Vip, p.1
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       Vip, p.1

           M. Robinson
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Vip


  VIP

  By:

  M. Robinson

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, dead or alive are a figment of my imagination and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s mind's eye and are not to be interpreted as real.

  Copyright © 2013 M. Robinson

  Cover Design © Arijana Karčić, Cover It! Designs

  All rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my one and only lobster; my husband! Ben, you are an inspiration to me, my best friend, and my soul mate. We have been through so much together in the last decade and I couldn’t imagine my life without you. You’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing before I go to sleep. Thank you for pushing my dreams and being my co-captain. You are the reason I wrote this book after pushing to do it for over a year. I love you to pieces! XO

  Acknowledgements

  To my parents for always giving me the best example of hard work and determination, for always providing unconditional love and support. I would be nowhere without you.

  To my sister who drives me insane, but I love her nonetheless.

  To my nieces who I love more than anything in this world, you are like daughters to me.

  To my fur babies, Tropper, Kobe, and Geo.

  Jettie my forever PP (Perv Princess) for always listening and helping me through this process of my first novel. You continued to push me everyday to finish it and I wouldn’t be here without you. And for making me laugh…a lot!

  Julie for beta reading and being completely honest with me! You are my #1 VIP.

  Summer for telling me that I was onto something with VIP and to keep going.

  Crystal (A Writer’s Helping Hand) for beta reading, editing, and putting up with my constant questions and craziness.

  Rachael, you have been AMAZING with everything!!! Thank you so much.

  Cover it Designs, for a perfect cover.

  Pimpslapped for designing excerpts, teasers, & trailer.

  Island Lovelies Book Club, Dreams Come True Productions, & Loving the Book Launch Party for providing support and helping with promoting me and VIP.

  To all the bloggers who have been nothing but supportive and excited for me, THANK YOU!

  Last, but not least, I’d like to say a special enormous thank you to Heather Harton for coming through last minute and beta reading for me. I can’t thank you enough.

  And of course to all the fans!!! You guys will always be my VIPS!!!

  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

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  The beginning - A point in time or space where something starts.

  This isn’t a love story, but a story about love. I have answered several questions throughout the years; the one that I am asked often is; if it was all worth it? I always answer it the same way, if it is all you’ve ever known then you don’t know what to expect. In all honesty, in order to understand my happiness than you need to know my sadness.

  So here begins my story…my name is Ysabelle Telle.

  The world is surrounded by countless distinctions. You can think of any word and there is an opposite meaning; happiness and sadness, pleasure and pain, joy and misery, companionship and loneliness, life and death, and love and hate. The list could go on and on. I have experienced every one of these emotions tenfold.

  So here begins my story…my name is Sebastian Vanwell.

  Chapter 1

  Most children grow up wanting siblings, especially little girls. They want someone to share their secrets with, to have a best friend; to always have someone to talk to. Fuck that, not me.

  It was more than enough to have one person in this screwed up environment that I grew up in. I couldn’t imagine two of us going to bed hungry, I was barely able to fend for myself. That’s exactly what would have happened; me having to take care of another little person. Taking care of me came naturally. It was a fight or flight mentality, only the strongest survive, kill or be killed, that type of shit…my mom was a fucked up person, I had to survive. Period.

  My childhood memories are fuzzy, although clear, if that makes any sense at all. Like it or not, it was my life, and for whatever fucked up reason or purpose, it was my reality.

  I didn’t live in the suburbs on Shooting Star Court. I lived off of Nebraska in Tampa, in the ghetto where men hung around outside with a court and a blunt. Women screamed, and hit their kids as if it were nothing. Oh…the beauty of living in section eight housing. Seeing a five year old on the streets was a daily occurrence several times a day, that didn’t make it any less scary. My mother never thought about what was in my best interest; fuck, she never thought about me at all. Nevertheless, to give her the benefit of the doubt my mother never thought at all. She was always too fucked up on drugs or booze.

  I’d like to think that walking the streets were the only times I ever felt scared, that would be bullshit. I think I was born scared. However, five seems like a reasonable age to be afraid…right? I was scared way before the age of five. My mother haphazardly liked to leave me alone, ever since I could remember.

  One particular night sticks out in my mind; I awoke in the middle of the night hearing loud noises. I ran into my mother’s room and she wasn’t in there. I remember looking out the window, where I heard the loud noises coming from below, seeing cars with red and blue flashing lights reflecting off the houses.

