Stealing His Thunder (Masters of Adrenaline 1)

And now for the part of the book no one reads, but stay tuned because there’ll be a cute clip of us getting into a bar fight at the end of this segment . . .

First, we’d like to thank our agent, Nicole Resciniti from The Seymour Agency, for helping us steer our career, always having our backs, and for answering our incessant questions . . . and for making us seem classy and professional when you meet with editors on our behalf. Without you we never would have had any hope of working with Kristine or taking over the Tristate area.

Also, we’d like to thank the best editor ever, Kristine Swartz from Penguin InterMix, for her patience and insightful feedback. You always find ways to help us improve our manuscripts, and yet give us that information without making us cry and gnash our teeth. You’ll always be welcome in our super-secret writing lair—just let us know when you’re coming so we can lock the killer robots in the garage.

Thanks to our copyeditor for her stoic willingness to look up any number of slang terms, swears, and vulgar words to make sure we’re spelling them right and that they’re grammatically correct. We’re really sorry you have to leave us notes like—“I think you meant ass here, not pussy.” When we conquer the Tristate area, we’ll make sure we skip your house and we’ll try to keep the noise down.

We never would have done so well without the Penguin InterMix publicity team. Thanks so much to Ryanne Probst who isn’t afraid to promote our books, even in places where people are discussing much fancier ones.

Thanks to Danielle Mazzella Di Bosco, our cover art director, for understanding exactly what we were hoping to convey with our covers, and nailing it.

As always, thanks to our street team, Sparrow’s Circus, and to our friends in the Badass Brats street team, and the Angelic Book Club. We appreciate all of your help in getting the word out about our books, and we treasure your friendship. Feel free to ride the killer robots anytime, but make sure you knock before entering the super-secret writing cave. We all remember what happened last time. There’s extra brain bleach in the medicine cabinet, so help yourself.

Thanks to our husbands and families, who will (hopefully) never read this. You remind us about wild things like real life, outside, and the need for food and sleep. We shall conquer the Tristate area in your honor.

Finally, than

ks to the strange urge that convinced Justice that striking up a conversation with a stranger on the internet was a good idea. Who’d have guessed we’d end up being writing partners, and go on to vanquish our enemies together? Shit—who’s vanquishing today and who’s revising? *checks schedule*

The shot pans back, back, until the entire Tristate area is visible, then zooms in on a random bar on a random street in the middle of a random part of the city. Sorcha comes stumbling back to the table from the bar.

“They cut me off again,” she sighs wearily. “What kind of dessert bar cuts a woman off?”

Justice rises from the table. Melodramatically, she breaks her wooden chair into bits, hefting one of its legs like a club. “Oh, we’ll get more cheesecake.” Justice hits the secret button that summons the killer robots, knowing they’ll bust up the place, but resigned to paying for the renovations later. It would all be worth it for another slice of the chocolate decadence . . .

Look for the next Masters of Adrenaline novel,

FUELING HIS FIRE,

available October 2016 from InterMix.

“You’re wearing that?” Chloe crinkled her nose as she looked Ophelia over. “You can’t keep dressing like you’re going to a funeral, O.”

“No.” Priya clucked her tongue. “She looks like she’s homeless and going to a funeral.”

Ophelia rolled her eyes and leaned on the edge of the vanity, watching her friends primp in the mirror. Two months ago, she would have agreed with them. Wearing black skinny jeans and a plain black tank top to one of the biggest parties of the year would probably get her onto some “Worst Dressed” list on a celebrity gossip website. She’d tried to make her outfit more chic by adding her Jimmy Choos and a diamond necklace but apparently it wasn’t enough.

Funny how everything could change in just a day. A moment even. A phone call.

Two months ago she cared about fashion. Two months ago, she would’ve been worried about whether her lipstick shade complimented her complexion or not. But lately, she was having trouble giving two flying fucks about clothes or makeup.

“This is the biggest party of the year,” Priya said, then turned to the mirror to apply her fake lashes. Like Chloe, she could contour like a professional makeup artist. Not that she needed it. Her complexion was perfect. The two of them didn’t just dress trendy either—they created trends.

Chloe’s red hair hung in loose curls down her back, accented with a jeweled clip on one side. Both wore tight dresses designed to draw attention. Today, Ophelia looked like their uncultured cousin tagging along as their charity project.

“Jason will be there for sure,” Priya said with a smirk.

Chloe purred, “Mmm. Do you think he’s got a sock down there or do you think it’s the real deal?”

“Chloe!” Ophelia yelled, trying to be offended for his sake.

“What?” Her friend shrugged. “I know you’ve seen the bulge. How could you not?”

Priya laughed. “Too bad he’s only got eyes for O.”

Ophelia didn’t want his eyes. Or his bulge. Or his boring conversation, either. They’d been on one date and he’d droned on and on about himself and his budding music career, barely taking a breath between sentences.

Her friends called her a “chronic first-dater.” She never went on second dates. Ever. Her mother was starting to ask if she was secretly into girls. The guys in her social circle called her a frigid bitch. Neither were true. Even before her father passed away, she’d found most guys boring. But now . . . Now she couldn’t even imagine starting a relationship. Not when her heart still felt so raw from his death. He was the one person in the world she felt actually loved her. When she was a child she’d known the nannies only showed up every day for the money. Her own mother had skipped out on visitation half the time after her parents had divorced.