Chapter 1

Simone

 

Without music,

life would be a mistake.

~Friedrich Nietzsche

 

Outside, snow fell around Brooklyn. Inside my small one-bedroom apartment, my body heated with hunger.

My new boss’s dark, sensual voice sounded over the phone and delivered shivers to my body.

“Sing it to me, Simone.”

I whispered, “Okay, Mr. Ferraro.”

“Don’t be so formal. Call me, Gio.”

Whoa. Really?

We’d just started working together a month ago, and had never met in person. All business had been over the phone.

But I knew who he was.

Giovanni Ferraro—top American singer, songwriter, and record producer. Of course, I knew what he looked like—long black hair and a strong chiseled jaw, blue eyes and muscled arms covered in tatts. Breathtakingly beautiful.

I’d seen him live in concert. Gio performing was mesmerizing to behold. He’d had his eyes closed as he covered the mic with both hands, making love to the audience. So deep and rich, his voice was pure magic.

For most of my life, I’d heard his songs on the radio. Even now, it was hard not to hear a Gio original…melodies that triggered couples to have babies, sexy love notes that were between a rasp and a growl.

And I was a new songwriter that he was giving a chance to work on his album.

I can’t blow this. I may not get this lucky again.

I’d come a long way from being the skinny black girl that everyone taunted and called scarecrow in my small town, to now having my own successful songwriting business.

I tucked a few kinky curls behind my ear, set the phone in front of me, and picked up my guitar. I tasted his name on my tongue and loved the flavor. “Okay, Gio.”

“Don’t be nervous,” he said.

“I won’t.”

“Are you comfortable?”

“Yes.” I sat in my chair in a worn-out Beatles shirt and mocha-kissed panties that blended perfectly with my skin, so much that if someone saw me, they would’ve thought I had no bottoms on at all. There was no bra to constrict me, no pants stretched around my thick hips. Bright, sunshine yellow Big Bird slippers covered my feet. I’d gotten them last year from working on educational jingles with Sesame Street.

If Mom had seen me, she would’ve shaken her head, knowing I wasn’t taking care of myself up to her standards. Had Mom seen me looking a comfortable mess, she would’ve said,

Basically, it meant, “You must take care of the root to heal the tree.”

My parents lived in Charleston, South Carolina and were proud Gullah people who only spoke in a form of creole called Geechee. The Gullah were descended from West and Central African slaves. After the Civil War, they remained on the Sea Islands of North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida, developing their own language and holding fast to their ancestors’ beliefs.

I don’t have time to take care of no roots or tree. Gio wants to hear my music!!

Since I’d begun working for Giovanni Ferraro, I’d spent each day drowning in songs, barely sleeping or eating, completely concentrating on lyrics. I had to impress him. He was a legend, a god within the industry.

I can do this. I can do this.

It was just that when Giovanni spoke over the phone, my panties went wet. His words were velvet over honey. Low and rich.

“Sing for me, Simone.”

My fingers shook as I strummed my guitar and slowly sang the lyrics.

Giovanni didn’t stop me, so I sang some more.

“I’ll give you want you want, he said, I’ll give you what you need. With your legs open, spread wide, just moan for it, one more time.” I strummed the guitar. “So, naked she begged, please.”

His heavy breathing flowed through the phone and drew me away from the song.

“Mr. Ferraro, are you okay?”

“Only call me Gio.”

“Of course.” I wanted to slap myself for the mistake. “I have to remember that.”

“Give me a second,” he said. “I want to think about those lyrics.”

Silence rode the line. My heart pounded in my ears.

God, I hope he likes it. Please. Please.

His fans called him Gio for short and referred to themselves as GioKnights. I was one of his biggest fans, had all his albums, various colored GioKnights shirts, and bumper stickers on my car.