  My heart sank to my stomach. It was the first time I felt pure panic. I had taken a candy bar from the BP gas station, earlier that day, when my mother had dragged me in with her to buy a pack of smokes. I thought the cops were coming to get me. I ran to my room as fast as I could, and hid underneath the bed until I heard my mother stumble in with some random guy. Only then, did I think it was safe to come out. It’s actually kind of funny now that I think about it, to feel safe around my mother, that’s a fucking joke. I didn’t sleep a wink that night, and hoped that my mother would come in and check on me to make sure that I was alright, though she never did. Shocker…

  Our neighbor, who we all knew as “Old Pa”, lived two doors down from us. He was always really nice to me, offering guidance; like to put my shoes on and to stay off the streets. I remember him yelling at me once for walking in the back alley. He was really mad. At the time, I was too young to understand why he was so mad. I know now it was probably, because of the man sleeping between the two dumpsters, or it could’ve been the needles that he kicked away when he carried me back to his house to feed me. In my defense, I was only trying to pet the black kitten that kept running away from me, he was probably hungry, too.

  That was the last time that I saw Old Pa. I had heard people talking about how the cops had come and taken him away. I never found out why though. I’m sure if I searched the public records I could find out why, ignorance is bliss. I want to remember some
thing good from my childhood, and Old Pa was good to me.

  Riding the school bus became one of my favorite parts of the day. I got to watch other children interact with two loving parents. I pretended to have that, too. When I was on the school bus, I felt like I could be anybody that I wanted. I could be like all the other kids with new clothes, shoes, and really awesome backpacks. A backpack and a lunch box were only a few of the items that I never owned as a child. I wanted a backpack though, one that looked just like Natalie Johnson’s. It was pink with sparkles and glitter all over it. Natalie had everything that I wanted. She was the last stop on our bus route. She lived in a bright yellow house, with white shutters, and pretty flowers. There was even a wooden swing on the front porch.

  Natalie had two parents, a mother and a father. They always waited with her at the end of their driveway. Before getting on the bus, she always got a kiss goodbye from both of them. The second she got on the bus, I would turn my head to watch her father kiss her mother before he got into his car to go to work, I presumed. Even at that age, I knew that he wasn’t kissing her like the guys kissed my mother. He loved her. I could tell that even at the ripe old age of five.

  I know now that Natalie wasn’t what you would call rich. There were far more exquisite homes in the Tampa Bay area; she was rich in my eyes though. Her blonde hair was always so pretty. It was shiny, well maybe shiny isn’t quite the word. To be completely fucking blunt, it was clean. Her headbands always matched her outfits, as did her stockings with her baby doll shoes.

  This may be the dumbest thing to remember from riding the school bus; one afternoon on our way home Natalie had on the shiniest bracelet I had ever seen. It called to me, so when she wasn’t looking, I reached out and touched it. She must have felt my fingertips, because she immediately looked at me disgusted and moved closer to the window. She whispered under her breath that she wasn’t allowed to talk to me, and to leave her alone. I didn’t understand why. Kids could be so cruel. I wasn’t a bad girl. At least my teachers always told me that I was a sweet child.

  I quickly learned to have a love/hate relationship with school. At least when I was there I knew that I was going to get the free lunches. The kids weren’t nice to me. They were actually very mean, except for Austin. He was always nice to me. We had the same teacher up until the middle of fourth grade. We always sat together at lunch, and played at recess.

  I remember one time he got into trouble for sticking up for me, when Nathan Black called me Cootie Bella, when I had somehow contracted head lice. Austin pushed him to the ground and Nathan skinned his elbows. Austin had to sit in class for the next three days, while the rest of the class played at recess. I tried to explain to Ms. Allen that Austin was defending me, she said we needed to learn how to use our words, ‘Stupid Cunt’ how about that for some words?

  The whole class waited in line at the clinic that day, while the nurse checked each of them for the epidemic of lice, complementary of little ole me. That was the first time I remember feeling shame; immense shame. I was pulled to the side and singled out. The school of course couldn’t get a hold of my mother to come and pick me up. Our phone had been shut off…again. The school sent a letter home with me, and my mother was pissed. She immediately grabbed the scissors and hacked off all of my hair. Crying the entire time, I begged her to stop, promising her that I would be more careful.

  I went to school the next day with a boy haircut, and everybody laughed at me. I went from being called Cootie Bella, to Bella’s a boy. Austin was my only real friend. He held my hand the entire day, and even let me eat his Jell-O pudding.

  Up until the middle of fourth grade, Austin was a part of my life. He had been absent for four days straight. I finally asked our teacher where he was, and why he hadn’t been at school. She explained that Austin was now in the system and had a new home. I had no idea what that meant. I did know that I wanted to be part of the system, too. I cried for a whole month after he was gone. I went from being alone to being; invisibly alone.

