Table of Contents
Broken
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
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
Please visit these websites for more information about Sasha Marshall
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Broken
The Guitar Face Series
Book 1
by
Sasha Marshall
Bell Bridge Books
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Bell Bridge Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-866-0
Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-880-6
Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright © 2018 by Sasha Marshall Arts, LLC
Published in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
A mass market edition of this book was published as Guitar Face by Sasha Marshall Arts, June 25, 2014
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Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo/Art credits:
Man (manipulated) © Anetta | Shutterstock.com
Guitar (manipulated) © Andrei Krauchuk | Dreamstime.com
:Mbnh:01:
Dedication
For Malbern
My memories are filled with your music, my ears are full of your laughter, my thoughts burst with nostalgia for days gone by, my heart beats with the same fierce love and awe for you, but my soul is slightly fractured since you spread your wings and gracefully ascended into the hereafter.
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 was 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.” I watched other musicians and found they had their own guitar faces—some dramatic and scary, but most were angelic. I convinced myself that my grandfather would be proud if I could pull off an angelic guitar face, too. I tried for almost a year to mimic some of those faces in a mirror, but I was never able to pull off the same effect.
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, angelic 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 wasn’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’d 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, which smelled like home to me. I had a difficult time keeping my lids open as the music lulled me to sleep. My small body slid into the case as I 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 walked 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’ve 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 that 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 I still can’t do it right. Make my guitar face look like yours.” I stomped my feet for effect, and no matter how good a job I thought I had done at relaying my anger, they all laughed again.
My uncle picked me up under my arms, placed me on 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 still 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, then I fell asleep in the case. I need to learn how to play.”
I had never 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 was never a serious man. I could see him fighting with himself between doing the right thing by scolding me or laughing. A smile 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 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 such a little girl play the thing.”
“You won’t teach me to play because I’m a girl? I’m telling my grandmamma! She says girls can do the 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. Don’t be scared of girls or I will tell everyone you are all a bunch of 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,” B.B. said as he put down his guitar. “Little Miss, didn’t nobody say nothing about girls can’t play guitars. I just said I ain’t never seen one. There’s a first time for everything. Come on, Red, let’s go get your grandbaby a guitar.”
I was ready for my first memorable journey into the musical world.
FROM WHERE I stand on the side of the stage, in the depths of total darkness, I can hear the fans scream. My nerves are catapulting around my body, and the result is a trembling that my body can’t shake. The anxiety of stepping on this stage is overtaking my entire being. The fans can’t see me as I wait for the house lights to go down, but I can see and feel their energy.
Stage fright. I have stage fright, and I’m going to make a damn fool of myself. I’m Red Newman’s granddaughter, and the headlines will be savage if I don’t pull this off. Fans are unrelenting in their pursuit of a perfect live show. They won’t take their disappointment kindly.
In the blackness, someone grabs my hand, and I know the instantaneous calmness that has spread over me can only come from Caleb.
“Don’t let it get to you, doll,” he says.
“I think I‘ll be fine when I get out there.”
“Remember, you can’t see past the first three rows when the house lights go down. If you feel nervous, find me or Griffin, and we’ll play music together. You don’t have to play for anyone but yourself, Hen.”
“Okay,” I softly agree.
At that moment, the house lights go down. I’m about to play my first major venue, Madison Square Garden, at just sixteen years old. I’ve waited for this moment for a very long time. I knew it was coming, and yet, here I am with a classic case of stage fright. Caleb pulls me up on stage with him, and I stand at my mic with guitar in hand.
When the first riffs come through my monitor, I’m in a different place, and I couldn’t care less how many thousands of people watch. I’m a slave to my guitar, and I play it with the same devotion and intensity that I have since I was a small child. During the chorus of this first song, I look over at Caleb to see him smiling back. His face is angelic, the boy turned man, who can see the music as colors in his mind. The prodigy who somehow shares a part of my soul—my best friend, a brother, the one who understands me most. There is no familial connection, but a spiritual one that has had us on this stairway to heaven for the last ten years. The first song ends with thousands of fans screaming. The sound is exhilarating.
Chapter 1
IF I’D KNOWN THEN what I know now, I would’ve done everything differently.
