Sweet Giselle Read online

  Sweet Giselle

  Karen Williams

  www.urbanbooks.net

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 - Before the Madness

  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

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  This novel is dedicated to my children ... Whom I breathe for and would stop in an instant for you two.

  Acknowledgments

  I’m back! Let’s see, it started with Harlem on Lock. Then there was The People Vs. Cashmere, Dirty to the Grave, Thug in Me, Around the Way Girls 7, Even Sinners Still Have Souls, and Aphrodisiacs: Erotic Short Stories. And I have been out for only three years! God is good all the time! And now we are at Sweet Giselle. Ahh. (Exhaling.) I’m absolutely ecstatic to finally bring this story to light! I so enjoyed writing it! It’s funny that each time I finish a story, I get all emotional and teary eyed. For me these characters live in my world as I write their story. And when I end the story, I have to say good-bye to them. And then I move on to new characters, so it always works out.

  I’m so happy and blessed to be able to do what I love, and that is these stories. What puts the icing on the cake for me is to know that people out there enjoy them. With a full-time job and two kids, it is not always easy, but it’s the passion and, as my creative writing professor Mr. Dominguez always said, “the burning in the belly to write” that keeps me up at night and wakes me up early in the morning to get it done, and no matter how tired I am, I am truly enjoying every minute of writing. I’m also excited to announce that I will be writing as Braya Spice. My first novel under this name is called Dear Drama. Look for it in 2012!

  I want to thank my beautiful children, Adara and Bralynn. You guys are my world and why I get my grind on day to day. Thanks to my mother and my sister Crystal.

  To my nieces, Mikayla and Maydison; my nephews Omari and Jeff Jr.; my cousins Donnie, Jabrez, Devin, and Mu-Mu; and my goddaughter La’naya. Hey to Tammy, Shauntae, Ray, Eric, Christina, and Terry.

  Thanks to my friends Sheryl, Roxetta, Lenzie, Christina, Kimberly, Linda, Tracy, Christina, Talamontes, Pam, Carla, Sewiaa, Ronisha RIP, Tina, Shumeka, Valerie Hoyt, Tara, Pearlean, Maxine, Dena, Barbara, Henrietta, Candis, VI, Phillipo, Latonya, Leigh and Vanilla, Yvonne Gayner, Sandra V., Sandra T., Ivy, Daphne and Lydia, Mrs. Pope, Rob, and Thomas. Thanks LaNesha for being a third eye and reading over the finished product! Hey, Netta!

  My author buddies Mondell Pope, Aleta Williams, Terra Little, Terry L. Wroten: Ayo. A’ight! Y’all should know by now I’m corny!

  Thanks to Carl and Natalie!

  Thanks to my editor, Kevin Dwyer. I can honestly say you are making me a better and more polished writer.

  Thanks to all my fans that have supported me. So many have reached out and told me how my stories have impacted them. Knowing this truly inspires me to write my heart out and give all I can give in my works. I know as an author I write with purpose. I often say, with each book, that I’m either making a statement or I’m asking a question. In stories like Harlem on Lock, The People Vs. Cashmere, and Around the Way Girls 7, I strived to be the voice for young girls who don’t have one. These young girls that walk our streets every day, enduring horrific circumstances, are often swept under the rug. The young girls that view themselves as damaged or flawed, I want them to know that they are not. And that they can still persevere, despite what they have gone through. In The People Vs. Cashmere, Ms. Hope always told the girls not to be defined by their pain. For those that don’t know Ms. Hope was a real person: me. Those teaching in The People Vs. Cashmere were mine.

  With stories like Thug in Me and Even Sinners Still Have Souls, I pushed the power of hope and holding on when every single card in your deck is inexpicably stacked against you. I say it again: hope is a powerful thing when you have nothing else. Hope can be all you need to keep going, to keep fighting, to climb your way out. Trust me, I know firsthand. In Dirty to the Grave I wanted to explore the dark side of our culture. Immorality crosses all races and all genders. For me this is evident in this novel. It also explores the idea that how you’re nurtured, and how you’re loved from conception shapes the person you become.

