Guitar Face Series Box Set: Books 1-4

by Sasha Marshall

  “Come, baby,” he whispers.

  I throw my head back, close my eyes, and let my sense of touch take over the responses. It doesn’t take long after he buries his face in my neck to find the light I’ve chased so many times with him. The tingles creep from my toes to my insides and then detonates the rest of the cells in my petite frame.

  When I bring my head back up, he’s waiting for me, kissing me with such fervor, and then exploding inside of me. He doesn’t scream my name like he normally does, or let loose a string of expletives.

  He just softly whispers my name as his muscles tremble coming down from his own high. His mouth open, but still touching mine, we attempt to catch our breaths, foreheads brushing in contact.

  A door opens and closes nearby startling both of us. He picks me up and places me in a nearby storage room. I sit on top of an amp while he pulls his pants up, and leaves to gather my clothing strewn across the studio. When he reemerges, his shirt is on, and he hands me my clothes. I slide my panties on and don’t miss the way he watches me. I place my bra on and reach around to hook it.

  “Turn around,” he whispers.

  He hooks my bra, and rubs his hands down my sides again.

  “Your skin is always so soft,” he nuzzles into my neck, placing his hands on my stomach.

  Kisses trail across my shoulder, and I am ready to go again.

  “Jesus Christ,” a voice says from the studio. “It smells like S-E-X in here!”

  That would be Rhys. I lean down to grab my jeans and manage to get the rest of my clothing on. I look at Jag and we both snicker at the commentary coming from the studio. Jag leans against me, and we giggle as quietly as possible.

  “Sometimes I don’t know who’s a bigger fucking idiot, Rhys or Kip,” Jag whispers.

  “Definite toss up.”

  “I wish I had been here for this provocative little show. Daddy woulda liked to show her how it’s really done. She woulda been all like ‘Oh Rhys, you’re cock is so big. Put it in my ass.’ I woulda shown her what you do with a beaver basher. Bend over mama and let daddy at it!” Rhys says.

  I hear another man laughing at whatever visual goes along with his commentary.

  “Let’s go get coffee, beaver basher. Hen’s not here yet. Kai text and said she dropped him off at his house before four. He stayed to keep an eye on her and was too tired to drive. He will text when he gets up.”

  We hear the door open and close again, and burst into laughter one last time.

  “Beaver basher?” Jag asks. “Shit, I’ve heard it all now.”

  “Not around our drummers you haven’t,” I smile.

  “Want to work on the song now?” he winks.

  “Can you keep your hands to yourself?” I ask.

  “I can’t make a promise like that with you.”

  I take a French whore bath in the sink to tame down the “just fucked” look and smell. I snort a few more lines of coke, and down a couple of bottles of water. I meet Jagger in the studio, where he’s already arranging the song. I pick up my guitar and play rhythm along with him.

  “You should play lead, and see where it goes,” he says.

  I pick up lead, and the blues spills out of the guitar. I go over the arrangement and sound I’m looking for. Every version of the song is sensual as hell. Led Zeppelin did the whole rock and blues combo in 1969, but I want a more modern, edgier rock undertone to it. I don’t want to do it the same way everyone else has done it. Gov’t Mule has the whole southern rock tribute, and I love all the versions, but I need this to be mine. It has to be amazing for Red.

  I realize I need three guitars because two won’t be enough. We need a rhythm player, a blues player, and a guitar to pick up the distorted sound on an electric to give it the edgier undertone. Memphis walks in not long after my realization, and we get to it. I play the blues, Jagger plays rock, and Memphis plays rhythm.

  I make a few trips to the bathroom over the next several hours to keep my high up and stay awake. We get the guitars recorded by five in the afternoon, and Griffin begins on the bass. I start to come down again, and I’m tired of snorting coke, so I ask Memphis if he has any pot. I know he smokes, so it’s a 50/50 shot. In our world, pot is no worse than cigarettes. I’ve seen a great deal of artists get lost in a bottle, but pot heads don’t lose their shit on stage or puke their guts up during a show.

