitely tattooed, and not when she was faced with abs that looked like they had been chiseled from stone. Forget six-pack. Quinn had an eight-pack and it looked amazing on him, as did the happy trail that started below his navel and disappeared into the waistband of his low-slung jeans.

“You’re drooling,” he told her once he’d finally stopped in front of her.

“Do you blame me?” She reached out the fingers of her good hand and stroked them down the center of his body, from breastbone to belly button. His whole stomach contracted, his muscles growing impossibly harder and tighter beneath her hand. “This is ridiculous.”

“My abs?”

“Yes. No! This whole situation. It’s ridiculous.” She dragged her eyes away from his chest and stomach, tilting her head up so she could look him in the eyes. Then almost wished she hadn’t as his gaze was darker and hotter than she had ever seen it before. Not to mention focused on her with an intensity that bordered on the predatory.

“I want—” Her voice broke, so she tried again, forcing the words past her suddenly tight throat. “I want to go back to the city.”

“You should have thought of that before you shoved me into a fountain. Not only am I half naked, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got a goldfish in my boxers, so the only place I’m going is into my house.”

“A goldfish?” Her eyes were drawn, against her will, to the area in question.

“Yeah. My gardener’s brilliant idea of the month was to introduce goldfish to the fountain. Next time I see him I’m going to let him know it was an epic fail.”

Again with the goldfish? They were around so much that if she was a superhero, she’d think the damn things were her nemesis. “Should you, uh, try to get it out?”

“Is that your way of asking me to get naked?”

“What?” She felt her cheeks catch fire. “No! Of course not. I was just thinking of the poor fish. If we could get him back into the water quickly, he might be okay.”

He quirked a brow at her. “The fish is really your primary concern here?”

“Of course.” Ignoring the blush sweeping everywhere from her face to her ears to down her neck, she forced herself to meet Quinn’s knowing eyes. “I’d hate for the poor thing to die.”

Holding her gaze with his own, Quinn slowly unbuttoned the top of his jeans. Then slid a hand into the waistband and down, down, until it came to rest right behind the zipper.

She followed that hand with her eyes—she couldn’t help it—and nearly whimpered when he fisted himself under the faded denim.

“I must have been mistaken,” he said after a moment, his voice low and gravelly and so sexy that she felt her nipples peak in response. “There’s nothing here.”

Considering the already impressive size of his erection, the words were so patently untrue that Elise didn’t bother calling him on them. Then again, she wasn’t sure she could have formed a coherent sentence even if she wanted to. Not when he was stroking himself under her hot gaze, his fist moving back and forth along the length of his cock.

“Of course, if you don’t believe me, you’re welcome to check.”

She forced herself to swallow, despite the fact that her mouth had gone bone dry. “Check?” She tried to sound scandalized instead of intrigued.

Quinn grinned, slowly stroked himself once more before he pulled out. “For the fish. In case I missed something.” He left his jeans unbuttoned in an open invitation.

If another guy had done something like this to her, she would have told him off—and made him feel like the biggest loser in the world while she was doing it. It was just one of the many perks that came with being a “frigid bitch,” as more than one of her dates had called her.

But after watching Quinn do that, she was as aroused as he was. Maybe more. But she refused to let him see it, refused to let him have all the power in this equation. She’d done that last time and it hadn’t worked out very well for her.

Injecting a carelessness into her voice that she was far from feeling, she told him, “I’ll take your word for it. Besides, you’re right. It doesn’t look like there’s anything there, after all.”

She expected a witty comeback, narrowed eyes, maybe a little bit of insulted manhood. Instead, what she got was so much better. And so much worse.

He reached forward, scooped her up in his arms. Then turned on his heel and took off up the winding, concrete path that led to his front door.