Guitar Face Series Box Set: Books 1-4
Page 1
For Dane,
This box set wouldn’t be possible without you. Thank you for being my Kip.
Guitar Face
By
Sasha Marshall
Guitar Face
Copyright 2015 Sasha Marshall
Published by: Sasha Marshall, LLC
Originally Published: June 25, 2014
This version published: May 31, 2015
Edited by: C. Hulsey, J. Fason, H. Martin, & M. Glass
Cover Designed by Sasha Marshall
Photographs on Cover: © prochkailo / Dollar Photo Club
Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.
Dedication
For my Grandfather
In loving memory of Malbern
You are the greatest man that ever walked this earth. Your love of music shaped my own. By the age of eleven, music was present in each day of my life. I have always had my own life soundtrack thanks to you. My Christmases are filled with memories of Elvis, and my childhood memories in your shop were sung by every Motown musician ever recorded. Beyond music, your kindness taught me to be kind to others and to give selflessly. Your laughter taught me that life is full of joy. Your love taught me to love with everything I have. Most importantly, your faith and words taught me to chase down every dream I ever had. You saw three of my dreams come true. Here is one more. I love and miss you.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products 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. Please be advised there are sexual situations, profanity, and other situations which are not suitable for anyone who is younger than 18 years of age.
There are character biographies and profiles on the author’s website at SashaMarshall.com.
Prologue
When I was four, my love affair with music began. One random day, I wandered into my grandfather’s recording studio and watched Uncle Buddy, who is not really my uncle at all, play the guitar for over an hour. I saw him close his eyes and jerk his head from the front to the back, tap his foot, and make the strangest faces. I thought he might be sick and asked my grandfather to take him to a doctor. My grandfather threw his head back and let loose that boisterous laugh he has.
When he composed himself he said, “Baby girl, Uncle Buddy isn’t sick. That’s just his guitar face.”
My grandfather explained to me at four years of age what a guitar face was. I never forgot the words “guitar face” So I observed other musicians to see if they had a guitar face. Each musician I observed had their own guitar face, they were an assortment of dramatic, scary, but most were angelic. I tried for almost a year to mimic some of those faces in a mirror, and I was never able pull off the same effect. I convinced myself that my grandfather would be proud if I could pull off a guitar face too.
By the tender age of five, I deduced my inability to produce a great guitar face was because I did not have a guitar, so I borrowed one of my grandfather’s. Standing in the mirror, I realized my guitar face was still scary. Not long after my try at a guitar face with an actual guitar, I realized my guitar face sucked because I could not play the guitar. I decided I must master playing the guitar before my very own amazing guitar face would emerge. I ran to the recording studio to beg my grandfather to teach me how to play the guitar, but I only found my Uncle B.B. there. He isn’t really my uncle either. He was sitting on a red leather ottoman playing his guitar and had one of the best guitar faces I had ever seen. I was afraid he would quit playing if he saw me, so I snuck back to the corner of the room and sat in his empty guitar case. I watched him play for what seemed like an eternity. The case smelled like smoke, whiskey, and music. My grandfather’s recording studio smelled the same way, and it smelled like home to me. I had a difficult time keeping my lids open, so down in the case and continued to listen.
The next thing I heard was the laughter of men, and when I opened my eyes they all stared back with admiration in their eyes.
“I never seen a child sleep in a guitar case like you do. You been fond of them things since you was old enough to crawl. One day you gonna be too big for it,” B.B. said. The men laughed again. I jumped out of his case and walk toward him bound and determined to finish the mission I had set out on hours earlier.
“Uncle B.B., my guitar face don’t look good. I have been trying since I was four and can’t make it look like yours, or Uncle Buddy’s, or my Granddaddy’s.”
All the men chuckled again, and it made my impatient temper flare. I put my hands on my petite little hips, pressed my lips together, frowned the best frown I could manage, and poked my uncle in the arm.
“It’s not funny! I have worked real hard to get a good guitar face but it just don’t feel right. I even went and got my Granddaddy’s guitar and held it in the mirror, and it still can’t do it right! MAKE MY GUITAR FACE LOOK LIKE YOURS!” I stomped my feet for effect, and no matter how good of a job I thought I had done at relaying my anger, they all laughed again.
My uncle picked me up under my arms and placed me in his lap and said, “Baby girl, a guitar face doesn’t come from practice or from holding a guitar. It comes from the depths of your heart and soul. You can’t decide what your guitar face is gonna look like, the music does. You gotta play that guitar to have a guitar face.”
I frowned again, fighting my five-year-old impatience, and took in the men surrounding us in the studio. Their faces were smiling with amusement.
“That’s why I came out here. I figured if holding the guitar didn’t make my face look right then I need to learn how to play the damn thing, and you were busy playing your own guitar when I got here, and I fell asleep in the case. I need to learn how to play.” I could not have been more serious in my lengthy five years on this earth.
My grandfather chimed in, “You better not let your Grandmamma hear you say ugly words. She’ll wash your mouth out with soap again.”
