Guitar Face Series Box Set: Books 1-4

by Sasha Marshall

  Chapter 9

  Henley

  My eyes fly open at the realization that dream sex is not about to happen with Shaun. The phone is still ringing. I’m damn sure I turned it off last night. I reach over to the bedside table, but the phone isn’t there. I sit up and follow the sound. I apparently threw the phone during the middle of my sexy dream since it sits a mere few inches from the wall across the room. I glare at the damn thing, how dare you interrupt sexy time!

  Once I throw the covers back, I pick up the phone, and see Stephanie’s number on the phone.

  “I was just about to get face from Shaun. I might’ve even got some wang too. It better be important,” I snap.

  Stephanie is as big of a horn dog as I am, so she will forgive my bitchy ways.

  “You were knocking boots with Shaun, like the guy from Resin?”

  “No, you rudely interrupted.”

  “Wow, you can pull talent woman. Give me details,” she says in a sultry voice.

  “It was a dream. It was amazing though, and you kept calling my phone, which interrupted dream Shaun and I. I think I might cry.”

  “Shit. I am so sorry. You really need to get laid, huh?” she asks.

  “That’s what my subconscious mind is obviously telling me.”

  “I bet he would be a killer lay.”

  “Fo’ sho’,” I agree.

  “Everybody has been blowing up your phone. Did you hear?” she asks.

  “Haven’t heard anything. I turned it off last night, and I still have no idea how it mysteriously powered on. I figured the shit hit the fan with the amount of calls and messages I missed last night.”

  “Jagger’s faux baby mama got caught!” Stephanie says a little too happily.

  “What?”

  “Somebody turned her emails, phone records, text records, and some photographs over. She is telling her ex he is the daddy too. Some of the texts and emails she sent told the ex she was using Jagger to extort as much money as she could until the entire sham was up. Jagger lost his shit!”

  “Yeah, I bet he did.” I can only imagine how insane he is right now.

  “Soooo… she was on Good Morning America making a public statement that Jagger Carlyle is indeed the father of her child. She issued a public apology to her ex for leading him on. Sam is supposed to issue a statement any minute now for Jagger. I wanted to give you a heads up.”

  “Wow, just wow.”

  “Yeah. You’ve been through the ringer with him. Jag’s a good guy, but don’t rush back to him just because he may not be having a baby with that skank now.”

  “I don’t plan on it, but I need to get laid. I will hump my poor bed into a broken heap if I don’t,” I said.

  “Bitch, buy a vibrator.”

  “I have one. Isn’t the same. I tire of doing all the work, and I like something to hold on to,” I laugh.

  “Kinky bitch.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Got an 18 year-old virgin coming in for a rib piece. Twenty bucks says she pukes as soon as the needle hits her skin,” Stephanie bets.

  “Trey and Chris in on that bet with you?” I ask.

  “Chris thinks she will last at least five minutes. Trey gives her fifteen. If she last less than five minutes, I get forty bucks. I will text you with the outcome.”

  I laugh, “K. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  I take Cash outside only to discover four men passed out in my living room. Apparently, Kai, Rhys, and Griffin never went home. And lo and behold, Shaun is also asleep in my living room. Why couldn’t he pass out in my bed? I need a late night fondle or two. I continue on with our morning trip to the beach and let Cash play for a few minutes before heading back in for coffee, but I smell the pot brewing as soon as the French doors open.

  Gorgeous real-life Shaun is standing there is all his glory. Man, I love a bad boy. The rock god in front of me is tall, tatted up, and has shoulder length dark brown hair. His lip ring drives me all kinds of crazy. I have a thing for smiles, and Shaun has a smile that makes me want to jump on the counter behind him, grab the back of his head, and bury his face between my legs. He’s a cocky guy, and I like confidence in a man, because it usually spills over into the sack.

  “I thought you would like a cup,” he nods towards the coffee pot.

  “You know I can’t function without it.”

  “Yes, I might have noticed once or twice,” he winks.

  Keep it up big boy; just keep toying with my sexual emotions. He scoops Cash up, and plays with the puppy. Cash is really playful and does that thing where he grabs onto something and shakes his head. He is ferocious, all eight pounds of him. Shaun, the big, bad, scary rocker is in my kitchen baby talking Cash. It is endearing to watch a man melt over a puppy. I mean it isn’t difficult with Cash, he is a beautiful puppy, but watching Shaun caters to him gives me further naughty thoughts. Focus grasshopper… drink coffee and use your big girl words.

  I pour us both a cup, and Shaun and I make our way to the deck with Cash in tow. I wonder if I could talk him into fucking me on the table. I could try to be quiet as to not wake my guests. We both light up and listen to the ocean. Rhys joins us after twenty minutes, and Kai and Griffin aren’t far behind.

  “So, I hear a rumor you are using this douche bag to produce your new album,” Shaun says as he inclines his head towards Kai.

  “I hear that douche bag is an amazing producer.”

  “He is, I just love busting his chops.”

  Rhys and Shaun cook breakfast, and I am pleasantly surprised it is edible. Grilling steaks is one thing, but scrambling eggs is an art where I come from. Griffin takes off shortly after breakfast, but my other three guests join me in surfing. We surf all afternoon and only stop for a late lunch pizza delivery.

