South Row
Authors: Ghiselle St. James
SOUTH ROW
Copyright 2014
Ghiselle S
t. James
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
purely the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental or is used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, music, and/or bands, referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Table of Contents
Ghiselle St. James is a Jamaican author who has a never-ending love for written thoughts: poetry, song lyrics and non-fiction. A songwriter by the age of 9, Ghiselle enjoys singing just as much as she loves writing. She has been writing erotic novels since she was 13 years old. Never mind that they went unpublished; she had something inside her that wanted to break free…and it helped that it made her popular with the boys (hehe). Writing has been her outlet for most of her life, and will continue to be.
Ghiselle lives in Jamaica with her husband
, Chris, and her handsome baby, Panthro the cat. She works full time but always makes time for music, writing, reading and chatting on Goodreads.
Ugh, I hate talking about myself in the third person.
Anywho…
I went to the Jamaica Theological Seminary (haha, yes!) where I studied Social Work and graduated with honors in June 2010. Since then, the writer in me has reawakened and hasn’t gone to sleep.
I completed my first novel in January of 2013 and had never felt so accomplished in my life. I pray my passion brings you as much joy as it has brought me.
I got the idea for
South Row
while sleeping one night. I bolted out of bed and typed the tentative blurb and title immediately into my BlackBerry. It was like my very own writer’s
Culpo di Fulmine!
Wh
ile writing
South Row
, I did extensive research on exotic and pole dancing; trying out moves and actually going to a strip club. Aside from developing the story and each character, the research was the most fun part of this journey and I look forward to getting engrossed in another project.
Enjoy!
To anyone who’s ever had a dream that they thought would never be fulfilled, this is for you. Like
Journey
says, don’t stop believing. If I never believed in myself or my abilities, I would have given up years ago and would never have known what it felt like to pursue a dream.
Never give up on your dream, because a dream isn’t just something that happens while you sleep – snoring and drooling
– they are aspirations, goals that will make your life more meaningful. See your dreams through and make your future what you want it to be.
“A man is lucky if he is the first love of a woman.
A woman is lucky if she is the last love of a man.”
My guidance counsel
or told me to write down my feelings because, apparently, I have some anger issues. Punching Tommy Callahan, Will Gaines, and Justin Forster in the face hardly qualifies as anger issues, but hey, I’m not the professional. Miss Lowman told me to write about things that make me angry, so here goes:
March 14
Mom and dad are fighting again. This time it’s about some chick named Sherry, some barely legal bitch that Dad couldn’t keep his dick out of. It’s always the same. Different girl, but the same issue…Dad likes ’em young, well, younger than Mom.
I don’t know why she doesn’
t leave him. I wish I could show him the door myself. All he does is pretend to love us all but hurt us over and over again. I’ve grown tough. I’ve grown to not believe any of his promises. I’ve grown to give up all hope when it comes to him being a good father, but, poor Connor, Dad is still his hero. He’s only 13 so he still has this Dad-can-do-no-wrong image in his head. The sooner he sees Dad for what he truly is – a misogynistic pig who is intent on causing our mother grief and heartbreak – the sooner the veil gets stripped from his eyes and the sooner he grows up.
“You fucking bastard!”
Mom screams this at him every single time. It’s getting old.
Something shatters and I can only imagine her throwing everything breakable at him. I want to throw something as well; possibly a few punches.
I can’t wait to get away from here. Just a few more months until I blow this joint. I’ve been saving up to buy myself a car. My asshole of a Dad can very well buy me a new one, but I want nothing from him. He’s not going to buy me off like he does his many mistresses. I’ve been working my ass off at Mr. Jenkins’ horse stables, and I’ve finally got enough.
Maybe I should let the bastard buy
me a brand new Porsche and wreck it just for fun, or take a baseball bat to it. I
am
known to hit homeruns…
**********
I smile at this thought, but as the shouting continues, my jaw clenches involuntarily and the anger comes back in bursts. I have to force myself to think of something other than the chaos going on downstairs. The first person that comes to mind is
her
.
She keeps me grounded. With her, everything melts away. I feel like a knight-in-shining-armor when she
’s around. I have this fierce need to protect her always. Whenever she comes around, all the bullshit “anger” in my life takes a backseat to wanting to make sure she’s okay.
A creaking noise jars me from the commotion downs
tairs and from my thoughts, snapping my attention to the window. A smile creeps across my face because you would think, by now, she’d get the windows right.
The creaking intensifies as
she climbs higher and higher. I keep telling her it’s dangerous to climb two stories, but she does it anyway. The tomboy. I guess it is as much of an escape for her as it is for me when she comes to hideout in my room.
I know I shouldn’t entertain her, but she’
s a breath of fresh air; even cooler than my little brother, her best friend. And that’s saying a lot because my brother is the Ultra-lord of cool.
A soft huff e
scapes her pretty lips as indication of her struggle, but she’s a fighter. I can just imagine her brows pinched together and her lip between her teeth as she contemplates where to place her feet in the trellis in order to make it safely through my window. Those lips are probably plump from her incessant nibbling on them. It’s something she does when she’s nervous or over-thinking.
My heart beats in anticipation as
I finally behold the shock of red curls that will soon pop its head up as sign of her arrival. My center. My charge.
Sitting up in bed, I cock an eyebrow, fold my arms across my medium chest, my fairly muscular arms flexing with the movement, and await the arrival of the red-headed bandit, who sneaks through my bedroom window to save me from a world of arguments, broken hearts, shattered dreams, and smashed picture frames.
The top of her beautiful red head is now visible and, as is always the norm, she pokes her head up at eye level and the wind is knocked out of me as I am hit with the most beautiful Cerulean blue eyes. I keep wondering if they’re real.