  Essentially, I want my stories to inform, entertain, and evoke something in my readers. I have also often been asked why there is so much tragedy in my stories. This says it best: pain and struggle make strength apparent.

  Anyhoo, I hope I didn’t leave anyone out. If I did, and you were instrumental in my life, I thank you!

  Feel free to visit me at:

  www.AuthorKarenWilliams.com and on Facebook.

  Enjoy

  Prologue

  “No! Don’t shoot him please!” I begged.

  I looked at my husband’s horrified face as he pointed his gun at Bryce’s head.

  Bryce simply sat back, coughing up blood.

  My husband looked from me to Bryce, then back at me, the whole time not lowering the gun. “Are you begging me not to kill this man, Giselle?”

  I swallowed hard and tried to speak. My arms were spread wide, but nothing, no words, came out of my mouth. I dropped my hands to my sides as sobs hit me.

  My husband started crying, too. Huge sobs escaped his body. The sobs were because he knew the truth. So why did he want to hear it?

  Yes, I loved Bryce. I loved him more than I loved my husband, more than I loved myself, and surely, more than I loved my life. Which was pretty screwed up right fucking now! I was staring at the man I’d thought I would love forever, and fearing that the man I wanted to love forever was going to die.

  “Pull the trigger, muthafucka. Get this shit over with,” Bryce said.

  My husband yelled out in rage and rushed toward Bryce. “Shut the fuck up!” He started to beat Bryce in the face with his gun.

  I rushed forward, threw myself on my husband’s back, and pounded him in his head with my fists. “Get off of him!”

  He easily tossed me off his back. I flew back, lost my balance, and banged my knee as I hit the floor making a loud thud. My teeth clenched as pain shot up my leg. I was still hurting from the earlier beating my husband had put on me. I didn’t know how much more pain I could bear.

  My husband turned to me. He looked so hurt that I was protecting Bryce. “You want him, Giselle? Huh? You love him? Baby, just tell me the truth.”

  I closed my eyes briefly. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would find myself in this situation. But it was my husband’s bullshit that had got me caught up with Bryce to begin with. Neither of us had planned for this. Too many lives had been lost. Shit had gone too far, and I wanted to end it. All the pain now, the violence, the deaths. If I could end it ... I knew I had to start with the truth.

  “Giselle.”

  I opened my eyes and stared at my husband. His lips were trembling, and his eyes were bloodshot. “As much as this shit is going to hurt me to hear, baby, I need to know the truth.” He took a deep breath. “Do you love this man?”

  �
�Yes. I love him.”

  His whole face crumbled. Now he was bawling. “You were my baby.” His voice lowered. “Sweet Giselle.”

  I started crying again, because when he said my name, it reminded me of the past. When I was his sweet, fragile, and naive wife. I was a wife who adored and looked up to her husband. I almost worshipped him. I thought he was perfection, the ultimate man. I didn’t have any of those types of feelings for him anymore. He was just pitiful and pathetic to me. I almost felt sorry for him. More retaliation from him would change nothing. At the end of the day, even if he did kill Bryce, I still would not love him or want to be with him ever again. The things I found out about him were what had destroyed my love and my utter worship of him.

  Suddenly my husband turned his focus back on Bryce.

  And before I could stop him, he fired.

  Chapter 1

  Before the Madness

  February 13, 2011 ...

  I let the clips out of my sandy-colored hair so it swirled around me and down my back in luxurious curls. I could not get Crystal, my stylist, to do my hair tonight, so I got it done the night before and wrapped it up. She’d said something about her schedule being booked because it was so close to Valentine’s Day. My baby had told me that he would hire a stylist to come to our home, but I wasn’t parting with Crystal for any reason, because no one could do a weave like her or whatever I wanted, for that matter. But since my husband had paid for me to get hair implants a few years ago, I no longer wore weaves. And my hair now hung as far down as my lower back. I stared at myself in the mirror. I admired my beauty. My perfect brown skin. Skin that was kissed by the sun. I was so golden. Yes, golden.

