Today is my stop on the The Course of Conviction blog tour. This book is the middle part of the Obsession Trilogy by Cheryl Butler and I'm delighted to be sharing an exclusive extract featuring one of the main characters, Abbie. My thanks to Emma Welton at damppebbles blog tours for my invitation and to the author for providing the extract. I hope you enjoy it.
The Blurb:
Having responded to Abbie's absence in his own inimitable style, an unexpected reconciliation sees Joe conflicted by a need to seek revenge and a need to seek gratification, but as he wavers between hope and hatred, an unlikely reunion throws all those involved into further turmoil, deepening wounds and threatening fragile minds. Battling for normalcy, accusations and revelations abound until a devastating discovery proves almost fatal. There are lessons to be learned and theories to challenge, but who is really responsible for the endless stream of fear and betrayal? Dark minds and dirty deeds will only cause destruction when obsession knows no bounds. Explicit - strictly 18+
The Course of Conviction was published by Little Bee Publishing in digital and paperback formats on 4th June 2020.
Purchase Links:
Amazon UK
Amazon US
Having responded to Abbie's absence in his own inimitable style, an unexpected reconciliation sees Joe conflicted by a need to seek revenge and a need to seek gratification, but as he wavers between hope and hatred, an unlikely reunion throws all those involved into further turmoil, deepening wounds and threatening fragile minds. Battling for normalcy, accusations and revelations abound until a devastating discovery proves almost fatal. There are lessons to be learned and theories to challenge, but who is really responsible for the endless stream of fear and betrayal? Dark minds and dirty deeds will only cause destruction when obsession knows no bounds. Explicit - strictly 18+
The Course of Conviction was published by Little Bee Publishing in digital and paperback formats on 4th June 2020.
Purchase Links:
Amazon UK
Amazon US
The Course Of Conviction Excerpt - Abbie
'Abbie felt as cleansed as the house, having allowed herself the liberty of much conjecture, a myriad of memories and a modicum of unbiased self-evaluation – all comfortable partners to the chores she’d elected to tackle – and whilst the tears were plentiful, they were also soothing and unavoidable if sanity was to endure, but as soon as they emerged, Abbie knew they’d be fleeting, and that knowledge alone made them easier to bear. What remained intolerable, however, was the gravity of her most important task, for she was out of time and excuses, mindful that, no matter what further strategies she devised to defer, the longer she waited, the higher the chance of complicated questions, and life was already too convoluted. Visualising the trauma she was about to inflict, she paced the room, fretful and undecided, but she had no option, and she grabbed a bottle of wine, desperate for it to assist her disclosure. With a glass downed, she summoned the energy to call and finally deliver the bad news, and she received the reaction she’d anticipated and dreaded, crumpling under the weight of her responsibility and the elusion of it. The despondency she’d succumbed to at the hospital was mirrored now by the recipient of her call, and she could do nothing to ease it, acknowledging that her delay in communication had amplified the pain, but she had been incapable of garnering the strength to act sooner. Her apologies were accepted but completely inept, and she cried with her confidante, partly in grief, partly in shame, but mostly for the understanding being tendered – as it always had – for her dilemma. Insisting on settling all costs, a tentative request to be allowed to attend the funeral – but only if it would cause no further distress to Abbie – and anguish coupled with unreserved consideration, broke her heart. Refusing the support would be insulting, and Abbie had no desire to alienate her fellow mourner – he’d provided for her son his entire life, demanding nothing more than subtle inclusion that would not be detected until Abbie felt ready to divulge his affiliation… but that time had never come, and the regret in his voice was insufferable. He vowed to inform no one until after the funeral and pleaded with Abbie to never lose touch; her standing in his life was undiminished by the essence and delay in her imparting such devastating news, and he would continue to assist her in any way possible.
Ending the call, Abbie collapsed to the floor and sobbed uncontrollably, once again, for her loss, her role in that loss and for the weakness that had prevented her from enlightening her son to his roots. The effects were indeterminable and that had been her concern, but hindsight suggested it would have been no worse than what she faced now, and this was final.
Seeking solace in the wine bottle, Abbie sipped slowly as she fought to subdue the irrepressible sobs that stole her composure and hope. The temptation to lose herself totally to alcohol had never been greater, but the ensuing repercussions would only intensify the current despondency, and she’d been there before, so she moderated her intake and strived for the serenity she’d experienced earlier, to no avail. Screaming to the empty house, Abbie’s despair continued, but drained by her phone call, she allowed its course, welcoming the exhaustion that allowed temporary alleviation.
