Thank you, Charity, for having me on your blog!
My name is Rachel Rust and I’m an author of YA books, including my recent thriller, Or the Girl Dies (The Escape Series, Book One). In both reading and writing, I love all things mysterious, romantic, and thrilling. If it’s a whodunit, I’m all about it…especially if it ends with a kiss.
When not making up stories, I can usually be found with my husband, two daughters, and our hyper chug (chihuahua/pug).
I love connecting with readers and authors on social media, so please come say ‘hello’ to me!
Or the Girl Dies blurb:
One school project. One kidnapping. One night they won’t forget.
Natalie is an honors student with perfect grades. Victor is a drug dealer with a cryptic past. And when a school assignment forces them to work together, things spiral out of control.
Victor fails to complete his part of their assignment, so Natalie hunts him down the night before it’s due. But Victor’s kingpin boss interrupts their study date and drags Natalie down into a seedy underworld where anything can be bought and sold—including her.
Over the course of one night—while dodging bad guys and trying not to inhale—Natalie discovers shocking truths about Victor. And she’ll need to choose between preserving her perfect academic future and helping him escape his troubled past.
Except one final revelation about Victor may be too much for Natalie to survive.
Or the Girl Dies excerpt:
I had heard a ton of rumors about Victor. People said he had been held back a grade, maybe even two. He had Mexican cartel ties. He was a Russian spy. He had been infused with gamma rays and turned green when angry. Everyone in school had their favorite myth.
But there was one rumor that stuck and stuck hard—Victor Greer was a dealer. And not the car kind. Sophia said he had a brother who was in prison for federal drug distribution charges. And Josh once told me that Victor had taken up his brother’s helm at doing whatever it was that drug dealers do. Sell drugs and stuff, I assumed.
Victor took a deep drag off his cigarette and looked past me, over my shoulder. Black lashes fringed his dark brown eyes. On the inside of his wrist was a black tattoo—22. Nothing else, just the number 22. Maybe it was the number of people he had killed. Or the number of cats he had at home.
Smoke exhaled from his nose and Marlboro replaced the scent of ponderosa in my lungs. He gave me one last glance before turning to the driver’s door of his black Trans Am. It was smaller than Josh’s car, but just as loud when started up. Victor shut the door and drove away.
“This is so not gonna be fun,” I muttered as the impending dread of having to work with that guy settled into my stomach like a rock.
(For a complete list of buy links go to my website: https://rachrust.wordpress.com)