  “Didn’t know you smoke,” Memphis comments.

  “I don’t usually. I need to unwind.”

  He raises his eyebrows and gives me a once over, “Unwind from what, Hen?”

  Shit. Here we go. “I’ve been up over twenty-four hours, and I can’t get my head to shut down. I need to find something to help me relax.”

  “When’s the last time you ate?” he asks.

  “Yesterday before I left Georgia.”

  “You on something, Hen?”

  I scoff at him, “Yeah, stress, depression, anxiety, and drama.”

  I’m not sure if he buys it, but he gives in, “Let’s go burn one.”

  I take several hits off a blunt, and the high engulfs me. A pot high is so much different than a coke high. Depending on the pot, you can relax, be happy, hungry, and sleepy all at the same time. On coke, you don’t feel high like you do when you’re drunk or smoking weed. Coke just makes you feel happy, invincible, and give you tons of energy. You don’t sleep, you don’t eat, and your heart beats so fast. You don’t notice how fast your heart rate is until you come down, and it scares the shit out of me.

  I walk back inside as Rhys works on the drums. I am so tired and hungry suddenly, and just want to lie in my own bed for a while. I need to spend some time with Cash anyways.

  “I’m heading out for a bit and get some sleep, guys. I will record vocals this evening,” I call out.

  “You shouldn’t be driving,” Memphis calls out.

  Thanks brother.

  “I’m fine,” I lie.

  “Why can’t she drive?” Jagger asks.

  “Because she hasn’t slept in twenty-four hours, hasn’t eaten in thirty-six, and is high as hell,” Memphis says staring me down.

  “High on what?” Jagger asks.

  “We smoked pot,” Memphis answers.

  Jagger’s head whips around to me, “You don’t smoke pot.”

  “I do now. I need something to help out with the stress,” I sigh.

  “I’ll drive you, and we’re getting food in you on the way home,” Jag says.

  I resign, letting him take me home.

  Once we’re in the BMW, he turns the music up and ignores me. He acts like he’s pissed, but I don’t care. I’m high as hell, and I think it’s actually kinda funny. No, come to think of it, it is really funny, and I giggle like a child.

  “Fuck. You are high.”

  “Yup!”

  He lets out a small laugh and seems to relax a bit.

  “Do you have your speech written yet for Friday?” he asks.

  “No. I know what I will say though, it comes from here,” I tap my heart.

  “It always does, babe.”

  ***

  Henley

  Friday arrives, and I’m a nervous wreck. Rumor is all of rock-n-roll and half of fucking Hollywood is coming out to commemorate Caleb. I’ve been alternating between smoking pot and snorting coke all week, attempting to find balance between the two.

  As I arrive on the red carpet, photographers flash their cameras, while I look straight ahead. I don’t smile because I am tired of smiling. I’m here because my best friend is dead. Would he be inducted if he didn’t die? Probably not at this age, but this industry immortalizes dead musicians. I’m escorted backstage where people run around like cockroaches, scattering in every which direction.

  I sit in a chair with my hands folded and watch them. I wonder what possesses them to do this type of work, to canonize others. They live to give tribute to other human beings. I know it’s an honor to receive such an awar
d, but it’s absurd really. We don’t induct teachers or nurses into hall of fames. Nurses save lives and teachers can be some of the most influential people in a child’s life.

  I remain in the back as the elite mingle somewhere in the building, drinking fancy champagne, and stuffing their faces with overpriced Hors d’oeurves. I use the small vial in my clutch to keep my high steady as I sit and watch the people move about backstage. An hour and a half passes when the producer calls for me.

  “How are you Ms. Hendrix?” he smiles.

  “Lovely, how are you?” I counter.

  “Busy. This will be an amazing tribute to Mr. King. We’ve prepared a short documentary for the guests to watch before your speech. Would you like to join the guests while it plays?”