I’d read everything about him long before getting this songwriting contract with his new label. He was a self-taught pianist. Both of his parents acted and had won Oscars, so he’d grown up among giants in the entertainment industry. I’d seen all the pictures—him sitting on Prince’s lap as a toddler with purple shades on his face, him yanking off Michael Jackson’s glove at five, him playing the piano next to Stevie Wonder at ten, and the best one of all, him spraying Justin Timberlake with silly string at his Sweet Sixteen birthday party.

G-fucking-O is on my phone!

At eighteen, his first album brought him international fame. The second one solidified his place in the music industry. The third made him a legend. It had been four years since his fourth album. All the GioKnights were desperately waiting. No one thought he would ever make music again after his songwriter and best friend, Jason Beals died from an overdose last year. Since then, Gio had hidden in the shadows, barely getting photographed or doing interviews.

And now he might be working on his fourth album with me. Me!

Such a soulful singer, many claimed he energized the genre of Blue-eyed Soul. I’d seen an interview where he said he found the term Blue-eyed Soul pigeonholing and disrespectful to Rhythm and Blues artists of other ethnicities.

He demanded respect for those that paved the way for him. That made me love him more.

I can’t believe I’m on the phone with Gio.

Finally, he broke the silence. “I love your song.”

“You do?”

“Yes. Very sexy. I can picture...” He cleared his throat. “I love it. You said you had another one. Let me hear it.”

“Oh yes.” I rummaged through all the scattered sheets of music on my coffee table and picked the last one I’d been working on.

“I’m ready when you are, Simone.” Simple words, yet his voice did wild things to my body.

Nervous, I breathed in and out, stretched my fingers, and sang the next song. “This is a fantasy. This is a dream. Don’t wake me up.

He groaned, speeding up my heartbeat, but I kept on.

“So dangerous. I’m going blind. I’m going death. I’m losing my mind. After you, I’ll have nothing left.” I strummed the guitar. “Want another taste, I'm begging you—”

“You’re always begging.” Giovanni cut into my song with his statement, and I swore a sensual growl came with the words.

“Um, I’m sorry.” I froze. “What?”

“

Shocked, I thought back to my recent ones and had to agree. “I guess it’s a coincidence. I don’t know why.”

His sensual voice rolled over my skin like a warm, soft caress. “Do you beg for it?”

I blinked. It took several seconds for me to find my next words. “That’s...private.”

And I would have to leave the house to even have someone to beg to.

“I was just wondering,” he said. A weird sound came from the other side, like he was moving clothing, but I was sure it was just my imagination.

Girl, get it together. He’s not opening his pants…even if it would be nice.

Although Gio had launched artists’ careers and must’ve had his own award room stacked with plaques and Grammys, back in the day, he mainly remained in the news due to his sexual exploits.

He wore gorgeous actresses and super models like one would wear watches or jackets. On Monday, he had a Middle Eastern princess at a movie premiere he did the soundtrack for. By Tuesday, he’d be seen making out with an up-and-coming female action star in a night club. Then Wednesday, there would be pictures of him sunbathing on a yacht with a French supermodel. Thursday, he’d be on stage at a concert twirling the Queen of hip hop around and kissing her through the chorus.

And it wasn’t just that he was talented, rich, and famous. Had he been poor and unknown, he still would’ve had lots of women. His face was art—strong, sculpted, sensual. His lips soft and full. His blue eyes trapped the soul.

Before Jason died, his playboy ways entertained the world. Now, there was only silence when it came to information about Gio.

Is he still the same?

 “Continue,” he said. “I want to hear more of the song.”

Please...”

I stopped, not wanting to finish the rest of the song after his comment on the begging. For a few seconds, I scanned the page and realized that it was more pleading. “I’m sorry. Can I sing a different song?”

“But I liked that one.”

“You did?”

“I did.” Again, the sound of clothing unraveling came over the line. “However, sing another. For now, I want to buy those two.”

Both! He wants them both!

“Oh.” Shocked, I held in my scream. I’d have to yell out my joy later. “That’s awesome.”

