Blog Tour: Ruthless by Carolyn Lee Adams+Giveaway(INT)

Ruthless

by Carolyn Lee Adams

Publisher: Simon Pulse

Release Date: July 14th 2015

Genre: Young Adult, Thriller, Contemporary, Mystery

Blurb:

A spine-tingling debut about the ultimate game of cat-and-mouse in reverse as a teen struggles to retain hope—and her sanity—while on the run from a cunning and determined killer.

Ruth Carver has always competed like her life depends on it. Ambitious. Tough. Maybe even mean. It’s no wonder people call her Ruthless.

When she wakes up with a concussion in the bed of a moving pickup trick, she realizes she has been entered into a contest she can’t afford to lose.

At a remote, rotting cabin deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains, Ruth’s blindfold comes off and she comes face-to-face with her captor. A man who believes his mission is to punish bad girls like Ruth. A man who has done this six times before.

The other girls were never heard from again, but Ruth won’t go down easy. She escapes into the wilderness, but her hunter is close at her heels. That’s when the real battle begins. That’s when Ruth must decides just how far she’ll go in order to survive.

Back home, they called her Ruthless. They had no idea just how right they were.

Ruthless 

CHAPTER ONE

I CAN’T SEE. I DON’T know why I can't see.

I do know I was just dreaming. Running in a white dress through a field of wildflowers, no less. It was like a commercial for laundry detergent or tampons or a prescription medication that has death listed as a possible side effect. The dream is embarrassing, but it’s better than the here and now. I try to crawl back into the dream, but it won’t have me. Reality rushes in, faster and faster, chasing the dream away, replacing it with complete and utter darkness.

I need to open my eyes. I don’t know anything else, but I know that. I try to open them.

Nothing happens. Just blackness.

Don’t panic.

Think.

Thinking is hard and I know why. Concussion. My fourth one. First two came courtesy of falling off horses. The third was the result of a PE flag-football game gone awry. I forgot about the flags, tackled a guy three times my size. His heel cracked against my forehead, but he didn’t get the touchdown.

Focus.

Did I fall off Tucker? Somehow that seems wrong, seems impossible. I look for the memory, knowing it has to be around here somewhere. Tucker has an abscess in his right front hoof. He’s on stall rest. Did I fall off another horse? That doesn’t seem right either.

But it seems the most likely. So what next? And why can’t I see?

Check if anything is broken.

I start with my toes. They wiggle. I can feel them. This is good. It seems they’re inside boots, so maybe I did fall off a horse. My legs are oddly stiff, like they’re too heavy to move. I try to bend a knee, but it isn’t happening. My right arm is a no go. There’s pain there. A lot of pain. It’s dulled by the concussion, but that arm is a sleeping bear I don’t want to prod. Luckily, I’m left-handed.

The left arm isn’t hurt, but it also doesn’t want to move. Not as bad as the legs, though, or the injured right arm. I think this left arm can get me somewhere.

Time to summon the will to move it.

Take a deep breath. . . .

Dirt falls into my mouth. Not dirt. Manure and shavings, something spiky. It’s hay. Hay and shavings and manure.

I feel it now, pressing up against my neck and jaw, against my body and legs. It’s dangerously close to my nose, and it’s why I can’t move. It’s pressing down on me, pinning me in place.

Adrenaline hits my bloodstream. I fight my left arm free, dig the muck away from my mouth, and take a swallow of clean air.

Slow your breathing. Slow it down. Do it.

Nothing but air. It’s all I think about for several minutes. I calm down, and the adrenaline ebbs away. I want to fall back to sleep. Sleep is soothing. Quiet. Peaceful. There’s a field of wildflowers on the other side of sleep.

No.

I have to fight the concussion. I need to open my eyes. Maybe the dirt was pressed against my eyes. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t see. Hope gives me new energy. I try again, and get nowhere.

Maybe I don’t have eyes anymore.

True fear now. For the first time. My thinking is clear enough for real, raw, primal fear to sink in. Time to be courageous. Time to check. But I don’t want to know.

Be brave.

I take my left hand and reach for my eyes. There’s something weird there, but I don’t know what it is. It’s almost rough. But there’s definitely blood. Lots and lots of it. Sticky, heavy blood.

I jerk my hand away and strike metal. There’s something metal above my face.

The fear broadens into something deeper. I am in trouble. Dear God, I am in trouble. I don’t know what kind of trouble, but I know it’s bad. Do my parents know? Am I alone?

