by Kenya Wright
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
ZachEvans Publishing Presents
Gio
By
Kenya Wright
Tampa, FL
Gio is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Kenya Wright
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by ZachEvans Publishing, an imprint of ZachEvans Creative, a division of Jessica Watkins Presents, LLC.
This book is dedicated to the thousands of women, who as children, wrote a song that still plays in their heart.
(Btw, Oprah 2020)
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.
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. I’m covered in cream, and you’re just licking.”
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?”
“When you write a song about sex, the woman is always begging.”
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.”
I returned to my guitar, strummed the melody, breathed in, and sang, “Please, baby, come all over me. Please, fuck me until I can’t see. 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.