“You’re talented. I’ve never meant someone who can write like you. What’s the next song?” And then he chuckled. “Will she be begging in this one?”

I blushed. “Very funny.”

“I’m just wondering.”

I flipped through several sheets of music. “I’m sure I can find a non-begging song.”

“Don’t search too long. I like to hear you beg.”

My skin heated, but I had to remind myself that Gio’s talent wasn’t just music. He had a seductive way with women.

“Okay. This is different. There’s no begging.” I exhaled, cracked my fingers, and went into the next song. “Go deeper, deeper than you'll ever know. Swim inside of me, baby, I’m loving the way you flow. Go deeper, I love the way you stroke, and I’m dripping baby, soaking wet—”

He loudly groaned over the line.

My fingers tripped over the strings. I widened my eyes and mixed up a note in the song. “Oh. I should...start again.”

“No,” he whispered. “No, that’s fine.”

I frowned. “Did you like this?”

It took him a few seconds, before he answered. “Yes. Send all three to me.”

Anxiety hit me. All types of thoughts tornadoed through my head.

Are they ready for someone as big as Gio? Maybe I should—

I put my guitar down. “I was going to work on the tracks some more and play with the rhythm of—”

“No,” he said. “Send them tonight. I love them just the way they are.”

“Okay.”

“Too much editing and touching up will take away from the raw hunger in each line. When I play with them, will you do the background vocals for me?”

“Y-yes...of course.”

“Good. I’m not sure which one will go on my new album. I don’t even want to choose. In fact, I’m thinking all three should be on there.”

All I had to say was, “Whoa.”

“You’re just the creative spirit I need. You make me want to...”

I wished he’d finished the sentence. Surely, I sat there, waiting, drooling, barely breathing, unable to think or speak.

I make you want to what? Tell me. Please! Please!

He cleared his throat. “I need you.”

My entire spirit lifted. This powerhouse of a star needed me, a chick who’d grown up in poverty, struggled all her life, battled doubts and negativity. Suddenly, this successful musician needed me.

“By the way,” he laughed, “that song had begging too.”

I blushed. “It was not begging. She was more...guiding him.”

“Wouldn’t he know what to do?”

“Every woman is different in some ways. He may need to learn what she likes.”

His voice stroked the line. “And she likes it deeper?”

“Yes.” I barely mumbled the word as my nipples stiffened.

“I would like you to write me some more songs. And with these new ones, I don’t want her to beg. I want her to take control. He wants to give it to her. Trust me on that. She would never have to beg with him.”

I couldn’t help it, but I had to ask. “But what if she loves to beg? What if it turns her on?”

A low groan came next. “Good point, Simone.”

My nipples tightened with hunger some more, but they always did that when I was on the phone with him. Thank God, we’d never met in person. My panties would’ve been soaking wet.

Get it together, girl.

I set the guitar down. “Okay. I can send you the three songs tonight.”

“Do you like to beg, Simone?” he disrupted my thoughts.

My tongue tied. I had to unravel it, before replying, “I think that question is beyond our business relationship.”

“It is. You’re correct. I’m just bored out here in the mountains. No entertainment. No one to talk to.”

“I doubt that.” The news always loved to discuss the many playboy exploits he’d had. Gossip shows hadn’t reported on any of his new romances in a year. Not that they weren’t dripping with hunger to present something, anything, juicy for his fans. Many speculated he was still mourning Jason’s death. Either way, I was sure many women still warmed his bed.

“I really don’t have anyone to talk to. It’s true. I’ve taken a break from debauchery. I’m out here... meditating, doing Tai chi, reading, writing. I’m focused. I have this fourth album to put out. Nothing can get me away from it.”

“I like that.”

“I want to say something with this album, but all I can think about right now is sex and love.”

“Sex and love is saying something,” I offered. “Songs about revolution and healing the world are all amazing songs. But the ones that tend to sink in our heart are the ones that bring us together. And nothing brings people together like sex and love.”