  I giggled to myself as my eyes passed over my Bambi-shaped brown eyes, my lips, which were the size of Angelina Jolie’s. I had a set of dimples, which my brother also had. My teeth were straight and white, thanks to my hubby. Truthfully, there was nothing wrong with my teeth before, except for my gap, but my husband was a perfectionist. Plus, he had the dough, so why not be perfect? Now, my body was another thing. I had the plumpness in all the right places. Size thirty-four C breasts, with rich, dark nipples. My waist was small. My hips spanned, and my butt was round. My body was toned, thanks to hitting the gym my husband Giovanni had made for me in our lavish mansion. I had also gotten lipo on my inner thighs. My plastic surgeon was at my disposal. Giovanni always said, “Anything for my sweet Giselle.” Then, whenever he said it, he gave me a look like he wanted to fuck my brains out, and I loved that shit! I loved, loved, loved my husband.

  Tonight he was taking me somewhere special for our four-year anniversary.

  I couldn’t wait to put on the three-carat earrings and matching tennis bracelet Giovanni had bought for me. He had laid them on the nightstand, with a note that read, “This is just the beginning.” I knew that as Giovanni’s wife, I lived a life that most women fantasized about. My baby was rich, handsome, and affluent. We hung out with doctors, lawyers, celebrities, and self-made millionaires. It seemed like my baby knew everyone. Once a week my husband went to the shooting range with the Westwood chief of police, and the chief would often come over for dinner with his wife, Vanna. One summer we vacationed with them in Puerto Vallarta. I knew no man was as special and as loved as my husband.

  I put my La Perla bra and matching thong on, the whole time admiring my body in the mirror. Some of the changes my husband had suggested, such as the hair implants, and the lipo on my thighs. Before him I had never worn thongs or gotten a Brazilian wax, but he insisted that I do these things. It was like he wanted to make me into the woman of his dreams in every way. Physically, mentally, and sexually. He always took time out of his busy schedule to tell me and show me how desirable I was to him. He made me feel super special. Womanly. It was truly amazing what had transpired in these last five years... .

  2006, The beginning ...

  I had just graduated from Carson High School and was looking forward to enjoying my summer before I went off to college. I wasn’t tripping on going to a big college or out of state like some of my friends. I was cool going to Cal State, Dominguez Hills. I mean, I lived right across the street from it, in Stevenson’s Village. It would be silly to go anywhere else. Plus, I loved my family and didn’t want to be too far from my seventeen-year-old brother, Brandon. Yes, seventeen! There was only a year difference between us. I was born in January, and he was born that following year, in October. I guess my daddy did not follow that six-week rule after my mother gave birth.

  I knew I needed to make sure my brother stayed on track because my parents were always working. My mother and father worked at the oil refinery that was located in Carson, California. While my father had been there as long as I could remember, my mother stayed home until my brother and I were the legal age to stay home alone. Then she joined my father at the refinery. When my mother was home, she ran a tight ship. Everything was on a strict schedule. And she kept my brother and me in line, seriously. The tight ship she ran allowed our home to stay in order even when she went back to the workforce, because she had our asses seriously trained. Our homework was always done, the house was kept clean, and we never tried to run amok, no matter if my parents were home or out. They could take a trip to India and could rest assured we would handle our business. Within the first year of my mother working, we were able to purchase a house in Stevenson’s Village, whereas before we stayed in some apartments by the South Bay Mall.

  Although I loved both my parents to death, I didn’t really have a super close relationship with them, but I had a lot of respect and love for both of them. The reason why I didn’t feel close to them was that they were gone pretty much the majority of the day. I knew their absence at home wasn’t because they didn’t care or were selfish parents, totally uninvolved in their kids’ lives. It was because they worked long hours to provide a foundation for us now, and for our future. And when they were home, they both preached about the importance of having a foundation. One thing about my mother and father was that they never turned making money down. My father could have a high-as-hell fever, but no matter what, he went to work and would work overtime if they offered it to him. My mother was the same. She went in for overtime on her birthday. Even as they got older, their work ethic never changed. So I knew I had to go to college. It was not an option for me. So did my brother. I told my brother time and time again, “As soon as you hit eighteen, you will bring your ass over to where I am.”