MY grandfather is never a serious man. I could see him fighting with himself between doing the right thing by scolding me and laughing. A smirk remained on his face.
“I’m sorry Granddaddy, but I’m being serious and everybody is laughing at me. This is important.”
My grandfather and B.B. communicated silently with their eyes, and then they simultaneously laughed. I was amusing them!
“I don’t know if you is guitar-playing material little girl. Me and your Granddaddy’s been playing for a long time, and I ain’t never taught nor seen a little girl play the thing.”
“So you won’t teach me to play because I’m a girl?!!!!! I’m telling my Grandmamma! She says girls can do same things boys can. I do everything better than my brother, and I know I can play the guitar better than all of you! I just need someone with a good guitar face to teach me. So what’s it gonna be fellas? Don’t be scared of girls or I will tell everyone you are all sissies!” I scrunched my face together and put my hands on my hips to show them I meant business.
With a great deal of effort, the men held back their laughter. “Well, now, little Miss, didn’t nobody say nothing about girls can’t play guitars. I just says I ain’t never seen one. There�
��s a first time for everything. Come on Red; let’s go get your Grandbaby a guitar,” B.B. said as he put down his guitar, I was ready for my first memorable journey into the musical world.
Chapter 1
“Jesus Christ,” he growls in my ear.
He continues to massage my clit and bring me closer to the brink of oblivion. Jesus Christ is about right, I’m about to explode all over his hand. I rake my fingernails into his muscular, tattooed back.
“I can’t take this anymore…need inside of you now…going to fuck you like it’s my job,” he growls again.
Connor Black pulls his fingers out of me and drops his pants down to his ankles. He unrolls the condom onto his shaft and steps back to me. He rains kisses down my jaw line. Connor is the picture perfect bad boy. He is the lead singer in Kellan’s Cross, a modern rock band. They sound like a cross between Breaking Benjamin and Five Finger Death Punch if you can imagine such a thing. I’m headlining this tour with my own band, Abandoned Shadow, and I’ve tried for six months not to fuck Connor. He has relentlessly pursued me, but I have a feeling I’m about to lose the fight. Yup, I’m going to fuck him. It sucks to be the only female on tour with hot male eye candy surrounding you. Talk about a sausage fest! But given the choice, I’d much rather live amongst a sausage fest than struggle through an estrogen nightmare. Bitches be catty.
Connor is now kissing my neck. Should I fuck him? One of three things will happen if I let him shake my wig one good time. Choice one involves him telling everyone he can think of that he shagged me, Henley Hendrix, Queen of rock-and-roll. I know this can be a trophy fuck. Choice two involves him falling in love with me, and it can get ugly. I mean restraining order and publicity battle ugly. Famous people rarely keep their personal matters to themselves. Nope, we crazy, rich assholes are known for using the media to bicker with each other. Think of it as a global Facebook page. I prefer privacy, but letting him stick his dick in me may invite a psycho loon into my life.
Choice three is much more preferable. This preferable choice entails both of us understanding we are two horny, consenting adults who just want to get laid something fierce. Once he gives me an orgasm, and reaches his own climax, we will part ways. If the sex is good I might do it again one day. Other than that, I don’t care to see Connor Black again.
Don’t get me wrong, Connor is as fine as they come at six feet tall, with dark blonde hair tucked behind his ears, and pretty hazel eyes. The tattoos really do it for me. He has sleeves on both of his arms and a lip ring that is begging for me to nibble on it. Yeah okay, I admit I’ve thought about it a few times along this six-month tour. I’ve exhibited willpower and all that motivational shit, but damn a girl has needs. I need to get fucked, like yesterday.
He continues down my shoulder with his kisses and simultaneously pushes my already short dress up to my hips. Okay, so I will probably let him pork me. He rubs the tip of his dick against my lips. Yup, I will ride the baloney pony. He slowly inserts himself in me, and I swear to everything sacred, I almost came. His dick isn’t huge. It’s average, but thick in girth, and that is on my list of favorite things about a penis. He keeps his thrusts long and slow and kisses me like I’m the only woman in the world. I wish he would hurry though. There’s no time for romance shit.
“Open your eyes Henley. I want to watch you come,” he whispers.
I wonder how many times he has read Fifty Shades. Dear Connor, men don’t really fucking talk like that.
“Let me see you beautiful. I want to feel your soul when you come.”
Yup, he is fucking it up for me. I wonder if there’s any duct tape in the room. Moaning works for me, and he can still moan through tape. This romantic bullshit is making my vag dry up like the damn Sahara. Okay, desperate times call for desperate measures. I pull him close and press my face to his chest. Now he can’t see me and peer into the depths of my soul and all that shit. I grab onto him and rake my nails into his back. He gives a grunt of pleasure and stops spouting all of that 18th century L-O-V-E nonsense. He thrust harder, and I feel it building inside of me. I hear him say something or another, but my impending orgasm has made me partially deaf. I’ll pretend he is Bradley Cooper. Nope, not bad boy enough. Shit, I’m in the middle of getting laid, and I can’t decide who I want to fuck in my head. Russell Brand? No, too skinny. He looks too much like Jesus for me. George Clooney? No, too refined. Channing Tatum? Nope, he can dance better than me. I might not be able to keep up with him in bed. Orlando Bloom? Nope, not bad enough. David Beckham. Ooohhh daddy yes! He will do it. Victoria will have to forgive me because I’ll fantasize about fucking her husband.