  “You see it, Hen?” Rhys questions.

  “Seen what?” I ask.

  “The statement about Jagger’s cunt,” he clarifies.

  “No, but Stephanie called so I would expect it.”

  “Yeah. I got several texts yesterday, but wasn’t sure if you got yours,” he said.

  “I am ignoring my phone.”

  The three men in my company laugh. Rhys turns on the television to the E! Channel, so we can watch the drama unfold. I love to read Samantha’s statements. She’s a badass.

  A statement was released earlier today from Jagger Carlyle’s publicist, Samantha Davenport in reference to his baby mama drama. Claudia Windsor is eight months along in her pregnancy, but the paternity of her child is being questioned globally. Yesterday, an anonymous source leaked emails, texts, and phone calls exchanged with Claudia’s ex-boyfriend, Josh Blackmon. In the correspondence, Claudia advises Blackmon, he is the father of her child. Other emails reveal a devious plan to con Jagger Carlyle out of money until paternity is proven.

  From: Samantha Davenport

  It is unfortunate that Mr. Carlyle has to deal with the current situation when such a dishonest person is involved. Jagger Carlyle has remained involved in the pregnancy until this point. In light of this new information, my client will no longer be in contact with Ms. Windsor. Mr. Carlyle’s attorneys are filing the necessary documents to obtain a paternity test immediately after the child in question’s birth. If the child is indeed my client’s, he will remain an active participant in his or her life, and support the child financially. Any further questions regarding my client should be forwarded to my firm.

  Wow! Terrence, I have to wonder how Henley Hendrix is handling the news. It is apparent from reports and photographs, the initial news of the pregnancy split the gorgeous couple. Will this have any bearing on their current separation?

  Giuliana, if I were Jagger Carlyle, I would grovel at that woman’s feet for eternity. What a talented and gorgeous woman!

  “Ugh!” I word vomit.

  “For the record, I would grovel at your feet if I ever lost you,” Shaun said with a wink attempting to lighten
the mood. All he did was make the temperature down below skyrocket to scorching. I have to stop having dirty dreams about him.

  “I second that,” Kai adds

  “You okay, Hen?” Rhys asks.

  “Yup, just fine and dandy. I am sitting in the presence of three gorgeous men.”

  Cash barks.

  “Sorry Cash, make that four.”

  We all crack up over Cash.

  “We should pick up some things to grill, and hang out at the beach tonight,” Rhys said.

  “I would love to, but I think I will write tonight,” I say. “Why don’t we shoot for tomorrow when Koi, Kip, and Cam are back? Kai and Shaun you guys are invited. Please invite Dale and John as well, Shaun.”

  My guests exit soon after, and I lie on the couch with Cash thinking about Jagger’s situation. He must be losing his mind right now. Who wants to wait a month to discover if they will be a father or not? I put my feelings aside and do the right thing. I need to check on Jagger.

  Me: I saw the statement and wanted to check on you.

  He replies immediately.

  Jagger: I’ve struggled to call you all day. You are the only person I want to talk to, and can’t.

  Me: You are talking to me now.

  Jagger: All this shit sucks, Hen. I’m not sure how it all went so wrong.

  I swallow my anger. I am trying to be his friend, but the betrayal comes back in full force, and slaps me in the face like an eighteen-wheeler. I struggle with how to respond, and remember what my grandmother religiously told Koi and I growing up, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” I choose to do just that and power my phone off. I need to write anyways.

  You left me here,

  To live this life.

  But all I wanted to do

  Was be with you.

  I often wonder why you left,

  And if you heard me when I wept.

  Through the sounds of metal and glass,

  I escaped to find you.

  I ran through the masses,

  Only to find you black and blue.

  I begged you not to go,

  I tried to pull you back from the glow.

  When I think about that night,

  The world seems to close in on me.

  I try to fight it,

  But I feel so tiny.

  I don’t know if I fit here anymore,

  Or if I just haven’t found my place.

  Just promise you’ll be waiting on me,

  When I finally find my peace.

  I’ll miss you 'til the end,

  And hope you know I try.

  I try to live and smile,

  But the days are sometimes so long.

  Maybe I just need one last song,

  To bury the pain.

  The world doesn’t make sense,

  Or align perfectly like it used to.

  I wonder if you took those things with you.

  When the music starts again,

  Maybe I can heal then.

  I don’t want to hurt anymore.

  When I think about that night,

  The world seems to close in on me.

  I try to fight it,

  But I feel so tiny.

  I don’t know if I fit here anymore,

  Or if I just haven’t found my place.

  Just promise you’ll be waiting on me,

  When I finally find my peace.

  ***

  Henley

  Despondent, that’s the word that best describes my mood as of late. Nothing makes me happy. I can’t escape Jagger. My dreams turned from bad boy rock stars to the bad boy of rock-n-roll each and every night. In my dreams we fuck like porn stars, lounge on the beach, play with Cash, and I dream of fairy tale weddings. My sheets still smell of him, but I can’t bring myself to wash them just yet. The pictures that line the walls and shelves of my house haunt me. Pictures that show Jagger and me smiling, or him looking lovingly down at me, his face so obviously full of love for me. It’s just gone. It’s all gone.

