Guitar Face Series Box Set: Books 1-4

by Sasha Marshall

  “I wish I had that right now.”

  “It doesn’t make it go away.”

  “Any relief would be better than none,” he says. .

  “How about we get stupid drunk and watch Kip. I’m sure whatever he is doing is entertaining. We could also find Memphis and have our first drunk bonding moment as siblings.”

  “It sounds like a plan. Can you do me a favor though?” he asks.

  “I will try.”

  “Can you get her out of here?”

  I sigh, “I will see what I can do.”

  I send a quick text to Sam, who immediately advises Jessica has already left. I send Jessica a text to check on her, and she relays she is fine. Koi and I head back into the bar, find Memphis and watch Kip act like a damn fool.

  Chapter 21

  Jagger

  Two weeks later

  For weeks I’ve lurked in the depths of dark shadows just to watch her. I need to be with her without all the other bullshit getting in the way, and this is the only way I know how. I reach out to touch her sometimes, forgetting she is no longer mine. I tried to make it work with Rebecca, the model, but I grew bored quickly. She wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed and eats like a damn bird. I need a woman who will drink beer with me, pick a guitar just to pass the time, and someone who knows what the word passion means because she feels it every day of her life. I know I had that with Henley. It’s difficult not to compare every woman to her because she’s all I’ve ever wanted.

  Tonight I waited for her to exit the side studio door for her cigarette break. She brings Cash along with her tonight, and the pooch sits against her on guard. Henley slides down the brick wall and lights up inhaling deeply before exhaling in a billowing cloud. She leans her head back a little and seems to look for the stars. She’s always hated that about L.A., you can’t see the stars through all the smog.

  ***

  Henley

  I sit outside the studio puffing on a cigarette. The air is unusually chilly tonight in L.A., so I sit and huddle close to the brick wall. In the past two weeks, I’ve spent an enormous amount of time with my brothers and father. Our relationship is becoming strong as a unit, and it makes me smile. My birthday is next week, and I’d really rather not celebrate it. Koi and dad flew back to Georgia a few days ago to spend time with mom. I just want to go back to Georgia for a little while myself and escape the L.A. madness.

  Cash sits beside me, guarding. He’s only five months old but a beast of a pup. He is already protective as hell, and I think it is really cute sometimes. When he weighs as much as I do, it might not be so cute. I won’t be able to hold him back. I light another cigarette, and lean my head against the wall. The last two weeks have helped me clear my mind a little. I surf when I when negativity consumes me, or find Kip for ensured entertainment and joy. Sometimes I call Ian, and we talk about the most random of things, and it clears out the negativity.

  I’m startled out of my thoughts by Cash’s growl. I look down at his gorgeous little pup face and see him showing teeth. I follow his line of sight and see a figure emerge out of the darkness. I grab Cash’s collar and stand. Cash snarls a little, clearly pissed.

  “Let’s go Cash,” I say and back up towards the studio door.

  “Don’t go,” he says.

  As he gets closer, Cash’s snarls and growls get angrier.

  “Pull your hood down, and let him smell your hand,”

  Jagger pulls his hood down and eases up to Cash with his hand open. The pup sniffs him and looks into Jagger’s face. Jag leans down and Cash smells his face, and then backs off with a small, abrupt bark, sitting against the wall. I sit down beside my pup, and Jagger joins me.

  “You’ve been out here a while,” he says.

  “Stalk much?”

  He sighs. The silence between us becomes deafening. Cash keeps watch, and I watch his facial expressions. Before Kip found him, I never realized how many facial expressions a dog can have. I also didn’t know the way a dog wags its tail indicates their mood. I wish people had tails as it would make life so much easier. Dogs are genuine. What you see is what you get. They are loyal and love unconditionally, whereas people are selfish and love only on condition.

  “I watch you sometimes,” he finally breaks the silence.

  “There are laws against that,” I deadpan.