I try to listen. Dirt muffles my hearing. My ears are halfway encased in the filth, but it seems like there isn’t anything to hear. Except a hum. A deep, resonating hum that overwhelms everything.

Concussion. I know you well, old friend. Now kindly get the hell away from me. You may leave my hearing on your way out.

A wave of nausea crashes over me. I don’t know where I am, but my best guess is somewhere on the ranch. Possibly under the manure pile. Was I in a tractor accident? Tractor chores are not my favorite. I lack skills, to put it mildly. But I won’t let that damn tractor win, so I drag the arena, push the manure pile back, and do all the things the hired hands do.

Did I flip the tractor?

Should I call for help?

No.

No?

No. Don’t call for help.

Why not call for help?

No. Feels risky somehow.

All right, no. Listen to your gut, my mom always says. And I do. It usually steers me right.

Okay, now what? How do I figure out where I am? Time for my left hand to do some exploring. Weird how I’m thinking about my left hand like it is a separate person from me, a friend I can rely on.

I reach out to touch the metal I felt before. It is a solid sheet, not far above my head. I trace a diamond-plate pattern with my fingertips. The farm has two tractors; both are smooth steel all over, except for the dirty roughness of the bucket. My tractor-­accident theory is looking less likely.

A few inches later and the metal makes a right-angle turn away from me—and my hand hits the dirty shavings. Only my head is underneath this thing. Whatever it is, it protected me from being smothered to death.

Time to search my left side. Shavings. Manure. Hay. But then, close beside me, a pole of well-worn wood. I can feel the barely there ridges of grain in the oak. Pitchfork handle. This definitely feels like a pitchfork handle. I must be at the ranch. Where is there diamond-plate metal on the farm? I can’t remember.

My left hand keeps going. The tips of my fingers touch more metal. This is something different, though. It’s rough and flaky with rust. I slide my hand along the old steel. It has a soft curve. Like a bowl. But it’s weird. Like the bowl is sort of shaking. It makes no sense.

I reach out as far as I can, but lose contact with the metal. Searching higher, my fingers touch metal again. A little hook. Odd. Then a straightaway of more metal. Then another metal hook. Another straightaway. Another hook.

I run out of arm. I am small and don’t have much length of arm to work with. So I trace the hooks and the straightaways back to the thing that’s like a bowl.

This all feels familiar. Those metal hooks remind me of my dad tying down a tarp in the bed of his truck.

A truck.

I am in the bed of a truck!

Why am I in the bed of a truck?

I reach out again for the metal hooks. Something tickles my hand.

Wind.

Stretching as far as I can go, I feel it in earnest now—the wind buffeting the skin of my hand. The wind, hard and fast.

This truck is moving.

How can that be? How can I be in a moving truck?

I reach out again, to check if I’m hallucinating. No. It’s there; that biting, slapping wind is there. This truck is going fast. Then I feel the hum through my body. The hum in my ears isn’t just concussion. It’s a combination of engine and vibration. It’s metal movement.

The diamond-plated thing above me must be a truck-bed toolbox. My head is in the empty space beneath it, protecting me from the shavings, keeping me alive.

I know where I am now.

I’m in the bed of a fast-moving truck, covered in blood, buried in filth. My right arm might be broken. I can’t see.

Realization dawns, and I pull my hand in like I touched fire.

Fear slides into my belly as I wait.

Was I seen? Did someone see my hand?

The truck shift gears. It’s slowing down. Quickly.

Follow the Ruthless by Carolyn Lee Adams Blog Tour and don't miss anything! Click on the banner to see the tour schedule.

  

Carolyn Lee Adams is originally from the Seattle area, breeding ground of serial killers and those who write about them. She attended USC Film School and graduated with a BFA in screenwriting. RUTHLESS (Simon Pulse, Summer 2015) is her first novel. When she isn't exploring the dark side of human nature in her writing, you'll find her on stage as a stand-up comedian. Because those things go together.

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Blog Tour: Inspiration to Brutal Youth by Anthony Breznican+Giveaway

Hi everyone! We just got home from meeting Katie Cotugno, Melissa Kantor and Robyn Schneider and it was so fun guys! We'll be posting our recap soon about the book signing , anyways today we have on our blog Anthony Breznican to discuss what inspired him to make his debut novel, Brutal Youth. You can also read the exclusive excerpt below from the book and join the giveaway!