  Jessica and Samantha’s phones explodes during the day, and even during the night at times. Every reporter with a household name wants to interview me; they say they want my side of the story. What they really want is to show the world how fucking broken I am. They want to watch me fall, and Jessica and Samantha politely tell them to go fuck themselves.

  I can’t turn on the TV without a story about Jagger and me running across the screen. I can’t go into public without being hounded. People who have never met me want wander if Jagger and I will reconcile. Why do they fucking care so much? I can’t buy groceries because every checkout aisle is lined with pictures and articles of us. Claudia is on the covers too with us. It amazes me she is now famous because she had sex with Jagger. Things that make you go… meh.

  “Cinnamon roll?” Kip interrupts my thoughts as I look out at the Pacific Ocean.

  “Yeah?”

  “You stink, and my women do not smell like that,” he smiles.

  “I’ll go shower.”

  When I emerge from the shower, Kip is sitting on the toilet seat.

  “So I was thinking…” he says with that scary amused look on his face.

  “I’m only in a towel,” I interrupt.

  “Yes, I see that very clearly. Are you listening or are you going to continue interrupting me butter bean?”

  Apparently we are back to calling each other pet names. I’ll play.

  “Continue my little baklava.”

  “Baklava? That’s a horrible pet name.”

  “I’m well aware.”

  “We must work on your pet name skills.”

  “What is so important that you couldn’t wait for me to get dressed my little bran muffin?” I ask.

  “Bran muffin? Shit, why I gotta be a bran muffin? Old people eat that shit to regulate their ancient digestive systems. I don’t want to be a bran muffin! Call me a sweet pet name and take back the others!” he demands with his finger pointing at me.

  “I’m so sorry my sweet cuddle muffin, I take back baklava and bran muffin. You’re right, they just aren’t befitting for a man of your stature. Will you ever forgive me, Lord?”

  “Holy shit that was the best apology ever, Hen. You are so going to talk to bitches for me from now on,” he says with his serious face on.

  “How can I help you Stud Monkey?”

  “Much better. Well, I was thinking. We should do something that makes you happy. You are really fucking depressed, and it’s depressing me. No offense, but this negative energy is fucking with my positive vibes.”

  “Okay?”

  “Well what do you want to do?”

  “Um? Not sure.”

  “That’s the depression talking. I got this number off TV the other day. You can call them if you’re depressed. They told me all the signs and shit, and well I’ve come to the conclusion you are suffering from depression in an official capacity,” he says proud of himself for knowing the signs of depression.

  “Official capacity?” I ask.

  “Yeah, like clinical or some shit. So anyhow,” he says as he waves his hands in the air dismissing the thought, “I looked up depression on Google. I fucking love Google. Google knows everything.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Anyways, Google was all like, here’s all the signs of depression, and I did a checklist for you, and diagnosed you myself. You are definitely depressed my friend. Then I did some further research, and it turns out I need to ask you a few questions to fully assess the severity of your illness,” he says.

  My illness?

  He pulls out a pair of glasses, lets them ride to the end of his nose, crosses his legs the way refined gentlemen do, and clears his throat. “You ready?” he asks.

  “You don’t wear glasses, Kip.”

  “No, but I bought these earlier in preparation for our therapy session. I look smart and shit, and I knew
you would take me seriously. Good thinking, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can I continue my little peach?”

  “Shoot.”

  He pulls out a piece of paper from his back pocket and a pen from behind his ear, “Are you having thoughts about hurting yourself or others?”

  “Just Jagger. Okay, maybe Claudia, too.”

  “Mmm-hmm, so we’ll check homicidal thoughts,” he makes a check on his paper.

  “Do you feel sad, like crying, alone, or bored?”

  “Yes to all of those,” I humor him with the truth.

  “This is good, you are letting it all out,” he says in his best psychologist voice.

  “Do you feel a loss of interest in your normal activities, including sex?”

  “Yes and no. I would fuck the air right now if it would do me any good.”

  “Interesting,” he makes another check on his paper. “Do you feel disturbances in your eating or sleeping patterns?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well fuck, Hen!” he yells and stands abruptly from the toilet seat.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “You’re fucking depressed! D-E-P-R-E-S-S-E-D! What are we going to do?” he asks pushing his hands though his hair in frustration.

  “Um? I thought you knew I’m depressed.”

  “I was still in denial. It’s hard to admit you are depressed. I repeat, what are you we going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I thought that’s why you are here, to give me the answers,” I point out.

  “Huh?” he asks and gives me a face full of confusion. “Oh, right, I’m the expert here. Fuck, hold on, let me see what Google said on the papers I printed out.”

  He sifts through the papers.

  “Keep your ass in this bathroom. I’m going into my room to get dressed.”

  He waves me out as he looks for the answers to my depression.

  As I finish dressing, he emerges from the bathroom, “Got it! Engage in physical activity, regulate your sleeping patterns, eat healthy, and avoid alcohol or drugs. I like the first three, just forget I said the last one. Alcohol is always your friend.”