He laughed. “Good point. Then, I’m going to go with this path. Your songs are definitely taking us down this journey of sexual exploration.”

Taking us? My songs? Whoa.

Silence hung over the line.

He asked, “So?”

“What?”

“Do you like to beg for it?”

A nervous giggle left my lips.

Don’t answer. Keep it business. It would just be flirting to him, but for me...it would be everything. Stay focused.

“Gio, I plead the fifth.”

“Fine. That might be an uncomfortable question and very unprofessional. I shouldn’t have asked. You don’t have to answer.”

“Thank you.”

No matter how many times my nightly fantasies had painted pictures of Gio naked and moving inside of me, I had to keep it professional. Many producers spotted up-and-coming female artists and used them for sex toys, promising contracts, deals, and fame. Tons of women fell for these shiny rock stars only to get burned by the bright lights and fiery egos. In the end, all the women got were broken hearts and wet sheets, damaged reputations, and sexual harassment suits they were too scared to file.

I wasn’t going to fall for anyone’s sweet promises. Not even my idol. If someone wanted to work with me, they had better provide contracts. They could keep their dicks to themselves.

People talked in this industry. All knew the creepy, rapey stars and producers to avoid. While I’d never heard anything shady about Gio, I had to keep it all business with him. Nothing more.

His voice went serious. “Did I go too far with that question?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll make sure to be more behaved in the future.”

The future? He wants more songs? Yes!

All I could manage was, “Great.”

“You’re talented.”

Another blush hit me.

Just business, Simone.

His words did things to me. Things they shouldn’t. They made me addicted. Obsessed.

In this month, I’d spent more time sitting by the phone and waiting for his call than living my life.

He returned to business. “Your manager will receive your check and the new contracts in an hour.”

“I’ll send the tracks to you tonight.”

“When will you have some new songs for me? I don’t want to rush you, but I’m...eager. Or maybe I should say eager to hear them.”

“I planned on working on the new ones tonight.”

“Oh wow,” he said. “I didn’t think it would be that fast. Christmas Eve is tomorrow. You don’t have plans?”

Embarrassed with my lack of a social life, I avoided the question. “I’m just excited to write more songs for you. I’ll definitely start tonight.”

“And…your boyfriend won’t be upset with me for having you work?”

“If I had a boyfriend, I think he would be proud that I’m writing for you.”

“Interesting. Why’s that?”

“I wouldn’t date a guy that didn’t have taste in music, and your songs are amazing. He would totally be a fan.”

“No cuffing season for you then?”

I grinned at his question. One of his many number one songs was Cuffing Season. It was the idea that during the fall and winter, people who would normally rather be single or promiscuous found themselves along with the rest of the world craving to be cuffed and tied down to a serious relationship. Mainly, they jumped in a relationship so they wouldn’t be alone during the cold weather.

“Correct,” I said. “No cuffs over here.”

“And will you be with family?”

Shocked, I couldn’t believe he was still pushing for more personal information. Sadly, I didn’t like that I sounded so boring and plain. I was sure for the holidays, he’d been invited to all types of celebrations and galas, whether he decided to go or not.

“No, my family is in the south. I just moved to New York, so I only have a few associates, mainly my vocal coach and manager. Basically, for Christmas, I’ll be eating a pint of eggnog ice cream and watching ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’ for the fiftieth time.”

“You’re an ice cream during the winter type of girl?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know why, but when you answer one of my questions, I just want to ask you five more.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I hadn’t even thought he would be interested in anything about me.

“Either way, you should be with someone who loves you,” he said. “I’m not judging. I just had to say that. Life is short.”

“I’m going to work on talking to other humans next year. This year, I’m focused.”

“Me too, which is probably a good thing for both of us right now.” He sighed and moved onto another topic. “I really should go.”

“Okay.”

“I can’t wait to play with your songs this evening.”

Excitement rippled through me.

“Have a Merry Christmas, Simone.”