  “When I watch you, I can be the Jagger you always knew, and you are the Henley I love. The Henley I didn’t hurt. We are still us, without all this bullshit between us. I watch you smoke out here sometimes, and would pay a handsome amount of money to know what you think.”

  “My mind can be a scary place.”

  Silence falls between us again. After several minutes, he places his hand on top of mine, and when I don’t object, he interlaces his fingers with mine. His touch makes my heart smile and ache at the same time. We keep our eyes forward, and our thoughts to ourselves.

  “Hen?” Memphis says from the studio door.

  “Yeah?” I answer.

  He steps around to see my companion, and upon realizing its Jag, he simply asks, “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Do you need me?”

  “No, just checking on you. I’m in here if you need me, sis.”

  “K.”

  Memphis leaves us to our silence, and it stretches on, filling the space between us, because the words are too difficult to express. The emotions are conflicting, and at times irrational, misinterpreted, mistaken, and disconcerting. Love is the most irrational emotion a human being can feel. It is muddled with expectations, hopes, dreams, and futures. We expect one person to be able to fulfill every single one of our romantic and sexual fantasies, irrational. Love blinds us to harm and wrongdoings. Things we wouldn’t allow a perfect stranger to do, we allow the people who are supposed to love us most. Irrational. Love makes us vulnerable. A perfect stranger could insult you in public and be shrugged off, but if a lover were to insult you in the privacy of your own home, it hurts, and cuts deeper than any knife ever could, irrational. Love gives us a false sense of security and comfort, yet almost half of marriages end in divorce, irrational. Where is the security and comfort in that?

  Jagger pulls his phone out and speaks to me through music. Music is a common language between us, one that can say everything when we can’t find the words on our own. He plays Elton John’s “Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word,” while holding my hand tightly.

  Tears roll down my face, but we both keep our eyes straight ahead, as his next selection, Incubus “I Miss You,” plays through his phone.

  I wait for him to speak and explain, or to say his own words, but Nine Inch Nails, The Only Time speaks for him. The next song, Lady Antebellum’s Need You Now. I smile, because there are so many nights, this song could’ve said it for me.

  The song ends, and he stands, reaching down for my hand. I place my small hand in his large one, and he pulls me into him. He holds me as I fight the tears in my eyes. This is the Jagger I know, and I’m glad to see the pompous asshole gone for however long he’s left me for.

  “I have one more, but it’s waiting in your inbox when you’re ready to listen to it,” he whispers in my ear.

  He kisses my temple, and then he’s gone. I don’t call after him because I don’t even know what the hell just happened. It made me smile, and my heart didn’t hurt so much for a moment in time. I walk Cash inside but I don’t have a chance to listen to the song in my inbox before all hell breaks loose.

  Memphis approaches me, “We… uh… we gotta get home, Hen.”

  His nervous demeanor is not one I’ve seen before, but I can tell he is trying to hide it.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Shit, uh… we just have to go home. I don’t know, we just have to go home,” and he picks up his keys, and Rhys and Griffin follow. I follow my band mates, and attempt to get in my own car, but he insists on me riding with him.

  “No, I am fine. I don’t even know wh
at’s going on. I am fine! I just want to drive my own car!” I yell and Memphis abandons his attempt.

  I drive home, calling Jessica, Koi, Dad, Mom, Samantha, Jessica, Meghan, Kip, Rhys, Griffin, Cam, Kathrine, and even Jagger. No one answers his or her fucking phone, so I begin the list again and keep calling. Still no answer.

  “Fuck!” I scream at no one.

  Something is wrong, so very wrong, I can feel it in my gut. I begin my call list again, and Koi answers as I pull into my driveway.

  “Are you fucking driving?” he asks.

  “I am home now! Why isn’t anyone answering their fucking phone?”

  “Because you were driving!” he screams.

  “What’s going on?” I ask a little more softly.

  Koi goes silent, and as I walk into my living room. I see everyone I attempted to call except Koi and my parents. Shit.

  “Wh… What’s wrong?” I ask my brother as the room full of people stare back at me.