I suck in a breath and release it shudderingly, trying to get a hold of myself. Her eyes twinkle with mirth and I find it hard to look at her and turn her away all at the same time.
“You gonna invite me in or what?” the redhead snaps in her usual prissy manner, a smile tugging at those swollen lips to betray her seriousness. The freckles on her nose seem much more pronounced as she scrunches it.
I have to stifle a laugh at her attitude. It
’s the same every time. That is what I love about her, she isn’t afraid of telling it like it is. She is so smart and easy on the eyes. She will make some guy happy one day.
My heart does an odd mis
-beat at the thought of her belonging to someone else. I shake it off quickly.
“Hop on in, Red,” I bid her.
She hops in and almost trips over a dumbbell – you know, trying to get buff and all. I shoot out of bed and scoop her in my arms before she face plants. Her tiny huffs of breath are warm in the crook of my arm and make the hairs on the back of my neck raise. She grips my forearms tightly and I feel tingles shoot from my arms through my entire body. I am holding her so close that I feel her heart beating erratically. Her soul-searing blue eyes peek up at me and I am momentarily lost in them.
She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth and a blush creeps over her plu
mp cheeks. Before I can stop myself, my fingers are brushing those rosy cheeks.
“You okay there, trigger?”
She hates when I call her that. She seems to think she doesn’t have that bad an attitude. I tend to disagree.
She narrows her eyes at me and pinches my arms with her small fingers. I yelp and release her because it hurt like a bitch, then she kicks me in the shin for good measure.
And she says she doesn’t have a bad attitude...
Another crash and yelling from downstairs startles her and frantic eyes turn to mine. She knows my parents fight and
she’s never been spooked. What’s the problem now?
My brows furrow in concern and I step toward her, but she quickly sidesteps me. Not before I see a flash
of worry in her eyes. Something’s wrong. My senses go on high alert, but I won’t force her hand. She’ll tell me eventually.
I giv
e her her space, taking in her petite form in white shorts, a blue blouse with elastic sleeves and the ends tied together and white sneakers. Her hair is done up in two corn rows, the ends tied by rubber bands, looking so very innocent. So very beautiful.
I’
ve never been into redheads because I’ve always thought they looked weird. Give me a blonde any day. I do, however, love
her
red hair. It’s so lustrous and inviting. I bet it would be soft to the touch. Her skin boasts the cutest freckles that look almost like artwork. My fingers itch to trace each intricate dot every time I see her.
I shake my head trying to clear the clutter as the little redhead goes over to my dresser looking at pictures and all the other crap I have on there.
“Isn’t it weird that I always come to you when both our parents are fightin’? It’s like their fightin’ clocks go off at the same time,” she says with a rueful smile, tinkering with the bottles on my dresser.
I frown. “Your folks fightin’, Red?”
“Hey, I’ve never seen you play baseball,” she quickly changes the subject, shifting her nervous gaze away from me.
“
Red,” I say levelly, needing her to tell me the truth.
“
Are you any good?” she continues, ignoring my question.
“
Goddamn it, Red!” I leap from my bed and grab her shoulder, turning her to face me.
Her face crumples in a wince and she yelps and darts away from me.
“Red?” My voice almost breaks. She is terrified.
I reach out a tentative
hand to her, thankful she doesn’t flinch away from me. I turn her into the moonlight and a garbled gasp escapes me. A purplish bruise is forming on her left shoulder and when I slip her blouse tenderly down her arm, the bruise continues down her arm and across her back.
“
Who-who did this to you?” I stutter, eyes transfixed on her exposed shoulder.
“My dad,”
she whispers, her voice timid and eyes cast down.
That’
s
why she seemed so scared, so skittish. My jaw clenches as vivid images of me beating her shit father to a pulp pass through my periphery. A surge of protectiveness grips me and I want to hide this sweet girl in an Ivory tower and keep watch at the gates, just so no harm ever comes to her again.
How can someone ever do this to a child? How can someone ever hurt
her?
“He was drunk,”
she defends weakly, breaking through my fog of anger as though she read my mind. She’s knotting her fingers together, fear and sadness written all over that angelic face of hers.
“That’s no excuse,”
I grumble, turning away from her trying to reign in my temper.
This delicate flower, crushed by someone who should love her and take care of her. Such beauty, sullied by the actions of a monster. He should pay.
She sniffles and my heart breaks for her as my anger surges through my veins. I turn back to her, reaching out and hugging her gingerly, but protectively. I want her to feel my love. She breaks down in my arms and I let her cry. God, I hate when she cries.
After a few minutes,
her sobs die down to hiccups. “I’m okay, Collin,” she assures me, trying to stop her tears and failing miserably.
“You don’t look fine, Southerlynn.”
Her name is like a caress to my senses and it instantly brings me calm, but I can’t get the image of her being hurt out of my head. With each blow, how she must have screamed out in agony and begged for mercy from a man who had none.
I look down at
this sweet angel in my arms and am assaulted with her watery blues. They tug at something inside my heart and pull me in closer.
Before I know what’
s happening, South reaches up and kisses me. My heart leaps having her warm lips on mine and for a few seconds – that feel like minutes – my brain short-circuits. My legs go weak and I squeeze her to me so as not to fall. Quickly, I push her away from me as my brain catches up to reality.
Holy shit, I just kissed South! What am I thinking?
Wait a minute. I didn’t kiss her. She kissed me.
South stares at me and I can read the want written all over her beautiful mug. I want to stop this
. I want to stop her, but I can’t seem to find my voice – I’m so stunned and...
shit
!
The little redhead girl stole my heart, and my will.