And Beckham does the trick. When I imagine his hands running up and down my back and thrusting his pelvis in me, I find the edge again. Tattoos, I need tattoos. I turn my head to the side and watch the tattoos move on Connor’s arm and pretend they are Beckham’s. Oh yeah, that will do it for a girl. I feel that elusive climax begin building and finally tip over the edge. Digging my fingers into his back, I throw my head back, and close my eyes, screaming out something, but no clue what. Here’s to hoping it wasn’t David Beckham’s name! That would be a rather embarrassing headline. Rocker Connor Black spills the goods. Henley Hendrix is having an affair with David Beckham and accidentally called out his name during sex. Welcome to my life kids.
Soon, Connor follows me, and I feel him spasm inside of me. Thank the heavens above we’re done. At once he and grabs the condom to dispose of it. A knock at the door startles me, and I race around to make myself presentable. Connor does the same. I open the door moments later when we are both clothed. Neither of us can hide the fresh fucked look, so I don’t even try.
Caleb is leaning against the frame of the door. His face is graced with a knowing smile. I wink at him to let him know I need to be saved from myself.
“You ready to head home, Hen?” Caleb asks a little too eagerly.
“Uh, yeah. Let me say goodbye to Connor.”
I turn around and Connor has a look of shock etched on his face. Shit, this might not end well. I smile a sexy smile and saunter up to him. I play the only card I have, and it’s standing in the frame of the door. I wrap my arms around him for a hug and whisper in his ear.
“Sorry about that. That was amazing! We will meet up soon,” I lie.
I kiss his cheek and saunter out of the room. When I pass Caleb, I let the facade drop. Once we are a reasonable distance away he begins his tirade of teases.
“What did you tell this one?” he asks.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because he looks like you shot his dog.”
I laugh, “I lied and said it was great sex, and we will get together again soon, and then I apologized for your unexpected arrival.”
“Would you like more time with the bloke?” Caleb asks in his best English accent.
“Funny, but hell no. I swear he reads romance novels. I had to pretend he was someone else, so it wasn’t a total waste of my time.”
“Jesus, that’s harsh,” Griffin says as he falls into step with us.
Griffin is our bassist, and he enjoys hearing about my sexual endeavors. I don’t let it happen often on tour, but when I do, I’m discreet about it. I’ve been friends with the guys in my band since we were in grade school, but I keep a firm don’t kiss and tell policy.
“Who had the honors this time?” Rhys asks.
Rhys is our drummer. Other than being a phenomenal drummer, he is our resident playboy. The girls know it and don’t give a shit. They want to be another notch on his bedpost.
“David Beckham,” I answer.
“Really? He’s married,” Caleb says.
“Wasn’t a factor. I fucked the recently divorced version of soccer boy,” I say.
“I didn’t know they are getting a divorce,” Griffin says.
“They aren’t sweetie, just in my fantasies. It is bad enough I had to pretend to fuck someone else, I can’t be a home wrecker too,” I say.
“What are we betting?” Kip asks.
Kip is the drummer for my brother’s band. He is one of my best friends, but he isn’t for the faint of heart. Kip is vulgar and honest. He also has the driest sense of humor on the planet earth.
“We are betting on whether Connor Black will need a restraining order after Henley just ruined him for all other women,” Rhys replies.
“You fucked Connor Black?” Jagger growls.
Oh Jagger.
Jagger Carlyle is the finest man gracing this earth. Look, I love my David Beckham’s, and all the other pretty men I’ve met over the years, but none of them have shit on Jagger. I’ve known this man since the sixth grade and have also been in puppy love with him just as long. At least I understand the difference. He’s my brother’s best friend and the lead guitarist, songwriter, and backup vocalist in Broken Access. Standing at six foot three, the man is a solid wall of muscle. His body is lean and muscles grace it without being too beefy. He has abs you would want to eat your every meal on. That way you can lick up all your crumbs like a good girl afterwards. Jag’s covered in tattoos in all the right places, has crystal blue eyes, and dark brown hair. Jagger’s hair is buzzed short, and he is sporting a five o’clock shadow. I’ve got a thing for five o’clock shadows.
Have you ever seen a man with stubble that makes you want to rub your face against like a dog? This hopefully leads to him rubbing his face against the inside of your thighs, but I digress. Jagger is the man you would want between your thighs, and really any part of him between your thighs is acceptable.
“Can we not talk about my sex life, please?” I beg.
Insert my brother Koi at the back end of this conversation. “What sex life?”