  “Koi?” I ask and he doesn’t respond, but he sniffles even though he tried to hide it.

  “Koi, why are you crying?!!” I scream.

  He sniffles again, much more loudly this time.

  “Koi?!! Please tell me what’s going on?”

  Jessica, Meghan, Kathrine, and Sam are crying. What happened? It happened in Georgia because everyone here is okay. How did Jagger get here so quickly? Does this have anything to do with why he came to see me?

  “Goddamnit, Koi!!! Fucking talk to me!”

  “It’s Red,” he finally says.

  “What happened to my granddaddy?!!” I scream as I slowly coming unraveled.

  “He had a stroke, Hen,” Koi says through sobs.

  Phone to my head, I drop to my knees, and let out a sob. I cover my mouth, because I didn’t mean to let it out, it just happened.

  “Don’t say it. Please don’t say it,” I plead.

  “You have to come home, sis.”

  ***

  Henley

  I look out the plane window and wonder if they are as soft as they look. I’m somewhere between California and Georgia. I need to see Red, the man who gave me everything. He gave me music, and breathed life into my soul. I am who I am today because of him, and I need to see his face. I need to touch his dark brown skin, and white hair. The man can do no wrong in my eyes. He grew up in Pembroke, Georgia and came from nothing. His parents were both alcoholics, and would binge drink, leaving he and his brothers behind for days at a time. Times in rural Georgia were pretty tough back then, and he and his older brother would walk a few miles down the road after school to help out on his aunt’s farm. In return, his aunts and uncle would feed him. Native Americans were still treated poorly in the forties, during his childhood, and there was no church to help or take them in. There wasn’t a foster care system, and nobody wanted to help the little red children. They stuck to themselves and didn’t ask the whites for a damn thing. The only race that took pity on him and his brothers were the African Americans, and in rural Georgia, that pity was few and far between.

  His father got clean, and was a happy man, but my grandfather was bigger than Bryan County. He dropped out of high school in the tenth grade, strapped his Sear’s guitar on his back, and climbed on an old Harley Davidson he restored. He headed for Macon, Georgia to an aunt’s house, and eventually landed in Chicago at Chess Records. He played with Muddy Waters and the best Chess had to offer. He worked his way down to Muscle Shoals, Alabama where music history was being made. He quickly became a producer, and his songwriting ability landed him on the list every musician wanted to work with. His songs were known to be number one hits, and everyone wanted them. He didn’t stay in Alabama long. Once he made a name for himself, he knew the artists would follow. He came back to Macon, Georgia, met my grandmother, and was married shortly after. He built a studio, and some of the world’s finest talent wrote and recorded their albums in it. I recorded my first album in it even though the record company protested. It was home, and I had to be home to record the first one.

  It’s hard to believe a man who built all of that with his own two hands is not invincible. I mean, he’s superman. He always has been. I’ve never seen him cry, even when he was hurt. I didn’t see him cry when his mother died. The closest I’ve ever come to seeing him cry was when I awoke from a coma after the wreck with Caleb. I saw tears in his eyes, but just a soft glistening. He is tough as nails, hailing from a generation of the hard knocks. He has to be invincible.

  As the plane lands, I depart with my friends, who all made the trip back. They made the trip because he’s Red Newman, and while humble, his mere presence commands respect and awe. I’m his granddaughter and I’ve been in awe of him my entire life.

  A limo waits for us, and we load. No one speaks because there’s nothing to say in this hour. I close my eyes and recall some of my favorite childhood memories with my grandfather, and cling to them.

  “We’re going to see your uncle in Chicago, Sug’.”

  “Which uncle, Granddaddy?”

  “Your Uncle Buddy. He said to bring your guitar, he wants to see how you’re playin’ these days,” he smiles with pride.

  We board a plane in Atlanta, and my grandfather and I fly to Chicago. I remember lounging in a big room with lots of sofas all over it. I was the only white person in the room, and that got me a great deal of odd looks, until they realized I was with Red. When Uncle Buddy finally walked in, he didn’t see anybody else in the room but me. His long legs took him directly to me, and he scooped me up in a big hug.

