I NEED YOUR VOTE!!!
This third blog on Stevie’s Kindle Scout tour focuses on Chapter 2 of ‘The Donor’.
Previously a Kindle Scout campaign was only open to authors in the U.S. Now, however, it is open to writers internationally. Stevie Turner took advantage of this and submitted her 53,500-word manuscript ‘The Donor’, which was accepted into the programme. Her campaign runs until October 11th, 2015, so there is still a week left if you would like to cast your vote by clicking on the link below.
https://kindlescout.amazon.com/p/39QH2DL8AQE7R
Also, Stevie is giving away a boatload of prizes to visitors on her tour. Here is the Rafflecopter link http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/4af5be7f26/
For those unfamiliar with Kindle Scout, the rules are as follows:
Kindle Scout is reader-powered publishing for new, never-before-published books. It’s a place where readers help decide if a book gets published. Selected books will be published by Kindle Press and receive 5-year renewable terms, a $1,500 advance, 50% eBook royalty rate, easy rights reversions and featured Amazon marketing.
Every book has 30 days to earn your nomination. Authors are submitting new books all the time so check back often. When you discover a book that you think is great, nominate it and the book will be added to Your Nominations panel. Keep up to three books nominated at a time, and update your nominations whenever you want.
When a book’s 30-day campaign ends while in Your Nominations panel, your nomination is tallied and removed from your panel – freeing up that nomination for another book. You will receive an email to let you know whether your book has been selected for publication. As a thank you from us and the authors you support, you will receive an early, free copy of all the Kindle Scout books you nominated that are published. Continue to champion the books and authors you helped bring to life by leaving reviews and sharing with friends.
Following on from the previous blog, here is a short synopsis and Chapter 2 of ‘The Donor’, a Women’s Fiction novel.
SYNOPSIS
When you know you have met the love of your life, the last thing you expect is for your sister to lure him away. Clare Ronson is faced with this scenario when her sister Isabel marries singer and guitarist Ross Tyler. To compound Clare’s jealousy and bitterness, Ross hits the big time and becomes a wealthy tax exile, relocating to France with his family. Clare cannot bring herself to speak to Isabel or Ross for the next 30 years. However, when tragedy occurs in 2002 causing Ross to arrive back in England at Clare’s doorstep, Clare must try to put the past behind her for her sister’s sake.
CHAPTER 2
ROSS
As stoned as I am that day in the chaos of Desolation Hill I can see her standing out from the rest, with that ethereal, new-born fawn fragility that always seems to appeal to a man’s protective instinct. I watch her as wounded, she collapses to the ground, oblivious to her surroundings. I want to gather her up in my arms there and then and never let her go.
I have to make sure I’m not treading on anybody’s toes; you know what I mean, don’t you? Has another bloke already laid claim? I look about, but she seems to be on her own. I’m on my way back to Ryde; the festival hasn’t really lived up to my expectations, but when I find Clare I know the whole experience of living in shit for three days has been well worth it.
She isn’t used to weed, that’s obvious. She seems unsullied; shiny as a new pin. I wonder if she’s experienced in the ways of the world so to speak, but for now that will have to wait. I assume the latter, as she looks only about 18 or 19 and is still rather shy. I’ll have to tread carefully in that department; when I’d been that age I’d already put it about quite a bit, but I don’t think it’s the same for girls, although thankfully more of them are on the pill in these enlightened days.
I want to see her again. She sleeps most of the way to Ryde with her head on my shoulder. The driver is a fucking bore; all he talks about is top-dressing his fields with lime before the next wheat crops go in. I want him to shut up so that I can concentrate on holding Clare, but have to pretend to listen. I don’t really give a shit about soil testing, pH levels and screened lime, but I learn all about it anyway and hey, who knows, it might even come in handy one day.
She wakes up as we drive down Argyll Street. She seems a bit embarrassed to have been asleep so long, and sits up apologetically. I give her shoulder a quick squeeze before letting her go.
“We’re nearly at Ryde seafront.”
“Oh God; sorry to have conked out like that.”
She gives me a beautiful smile. Even the old farmer seems taken with her and keeps glancing her way when he really needs to be looking at the road. Me, I am gutted that our journey is coming to an end. I don’t mind if the farmer drives us around and around the Island ad infinitum until we disappear up the van’s exhaust pipe just for the continued chance of holding her close for another few hours.