When Abbie woke an hour later, the worst of her misery had passed, leaving a ghost of gloom that could be eradicated with the rejuvenation accorded by sleep and, of course, another glass of wine. Calling Rose to confirm times for the following day, Abbie skipped dinner and sauntered up to bed with her glass and the remainder of wine, capitalising on its soporific effect.'
'Abbie felt as cleansed as the house, having allowed herself the liberty of much conjecture, a myriad of memories and a modicum of unbiased self-evaluation – all comfortable partners to the chores she’d elected to tackle – and whilst the tears were plentiful, they were also soothing and unavoidable if sanity was to endure, but as soon as they emerged, Abbie knew they’d be fleeting, and that knowledge alone made them easier to bear. What remained intolerable, however, was the gravity of her most important task, for she was out of time and excuses, mindful that, no matter what further strategies she devised to defer, the longer she waited, the higher the chance of complicated questions, and life was already too convoluted. Visualising the trauma she was about to inflict, she paced the room, fretful and undecided, but she had no option, and she grabbed a bottle of wine, desperate for it to assist her disclosure. With a glass downed, she summoned the energy to call and finally deliver the bad news, and she received the reaction she’d anticipated and dreaded, crumpling under the weight of her responsibility and the elusion of it. The despondency she’d succumbed to at the hospital was mirrored now by the recipient of her call, and she could do nothing to ease it, acknowledging that her delay in communication had amplified the pain, but she had been incapable of garnering the strength to act sooner. Her apologies were accepted but completely inept, and she cried with her confidante, partly in grief, partly in shame, but mostly for the understanding being tendered – as it always had – for her dilemma. Insisting on settling all costs, a tentative request to be allowed to attend the funeral – but only if it would cause no further distress to Abbie – and anguish coupled with unreserved consideration, broke her heart. Refusing the support would be insulting, and Abbie had no desire to alienate her fellow mourner – he’d provided for her son his entire life, demanding nothing more than subtle inclusion that would not be detected until Abbie felt ready to divulge his affiliation… but that time had never come, and the regret in his voice was insufferable. He vowed to inform no one until after the funeral and pleaded with Abbie to never lose touch; her standing in his life was undiminished by the essence and delay in her imparting such devastating news, and he would continue to assist her in any way possible.
Ending the call, Abbie collapsed to the floor and sobbed uncontrollably, once again, for her loss, her role in that loss and for the weakness that had prevented her from enlightening her son to his roots. The effects were indeterminable and that had been her concern, but hindsight suggested it would have been no worse than what she faced now, and this was final.
Seeking solace in the wine bottle, Abbie sipped slowly as she fought to subdue the irrepressible sobs that stole her composure and hope. The temptation to lose herself totally to alcohol had never been greater, but the ensuing repercussions would only intensify the current despondency, and she’d been there before, so she moderated her intake and strived for the serenity she’d experienced earlier, to no avail. Screaming to the empty house, Abbie’s despair continued, but drained by her phone call, she allowed its course, welcoming the exhaustion that allowed temporary alleviation.
When Abbie woke an hour later, the worst of her misery had passed, leaving a ghost of gloom that could be eradicated with the rejuvenation accorded by sleep and, of course, another glass of wine. Calling Rose to confirm times for the following day, Abbie skipped dinner and sauntered up to bed with her glass and the remainder of wine, capitalising on its soporific effect.'
The Author:
Having worked in a variety of industries, Cheryl has met many interesting people and, with a profound interest in what makes them tick, she has spent a lifetime of asking ‘What would I do in that situation?’ and ‘What if things happened this way?’, creating a multitude of plots and twists that she had always dismissed until one storyline nagged her constantly and she decided to alleviate herself of the burden, committing her ideas to virtual paper. Assuming she would run out of steam five chapters or so in, she amazed herself by writing two novels within a year and A Proclivity To Prurience was born. It was difficult to write, given the themes, but Cheryl felt it was a story that would resonate in the current climate. Writing between a part-time job and raising two young children was a task in itself, but, every spare minute was spent doing so or thinking about doing so and her characters took on a life of their own.
Cheryl loves character-driven tales with a psychological edge and aims to produce that kind of work herself, and she’s not afraid to tackle issues that some may find difficult… other than horror – she can’t read or write horror as she scares far too easily!
Aside from writing and her family, Cheryl’s greatest passion is music and she can easily lose herself in a favourite album or song, rather like she does within a book she’s writing or reading, and a musician’s ability to move you on any level is pure genius.
Author Social Media Links:
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