  “I would rather remain backstage. Is there a monitor I can watch it on back here?”

  “Sure,” he says and leads me to a monitor close to the stage.

  The documentary begins with a soft violin, and a picture of Caleb’s mother holding him shortly after birth. The twenty-minute video shows how he rose from a boy to a guitar prodigy, and then to a rock star, and guitar god. Pictures of us from childhood and through the beginnings of our childhood bring me to tears. One picture remains on the screen as the president of the hall of fame gives his own speech. The picture is of Caleb and me at the Grammy’s. We won our first Grammy for best rock album. We were slightly hugging in front of the podium, but pulled back enough to see each other. I remember the words he said to me before he accepted the award for us.

  “We did it, baby girl. We really did it. Can you believe it?” tears of joy threatened to spill over the rim of his eyes.

  He was so fucking happy, and yet he was dead three years later. So much can happen in a small span of time. I touch the monitor, wishing I could touch his face. I could’ve lived through anything with him by my side. We would’ve conquered the entire world of rock-n-roll, and I would’ve followed him over a fucking cliff, no questions asked. He is my best friend, even in death, and I miss him so much.

  I hear the crowd roar in applause, and a woman with a head set signals for me to walk onto the stage. I dry my tears, straighten my dress, drop my clutch on a chair, and plaster my best Hollywood smile on. With my speech in hand, I cross the stage in long black evening gown. The crowd stands and the cheers and applause gain volume. I shake the hand of the president, he kisses my cheek, and I smile for the cameras.

  I take the podium, and wait for the guests to be seated, but they remain in their standing ovation. I smile and thank them several times. When they finally sit, I begin my dedication to Caleb.

  “Thank you all for coming here this evening to see Caleb inducted into the hall of fame. As I look around the room, I see many faces that were lucky enough to know Caleb. I also see many faces that couldn’t meet him while he was here, but I know that you know him through his music.

  I met a boy on a playground in first grade when I asked him to play kickball. I was promptly informed that girls were not allowed to play kickball because girls were gross. No one in his secret club, which wasn’t really a secret at all, was allowed to play with girls. This would change much later in life.”

  The crowd laughs.

  “I informed this little boy, girls could indeed do anything boys could do. He objected, and after much banter, he finally educated me on the fact that boys could do one thing girls couldn’t do, pee standing up. He had me there. He pulled my hair not long after his revelation, and I punched him in the nose. We were forced to walk down the hall and eat lunch holding hands until we became friends. Our teachers joined forces with our parents, and forced us to watch our peers play at recess, while we sat on a bench and held hands. The only way my parents were able to talk me into holding a gross little boy’s hand, was taking away my guitar.

  Caleb had heard the threat, and after mulling it over, he asked me about my guitar at afternoon recess. He thought my guitar would be pink because girls like pink. We discovered our favorite color was blue, and wanted to become my friend so his mom would buy him a guitar. On that bench at Redding Elementary School, in Macon, Georgia, the beginnings of an unbreakable bond began. Needless to say, Caleb’s club rules were amended, and one girl was allowed into his club. I begged my mother to buy my new best friend a guitar for his upcoming birthday, and from the moment he unwrapped it, we were inseparable.

  Over the years, we grew in size and intelligence, but the one thing that grew between us that was bigger than life was music. When Caleb would discover a ‘new artist’ he would spend hours obsessing over every song the artist recorded, and would play their music endlessly, much to his parent’s dismay.”

  The guests laugh again.

  “We grew up in Red Newman’s studio, unaware of who in the hell he was until much later in life. We thought we were the musical masterminds, and had no idea we were in the presence of a legend every day. Red worked with Caleb as much as he did his own grandchildren. When Caleb was ten, Red played a song for him and asked him to fix it. Caleb listened to the track for two days and was able to tell Red what was missing from the song. Red Newman decided to put him in the studio and let Caleb fix it, and the song became a number one hit months later. I was mesmerized by my best friend’s ability to amend the song. As his musical talent grew, it took him only mere seconds to give musical advice.

