GIO (Interracial Rockstar Romance)

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, "Hunnuh mus tek care de root fa heal de tree."

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. “Naked, she begged, please. Naked, she begged, please.” I inhaled and sang the notes higher, covering each word with hunger. “So close, so wet, and so hot, naked she begged, please.”

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.