“You too.” I hung up with hard nipples and wet panties.

Why does this always have to happen?

I put the phone down and dove my hand down my panties. Slickness covered my fingers. My sex pulsed with desire. It wasn’t the singing that turned me on. It was him.

Remember your promise to your heart. No more dating musicians. Stay focused.

At eighteen, I had become a member of my ex-boyfriend’s band H.O.T.R.A—Hut of The Reflecting Afterbirth. My ex, Bobo, had only wanted to write the songs, so our music was as bad as the band’s name. We still had mild success in the U.S. and even toured Belgium, Austria, and Canada. But my ex drowned in the idea of fame and groupies verses the beauty of music. I’d caught him cheating with bright-eyed fans more than I heard him say he loved me. By the time I turned twenty, I’d realized I’d given all my power to him. All my joy and respect.

I left the band, failed at being a solo artist, and dedicated five years to writing for others. Now, at twenty-five, I had to make the decision of whether I would repursue a solo career or continue focusing on songwriting. Bob Dylan claimed that music was a young person’s game. As each year stacked up, I hoped he was wrong.

Focus. Get Gio and anyone else off your mind. Figure out your path and stay on it.

I pulled my hands out of my panties.

Usually, I recorded my songs and sent them to a prospective client. Initially, I’d done that with him, and he’d asked my manager to set up a phone call meeting. Then, he had me sing to him over the phone and continued our meetings like that. But somehow, singing to him always made me wet and hungry.

I gazed out of the window, trying to focus on something else.

Snow continued to fall outside, covering the borough in thick, icy layers of white. Christmas was in two days and I hadn’t even put up a tree, bought any gifts, or sent cards. In fact, for the past three months, I’d barely left my apartment. It was all about the music every minute of every day. I had to win. I would reach my destiny. I would show my mother and father that I wasn’t crazy. That it was all worth it.

I should call Mom and Dad. They’re probably wondering what’s up with me.

They were down in South Carolina, living a normal life, and not chasing a crazy dream. Both of my sisters had already married and were expecting kids. They thought I was a bit looney to put family and marriage aside to focus on my career.

I doubted they expected me to even come down in visit.

I’ll call tonight. There’s too much work to do.

I picked up my headphones and swiveled in my computer chair. The upstairs neighbor’s TV came through the ceiling muffled. He was a retired army captain who loved my songs.

I checked my watch. It was ten in the morning. I had five more hours before I would have to stop singing. I’d agreed with all the other neighbors to keep the racket down once they arrived from work and school. After that, I would hopefully go to sleep, being that I hadn’t slept last night.

All work and no play makes Simone a horny, lonely girl.

I sipped coffee that had gone cold since making it, and then yanked one of my microphones in front of my face.

I’d turned my tiny living room into a studio. Musical instruments were hooked up everywhere. Microphones dangled from the ceiling. Blue covered the whole space from the floor to the walls, and even the couch and items on my book shelf were blue.

The Gullah had many superstitions. One of them was fear of haints or spirits. We didn’t believe spirits could cross over water, so we painted blue on our porches and doors to ward off the evil spirits.

Being that I was in a box apartment in Brooklyn struggling to pay high rent, I had no porch and the landlord wouldn’t let me paint the outside of the door. But on the inside, he gave me free reign and I went crazy coating the place in shades of blue.

But some nights, when I sat alone on my couch with the snow falling outside and the streets dead empty, the blue made me feel so cold, so gloomy.

In that moment, my mind wandered back to Giovanni.

What will you be doing tonight? What beautiful woman will get to kiss those soft lips and hear you whisper how much you love her?

I figured he had big plans. He probably had a private jet ready to fly him off to Europe to hang mistletoe with princesses and other royalty. And when he looked under his Christmas tree, he had everything he desired and more wrapped up in a little bow.

What does the man that has everything write on his Christmas wish list?

 I grabbed my notebook and worked on a new song…one with no begging.

Focus, Simone, focus.