There is already a huge crowd of festival-goers at the hovercraft terminal when we climb out of the van, so I know there’s going to be a long wait. Clare is yawning and dazed, and slumps down on a nearby seat. I take her ticket, go into the terminal, queue up and book our seats on the 20:45 hovercraft. I am conscious of the fact that the ride back to Southsea only takes 10 minutes, and I know that if I do not look sharp she will soon be slipping through my fingers.
Some bastard is chatting her up when I get back to the seat. I take both of her hands in mine, pull her up, and guide her over to the sea wall where we can sit in relative privacy.
“We’ve got about an hour to wait. I’d buy you a cup of tea, but I don’t have any money.” I laugh.
“That’s okay.” She looks around. “I’m going to find a phone box and make a reverse charge call; I’ll ask my mum to get Dad to pick me up at Southsea. He doesn’t know where I’ve been, but I’ll talk him round.”
“I’ll come with you; there’s toilets along there.” I point towards the other side of the terminal. “There might even be a drinking fountain inside as well.”
The phone box is up near St. Thomas’ Street. She disappears inside and speaks animatedly to person or persons unknown. I stand alone on the pavement suddenly jealous of the family who are waiting for her on the other side, eager to take her back to the fold and away from me. Presently she comes out grinning and is seemingly wide awake.
“Mum said my dad will set off for the Southsea terminal in about half an hour. Do you need to phone anyone?”
“Nah; I can walk home from there.” I shake my head. “I’m okay.”
“It’s no trouble; I’ll get Dad to give you a lift.”
***
I don’t fancy the idea of meeting her father and having him look down on me when he sees the state of the outside of our house. In my experience, Dads, on the whole, do not take kindly to their daughters running around with the likes of me. The long hair puts them off for a start, and when they find out that not only do I sing and play guitar in a rock band, but I also attend Art College, it seems to drive the wedge in a bit further. I suppose they are on the lookout for a future bank manager son-in-law for their little princesses; unfortunately there I come up a bit short. The idea of spending the rest of my days in some back office poring over dusty ledgers appalls me to the point where I know I’d rather be dead than have to live that way.
It will be easy to sidle out of the lift. However, the next item on my agenda might prove to be rather trickier. As we walk back towards the toilets on the seafront, I screw up my courage and take her hand.
“How do you feel about us meeting up again after tonight? We don’t live that far apart. I sing in a band; you could come and watch if you like. We’ve got a gig next Friday at the Wig and Pen.”
There is a few seconds of silence while she digests the information, and then I feel her squeeze my hand:
“If I wake up in time; I think I’m going to sleep for a week.”
Yes! She wants to see me again! I try not to show too much enthusiasm, but actually I am over the moon.
“Great; my older brother Darryl is the drummer; then there’s Chaz, the bassist, and Andy plays lead. I’ll get Darryl to drive his van over and pick you up a couple of hours before. I’ve got a biro in my rucksack; hang on.” I swing the rucksack around to the front and take out a pen. “Write your address on my arm.”
“It’s all hairy.” She giggles.
I turn my arm over and she begins to write on the white underside of my forearm. The gentle fluttering strokes of the pen feel somehow strangely erotic, and it’s all I can do to stop myself ravishing her there and then on the pavement.
“It’ll be a great evening.” Regardless of my hard-on I pull her to me when she has finished writing. “I’m glad I’ve met you.”
“Me too.” She smiles shyly at me.
I kiss her opposite the Tourist Information Centre, and then once again by the sea wall before I disappear into the toilets to relieve both my bladder and also by now my somewhat embarrassing erection.
***
We don’t speak much on the hovercraft. The overall atmosphere is subdued, with glassy-eyed revellers swiftly coming to the conclusion that the festival is over and that the real world will be beckoning them in a few hours’ time. Clare rests her head on my shoulder and holds my hand as we bounce over the waves, waving to her father as we exit the hovercraft a few minutes’ later, who is already waiting for her up on the road. Bastard. It’s time to make myself scarce.
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Stevie lives in the East of England with her husband Sam, and previously worked as a medical secretary. She is now a full-time writer. She can be contacted on the following social media:
Twitter @StevieTurner6
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Stevie-Turner-432183066899400/timeline/
Website: http://www.stevie-turner-author.co.uk/
WordPress blog: https://steviet3.wordpress.com/
Thank you for supporting Stevie’s campaign. Just like the wheels on a car, 4WillsPublishing keeps you moving forward!
https://4willspublishing.wordpress.com/
Cover design by Y Correa at All Authors Graphic Design.
