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2016 SIBA HUMOR AND NEW ADULT WINNER!

I was born to make music and bring the masses to their knees . . . until, I wasn't anymore. Until the thought of doing all of this without him made me sick to my stomach.

Henley Hendrix survives a crash that kills her closest band mate. She’d like nothing more than to retire from music, to hide, to heal, to disappear. She’s tried. But her family is music royalty. Her brother is a rock star in his own right, and every friend she has is connected to the business one way or another.

I'll get sucked back in. I'm scared I won't survive rock-n-roll again. Won’t survive Jagger, won’t be able to put him back in the box.

Jagger Carlye is Henley’s dirty little secret. Rock god, her brother's best friend, part of his band, and someone who loves the guitar as much as she does. Henley’s loved him since she was a girl, but there are some things you don’t do in this world. One of them is that you don’t risk your brother’s band or your heart in an industry that feeds on rejection and scandal. Love might not be enough in a world that grinds you down and puts you in a fishbowl.

And then there is Kip. My best friend, a drummer who never shuts his mouth. I should've fallen in love with him. My world would be so much easier.

Henley comes back to the world of rock-n-roll, puts a toe in the water, and creates a ripple that will rock the safe little life she’s created for herself.

NOTE: This is a rock star romance series with a strong female lead, bad boys, and rock romance. If you are looking for a story of redemption with comic relief and a heavy sexual mind, you've found it. If you are offended by hot, tattooed rock stars, who are vulgar, then this is not the book for you. Please be warned, this book is not for anyone below the age of 18. The book contains sex, death, violence, and harsh language.

Award-winning author Sasha Marshall, a concert photographer, toured with legendary bands such as The Allman Brothers Band. A self-proclaimed free spirit, she’s most often found outdoors, or painting a canvas, capturing a photograph, people watching, reading a book, or writing a new book. Sasha makes her home in the beautiful state of Georgia and loves to hear from readers. Visit her website at SashaMarshall.com.

Reviews

"Guitar Face rocks!" She Hearts Books Blog

Excerpt

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.