That’s the thing about hindsight; it’s full of would’ve, could’ve, and should’ve. It took years for me to understand that if I could’ve, I would’ve, without a shadow of a doubt. But regrets are a part of the process. I wish I would’ve paid more attention to all of those men, wrapped my arms around their necks more, looked for the things I missed, and played for just a little bit longer beside them.
I wish I’d said I love you more, and that I’d spent more time telling them the profound effect they’d each had on my life. I wish I was certain they knew how I felt, and that being away from them caused me much pain. A pain so immense that I would never fully stop grieving. I will always grieve him and the innocence we all lost that night. We’d never known loss or had to face mortality. I’ll grieve the naiveté through which we saw the world, and I’ll grieve the times when none of us knew darkness or that darkness could reside somewhere deep in those closest to us.
I miss what it felt like to stand on top of the world, and I’m angry that I didn’t fucking know that’s where I stood when it was happening. I’m angry, because when you reach the highest point in your life, the only way you can go is down, and it’s a long, scary, painful fucking fall.
THERE ARE MOMENTS we each live for, moments when passion and adrenaline collide. The moment you stand waiting for the thing you crave most, anticipating it, while your body vibrates with anxiousness and impatience. You become this being with tunnel vision, focusing only on closing the gap between you and what you crave—the orgasm, the rush, and the bliss from making beautiful music.
Standing backstage, waiting for that one moment is exhilarating, full of fear, and somewhat irritating. Your spot is waiting, but you can’t go to it until someone gives the all clear. A concert is one of the most orchestrated events you’ll ever attend. The roadies rush around backstage to ensure the equipment is in place and tuned. They make sure the mics are the right height for each band member. The technicians are standing by, waiting for the same moment you’re waiting for. . . the live show. Personal assistants, managers, attorneys all mill around to make your life as easy as possible. They also deal with the bullshit, fans, friends, and family members. They’re there for support, but when you’re in that zone, waiting for the moment when the house lights die down and the music to start, they’re all a distraction... sometimes even an unwelcome one.
Tunnel vision.
Rhys, Caleb, Griffin, and I grab hands, sweaty hands, as we stand mere feet from the crowd. They’ll never know how long we stand that close to them as we wait for that call. The call comes for the show to begin and for our feet to move to the stage. We all have at least three personas: the musician away from the spotlight, always writing and composing; the musician who records while fighting for perfection; and the musician who stands on the side of the stage waiting for the moment when we can be our true selves under those hot lights.
When a musician enters that realm, nothing else matters. Nothing. The scorching lights don’t bother you, the crowd is barely audible, and you can only see the first three rows of fans. We put the shows on for the fans, but we do it for us first. It’s a divine place we all seek, playing live music.
But those moments of waiting—of standing stage left or stage right, listening to the crowd chant your name or the band’s, feeling the hum of energy they collectively exert—is purgatory. It’s pure hell. There’s only one place we want to be, and that spot is incredibly close, yet so far away.
“Two minutes,” a tech calls over the headsets.
I shake my hands out to eliminate the nerves from my body. Randy, my guitar tech, helps drape my guitar over my head. I pull a pick from my pocket and stretch my muscles as I wait for the final call.
Caleb throws his arm around my neck, his guitar bumping into mine, “Let’s rock this motherfucker.”
“We always do,” Rhys adds as he twirls his drumsticks.
“I love hometown shows. I’m definitely getting laid tonight,” Griffin adds.
The house lights die down, and the crowd grows to an almost unbearable audible level.
“Showtime,” Caleb says as we get the call.
We walk out onto a dark stage, with roadies illuminating our paths with cell phone lights. I stand there, in front of my mic, in the darkness, and close my eyes. This is the moment I live for. I breathe in the energy from the crowd, and then I pluck the first chord on my guitar.
Three Hours Later
“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 jawline. 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 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 leans down and kisses my neck. I know that if I fuck him, one of three things will happen. Choice one involves him telling everyone he can think of that he shagged me, Henley Hendrix, Queen of rock-and-roll. I know this could be a trophy fuck. Choice two involves him falling in love with me, and the fallout could 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 social media to bicker with each other—one big 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. 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.
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