  “Now you done and grown up on me, little girl. What are you, fifteen, now?” he asks.

  “Twelve, Uncle Buddy.”

  “It just seems like yesterday your mama brought you home from the hospital. Red’ll tell you he was your favorite, but I held you and looked at those blue eyes for hours. I just knew you was gonna play the guitar like your daddy and granddaddy.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve gotten a lot better since you last saw me.”

  “Well, now I’ve got to see this for myself,” Uncle Buddy says.

  Thirty minutes later, I stood on the side of that stage, and watched my Uncle Buddy play for thousands of people. I’d been around music my entire life, but I had never been to a concert. Buddy has one of the most angelic guitar faces, I’ve ever seen. He feels every goddamn lick he pulls on a guitar, and I’d seen it time and time again in my short twelve years, but in front of a crowd… it was different. The man played for his damn self, and they ate up every damn second of it. I remember thinking I want to do this every day. There were white, black, and Hispanic people in the crowd, listening to the black man blues. They moved their bodies, passed around doobies, and cried out with him. They felt that shit, and it was deep. The way their bodies moved as they danced, and contorted to the bass line, the drums, and that gitbox. Buddy made love to in his hands, showed how powerful music was to the masses. I had fallen in love with music in a completely different way. I needed to do what my uncle was doing.

  I was mesmerized. Watching him play to a crowd was the first time I remember being alive, I mean really fucking alive. I couldn’t keep my eyes off the musicians and fans, but my body moved with the music. I glanced at my grandfather every so often, and the man was lost. His head moved from side-to-side, and his foot tapped out the drumbeat. He wasn’t playing it, but still felt every note that crawled out of the speakers.

  Between songs, Buddy would speak to the crowd, and they would cheer, scream, and holler for the man. They didn’t even know him, and that’s probably what amazed me the most. I’d known this man my entire life, and these people all knew who he was. He was a bona fide rock star, and my first taste began an addiction I didn’t think I would ever get enough of. At one point, Buddy announced a special guest, and called out Red Newman’s name. My grandfather squeezed my shoulder, smiled down at me, grabbed a guitar, and walked out on the stage like he’d done it a million times before. The crowd was louder tha
n they had been all night at just the mention of my grandfather. Holy shit, this is my grandfather! When he walked on the stage, they somehow grew louder, and I didn’t think that was possible.

  It was in that moment I realized something I heard Buddy say seconds later, “Red Newman is a legend, and I’m so honored he could play with me tonight. Give it up Chicago!”

  He slightly slapped my grandfather on the shoulder, and Red pulled up on the guitar producing blues notes that would make you depressed if you had just one a million dollars. My grandfather is a fucking legend, and it took me twelve years to realize it. I was in awe because he was no longer just the man who taught me how to play the guitar. No longer did I see him simply as the man who put Band-Aids on my scrapes, made me breakfast on Saturday mornings, fished with me, and had cool friends; he was the shit. He was born a legend in my eyes right then and there.

  I have no idea what my grandfather played with Buddy, but they both sang, and played the blues like you’ve never heard in your life. Red’s guitar face is the best. He manipulates the guitar like a god, and his body contorts and moves along to the sound he produces. I never took my eyes off the beauty in front of me. This man came from nothing, and here he stands moving thousands of people with every pull on his six-string.

  He played a few more songs before he returned to the side of the stage. I remember looking at him as he walked off stage like I’d never seen him before in my life. I saw a different man, a legend. Tears ran down my little cheeks, and he knew why. He simply smiled and wrapped me in his arms because he knew. I was so moved by the music and the discovery of who my grandfather really was. I never forgot who he was after that. He was still the man who kissed my booboos, taught me how to fish, and attended my school plays, but he would forever be my favorite guitar god.

  My tears subsided as I got lost in the music again, and my body yielded to the voodoo music had on me.