  There has been a multitude of guitar players who have done more than just learned to play the instrument. They’ve produced new sounds never before heard and brought genres together. They’ve built new types of guitars, and new genres of music. What sets men apart from gods is the ability to touch human lives, to shape them, to change them, and to alter them irrevocably. Music is the way humans find solace, joy, and sorrow. We use it to cope with life, and commit memories to melody, harmony, and verse. For many, we can’t breathe without its mere existence and daily presence.

  Caleb used music to touch the masses. He played guitar solos that made us weep and wrote lyrics that could either break your heart or mend it. He touched, shaped, changed, and altered human lives, and continues to do so from his place in this universe. Beyond music, Caleb King helped the people around him fight addictions, find love, learn to play, and find peace. He gave back to the community that gave him life and spirit. His charity work extended to third world countries where he helped small villages recover from disasters or simple poverty. Wherever he went, he left behind instruments.

  He believed music could usher in world peace, give perspective, and lead to unadulterated happiness. He believed this because music does not require a common language, culture, religion, or race to bring us together. Music doesn’t care about the historical trauma that exists between groups of people, nations, or continents. Music does not know prejudice, societal expectations, traditions, or even disparity. It does not know poverty, wealth, Christian, Muslim, white, black, male, female, gay, straight, American, or Iranian. Music speaks to us all, and fosters good will, parity, trust, and harmony.

  Caleb King touched and continues to touch the lives of millions of people. Because of his unrelenting ambition and need to better the world before he left, I am here today to induct Caleb Aaron King into the Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame.”

  The crowd stands for Caleb this time. They stand to give him the respect he deserves, and I hope somewhere in this universe, he sees them standing, clapping, and screaming his name. He may be out of sight, but he is not out of mind.

  I shake the president’s hand one last time, accept another cheek kiss, and walk off the stage. Jagger waits for me, holding his hand over his heart, tears streaming down his face. He doesn’t care who sees them, because he lost Caleb too, and sometimes remembering him hurts so much.

  Jag leans against a stack of speakers in a tuxedo. He wipes his face and crooks his finger at me. I fall into his embrace and sniffle.

  As he kisses the top of my head, he whispers, “I don’t know how you did that. Your strength amazes me, Hen.”

>   I nod because I have no idea how I made it through the speech. A throat clearing, interrupts our embrace, and we turn to find Caleb’s mother standing a few feet from us.

  “It was a beautiful speech. You did him proud,” she smiles through her sadness.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  She looks at Jagger as though he makes her uncomfortable and then back at me. She looks to the floor for a few moments, apparently gathering her thoughts.

  “It should’ve been you,” she says softly.

  “I know,” I say.

  “You have no idea how many nights I lie in bed, and hope that tomorrow when I wake, I will be comforting Caleb because you’re dead. You don’t deserve to live. Look at what you’ve done with your life, Henley. Caleb would’ve made record after record in your honor.”

  Jagger attempts to interrupt her, and I touch his leg to stop him. She’s needed to get this out for five years, and she should be able to say the words. Her son is dead, and she may be right. Maybe I should’ve died.

  “You stopped playing and gave yourself the biggest pity party I’ve ever seen. You just stopped living, and he would’ve never done that. He would’ve lived for you, and you can’t even bring yourself to do that for him. You fight in public, get arrested, wear inappropriate clothing, drink like a sailor, and slap pregnant girls. I need not comment on the two of yours relationship. The sight of you makes me sick to my stomach,” she sobs.

  “Darling?” Mr. King calls from behind her.

  “You are a sorry excuse for a human being!” she belts out between sobs.

  Tears roll down my cheeks as I take on her anger and grief. She needs someone to take it from her and be the person she can hate because Caleb is dead. Her only son, her only child is dead, and I am alive. She’s angry at the world, and at me. I will take it on for her, so maybe she can sleep a little better tonight.