  My mother was a smart fucking woman when she wanted to be. I should have been taken from her the day I was born, I wasn’t. The one and only time a social worker came to check on me, my mother was on point. There was no way she was losing her welfare check for me, or her food stamps that she exchanged for drugs and alcohol. She played nice that day and make pretended that she was June Cleaver. She bribed me with a new doll, knowing that I didn’t have many toys. She also knew that I was naïve enough to fall for it. My mother was a piece of shit. Plain and simple.

  By the time I was in the fifth grade, I was put into special classes. Of course, I didn’t really know what that meant then. I know now that I was being singled out….again. Mr. Mayor had explained to me that it was for students that needed a little extra help. In one sentence he was telling me I was special and in the next he was telling me that I needed special classes. I didn’t understand how he could use the same word for two different meanings.

  The next time I thought about Austin was during the summer, I was about to go into middle school. It would have been nice to have one friend to start out with. It was our fifth grade graduation and the entire gym was full of mothers and fathers, except for mine of course. I had asked my mother to come; she had said she didn’t have time. I knew what that meant. She was going to be sleeping off the night before. I knew I was right; I saw the needles on the counter before I left, right next to the empty bottle of jack, and the used condom on the floor.

  I sat alone waiting for my name to be called. I pretended that my mother was there and that she was proud of me. They got to the letter T in the alphabet and soon my name was being called.

  “Ysabelle Telle.” My principal announced, who was the only one who clapped for me. The rest of the room kept about their business and conversations, while the unimportant girl accepted her accomplishments.

  Don’t you dare feel bad for me. I’m not writing this for you to shed tears. My story goes a whole lot deeper than this, and I definitely don’t want your pity. I adapted. I embraced, whatever the fuck came or would come. That’s what I do.

  I knew what my mother did for a living, well for her living. She sure as hell didn’t give a fuck about me. I guess a part of me always knew what her profession was. You can’t really blame me; we lived in the same house. I was usually the one that had to pick up the used condoms, which were never in her fucking room might I add. I wouldn’t have given a damn if she had kept the revolting things in her room, nonetheless my mother liked to get it on all over the house. I had even found some in my room here and there. She had no fucking decency or moral code.

  The summer that I was twelve years old and about to go into the seventh grade I became a woman, as my mother had called it. Trust me we didn’t have a mother/daughter bonding moment. This wasn’t an afternoon special. She simply handed me a cardboard stick with a string attached to the end of it. I didn’t have a clue what I was supposed to do with it. I ended up putting toilet paper in my panties until the next day, when I went to the clinic and asked the nurse for a maxi pad. She explained to me that the cardboard stick was a tampon and that it went up my vagina. She even went as far as to demonstrate how to put it in. She didn’t actually demonstrate, she just advised me to put one leg up on the toilet and to lean forward so that it would go in easier. To say I was fucking mortified would be an understatement.

  I should have known what was coming. I should have felt it or something. I could have been better prepared for it, if that’s even possible. I wasn’t. I was raped when I was twelve and it was by one of my mother’s Johns…yes…I just said Johns. I couldn’t even tell you what the John looked like or what his name was, all I know is that I woke up in the middle of the night with a hand over my mouth and a body between my legs. That’s how I lost my fucking virginity. Romantic, isn’t it?

  He wasn’t gentle at all. The fucker held my mouth the entire time, while his other hand fondled my breasts. There was nothing I could do. I just laid there in a state
of shock. I didn’t even cry nor did I try to fight him off. I beheld the ceiling and waited for it to be over. Every time he thrust in and out, I pretended that I didn’t feel the burning and ache between my legs. I pretended I didn’t smell the marijuana or the cigarettes on his breath. I pretended I didn’t taste the tequila on his hand. I pretended that I didn’t hear the grunts, groans, and dirty shit that he was saying in my ear about my pussy being so tight. I found out later that my mother was paid more money for this John to “use” her daughter than he would have paid for her.

  I know what you’re all thinking, what kind of mother would do this to their own child, their own flesh and blood. Although, maybe, she thought she was doing me a favor. In her world and mind all men were trash. I experienced a lot of firsts in my life; firsts that should never even exist, let alone be firsts. I eventually learned how to embrace and expect them. They became a part of me, like a body limb would be. My home life would be everything that you would expect it to be, dirty ass house, never any food, old and used clothing, and a revolving door for both my mother and her Johns.

  After my initial encounter with her John, I learned real quick to keep to myself and the more I became invisible the safer I would be. At this point I couldn’t even trust my own mother for my safety, not that I ever could. I began to be home as little as possible, even learned a few tricks from my mother on male mentality. You would be surprised with the things boys would do for you as long as they got a hand job, how they would sneak you into their windows at night or even leave you an extra plate of food once in a while. When I really needed something, I would bring out the big guns, like a blowjob or even them doing some light petting on me.

 
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