Grieving and alone, 13-year old Katrina falls in with a violent biker gang. Comes with a teaching/discussion guide to address issues touched on my The Traz such as depression, drugs, gangs, swearing, and decision-makimg.
Katrina is thirteen, wealthy, grieving, and alone. But she is more than that. She's intelligent, beautiful, and intrigued by the dangers of street life.
Shrug's a giant of a man with a voice of thunder and eyes of granite. He has tattoos, The Traz gang patch, and a motorbike. When he asks Katrina if she wants a ride, she makes a decision that will change her life forever.
Katrina quickly discovers the violent side of life on The Traz compound. However, there is no way for her to escape until she meets Chad—an undercover cop with rich brown eyes, a gentle chuckle, and a plan to rescue Katrina from the clutches of the gang. However, there's a problem.
Somebody is keeping dangerous secrets from them both.
THE TRAZ is as daring, raw, and spirited as the young heroine.It’s exhilarating entertainment but it also contains a vital message for those on the cusp of maturity and for the adults who guide them.
"Raw and emotional with fast-paced, gripping tension, The Traz is a must-read for 'tweens, teens and parents."
--Cheryl Kaye Tardif, bestselling author of Children of the Fog
"Schuh creates complex characters and raw dialogue. This is a fast paced novel where redemption is found on the saddle of a Harley."
--Garry Ryan, author of the Detective Lane mysteries
It was later, in the wee hours of the morning that Katrina's world crashed. Sank into an unfathomable blackness. The birds were greeting the promise of dawn when her bedroom door squeaked open.
"Are you awake, Katrina?" Mr. Cooper asked. "Come. Your slippers are there, put them on."
"What is it? What's wrong?
"There are some officers at the door. They'd like...to...talk to you. Are you okay? Here's your robe..."
Katrina grabbed her robe and stumbled past Cooper. "What's wrong? Something's wrong."
An officer stood just inside the front door. A female officer was behind him on the outside step. Their faces were drawn. Their
eyes, wide and wet. "You're Katrina?" one asked. She nodded. "I worked with your father. There's been a car accident..."
Katrina felt faint and distant and dizzy. She leaned against the wall. Words swirled about her. Someone said, "Dead. Everybody dead. Dead."
"Who was driving?" Katrina heard herself ask, though she already knew.
"You're mother was," a distant female voice confirmed.
"She killed him," Katrina whispered.
"Don't say anymore." Mr. Cooper warned.
As there was nothing more to say and absolutely nothing to feel, Katrina fell silent and listened to the far-away voices speak of the dead. The officers finally left and Mr. Cooper led her into the kitchen and sat opposite her at the table. Everything looked so different. So small. So bright. Katrina hoped that meant she was just dreaming.
"It's okay to cry," Mr. Cooper offered.
"Mom couldn't have him for herself, so she took him from me. She was driving drunk. I know she was."
"We don't know that. Let the officers do their investigation, Katrina." He paused and reached for her hand. "It's okay to cry," he repeated softly.
Calgary, Alley behind King's Ace Bar, mid-August 1995
"Told you not to come down here." Rusty growled at Katrina from the shadows.
"Why the hell should I listen to you? Idiot! You ratted me out to my father." Katrina didn't know why her feet had brought her back to the alley behind the King's Ace. She took another swig from the bottle of rye that she'd paid someone a hundred bucks to get for her. It tasted awful, but she'd heard liquor could kill the pain.
"You can't be here," Syd hissed. "Any day now, we're taking this place down and you don't want to be caught up in that shit."
"What difference would it make?" Katrina asked. It was getting difficult to move her tongue. She wondered if she was slurring her words, like her mother used to. She willed another swallow of whiskey down her oesophagus.
The booze wasn't doing it for her; she felt worse than before. She stared at the bottle wondering if she'd gotten the wrong stuff. She'd been hoping it would fill the emptiness in her, take away the flatness. Make her feel real, again. Perhaps it was sex, not booze, which did that. However, there was no one to have sex with because just days after her parents' accident, Lukas's blue eyes had become cloudy and his soft features had turned hard.
"You're using meth." she'd accused.
"What's it to you?" he'd hollered. He slapped her face so hard she fell backwards onto the floor.