What inspired me to write my book...

I am fascinated by the forces that turn good people bad. The world is full of cruelty, but I don’t think we start out that way. I’m an optimist in that I think human beings are born basically decent, but over time the hardships of life tend to harden us. This is a vital part of growing up – we need to get tough, we need to become strong. We need to form an armor around us, otherwise we would collapse and shrivel at every challenge. But sometimes … sometimes that armor goes too deep and our hearts become hardened. We become calloused.

When writing Brutal Youth, I wanted to craft a kind of war story about growing up. When you hear soldiers talk about their time in battle, yes, undoubtedly they speak of the horrors they witnessed, the inhumanity, the despair – but they also recall the valor, the friendship, and sometimes even the unexpected mercy between enemies during those brief moments when two people on opposite sides see each other not as foes, but just fellow human beings. I think adolescence is a kind of emotional battlefield, and that’s where that armor I mentioned comes in handy.

So with these thoughts in mind, I set about creating a very troubled, very corrupt private school that has become a kind of dumping ground for unwanted and mistreated kids: bullies, delinquents, troublemakers of all sorts – as well as a fare number of students who are merely unlucky. I wanted to tell a thrilling story about survival and resistance, but also explore the overwhelming emotion of that age. That’s where we learn to be adults, but as well know … not every adult is a kind or well-formed individual. There are a lot of assholes out there!

Brutal Youth tells the story of a handful of kids trying to protect themselves without losing who they are. We need armor, but it can’t go too deep. We need to fight, but we need to learn how to deploy that strength without hurting those who don’t deserve it.

There’s the main character, Peter Davidek, who only wants to lay low and stay out of trouble – but can’t stand to see injustice. His friend Noah Stein is a fighter, someone whose instinct is to lash out, and through Peter he learns where to direct that fearsomeness. They both make each other a little stronger, a little more “good.” And then there is Lorelei Paskal, the sweet, damaged girl from a nightmarish home, who is desperate to make friends at school because she has nowhere else that feels safe. She’s that scared side of ourselves, the part that means well but can be selfish. She has a good heart, but has been told too much that she’s worthless – and so when happiness finds her, she sabotages it.

All three of them do good things, they do bad things, they do brave things, and sometimes cruel things, too. I wanted the readers to love them and sometimes be angry with them.  I wanted the readers to feel heartbroken about the tragedy, but also laugh a little at the dark absurdity life sometimes throws at you.

There are many things that can turn a good person bad, but if you make the right choices, those same challenges can make a good person even better.

Thank you, Mary Ann! They were good topics! I would have answered all three of them.

Anthony

Brutal Youth
by Anthony Breznican
Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin
Release Date: June 2nd 2015

Genre: Young Adult, Contemporary, Thriller, Drama, Literary Fiction, Coming of Age, Psychology, Mystery

Blurb:

Three freshmen must join forces to survive at a troubled, working-class Catholic high school with a student body full of bullies and zealots, and a faculty that's even worse in Anthony Breznican's Brutal Youth.

With a plunging reputation and enrollment rate, Saint Michael’s has become a crumbling dumping ground for expelled delinquents and a haven for the stridently religious when incoming freshman Peter Davidek signs up. On his first day, tensions are clearly on the rise as a picked-upon upperclassmen finally snaps, unleashing a violent attack on both the students who tormented him for so long, and the corrupt, petty faculty that let it happen. But within this desperate place, Peter befriends fellow freshmen Noah Stein, a volatile classmate whose face bears the scars of a hard-fighting past, and the beautiful but lonely Lorelei Paskal —so eager to become popular, she makes only enemies.

To even stand a chance at surviving their freshmen year, the trio must join forces as they navigate a bullying culture dominated by administrators like the once popular Ms. Bromine, their embittered guidance counselor, and Father Mercedes, the parish priest who plans to scapegoat the students as he makes off with church finances. A coming-of-age tale reversed, Brutal Youth follows these students as they discover that instead of growing older and wiser, going bad may be the only way to survive.

Follow the Brutal Youth by Anthony Breznican Blog Tour and don't miss anything! Click on the banner to see the tour schedule.

  

Anthony Breznican was born and raised in Western Pennsylvania and graduated from the University of Pittsurgh in 1998. He has worked as a reporter for The Arizona Republic, Associated Press, and USA Today. He is currently a senior staff writer for Entertainment Weekly.

Brutal Youth is his debut novel.

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