  He would always laugh and say, “Okay, Gissy. Whatever.” That had been my nickname since he was one. He couldn’t say “Giselle,” so he would say “Gissy,” and it stuck until he could pronounce my name properly. Sometimes he went back to calling me Gissy. Now he was my booski! I loved my brother to death. He was my closest friend, and no matter what I would always take care of him. He looked like he could be my twin. That was another thing we could thank our parents for: our good looks.

  My mother, Alana, was super pretty and my daddy, Toby, was super handsome. I took my father’s coloring and sandy hair, while my facial features came from my mother, along with her nice, tight body. My brother had the exact coloring and facial features as me, but with a sharper jawline, which he got from my father. The shape of my brother’s face was long, like my father’s, while I had my mother’s oval-shaped face. We both had gaps in our teeth, which came from our pops. Brandon said all the girls called his gap sexy. I never agreed. He was six-three, with a muscular build. I never gave him compliments, because I didn’t want his looks to go to his head and I didn’t want him to think that all he needed was his looks to succeed in life.

  I was always told I was beautiful, but I didn’t want to rely on my looks to get by in life. I personally believed that once you did, you started selling your soul, and well, looks lasted for only so long, so after that what did you have? I refused to be in my fifties, expecting men to pay me for sex, like my friend Lexi, who was equally pretty and had been stripping since we were in high school so she could keep up with the Joneses.
For the past six months, she had been answering sex ads on Craigslist for money. I had told her time and time again that there was more to life than selling her body. I’d asked her, “Aren’t you afraid of catching something?” and “What would your mom think?” even though the majority of the time alcohol had her mother out of touch with reality. But her answer to any of my questions or my judgment was to put her hand in my face and say that she didn’t wanna hear that shit.

  Lexi had been my best friend since elementary. She lived right across from me. Lexi’s mother and her mother’s sister and two brothers never quite left the nest. Instead of doing what normal people did, like going to college, getting a good job, getting married, and having kids; they passed on the college, the job aspect, the getting married part, and instead had kids and lived off their parents. Matter of fact, Lexi’s aunt Mona was working on her fourth baby. All while her three uncles moved their baby mamas in, with their kids in tow. And while Lexi’s mother had only one kid, Lexi, she was drunk the majority of the time, and Lexi had pretty much been raised by her grandparents. But since her mother spent all her extra money on liquor, and her grandparents were retired and living on a fixed income, they could not afford the things that Lexi desired. So, she claimed, she did what she had to do. She would sometimes try to get me to answer ads or even post one.

  “Come on, Giselle. Stop being goody fucking two-shoes. A lot of girls post or respond to ads for sex on Craigslist.”

  Not this girl, I thought. Not now. Not ever!

  But then I learned at an early age in life to never say never. Who knew that eventually I would have to do the same thing that Lexi did?

  My father was diagnosed with cancer during my first semester. When the cancer in my dad’s body spread and he could no longer work, my mother started missing work left and right, partly due to caring for my daddy and partly due to being severely depressed about my dad being so sick. Their were days when she couldn’t bring herself to get out of bed. I had no choice but to ask for a refund of my college tuition and give it to my mother to help with bills. I would watch people rushing to class and wish that I was one of them. I felt a duel of emotions. Anger, sadness, and disappointment. I was sad that my father was dying and I was pissed that I couldn’t go to college. For the longest time it was all I had wanted and I had worked hard for the opportunity. I wanted to be able to finally have independence and pick my own classes, to be able to hang out, join a sorority, and go to parties, wearing new, cute clothes. And now I was missing it. But I told myself that this would not be a permanent thing. That got rid of the anger and disappointment. But the sadness stayed, because I knew the situation with my father would not get better, only worse, until it resulted in death. I knew this not because I was negative, but because this was what the doctor said.