River of Deceit

River of Deceit

Sasha Marshall

June 2019 $14.95
ISBN: 978-1-61194-951-3

The Guitar Face Series, Book 4

Our PriceUS$14.95
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Synopsis | Reviews | Excerpt

Back Cover Copy

Kip Paxton may be the perfect man. He's a sexy, tattooed, foul-mouthed, drummer god for Broken Access, and if that wasn't enough he’s snagged the Guitar Goddess herself.

But in life, where one door opens…another closes, and sometimes the other door bursts wide f@$king open.

Finding out he’s been lied to his entire life—and that all his noble deeds were done in vain—sends him spiraling out-of-control. The secrets suck the life right out of him.

This time Henley and Kip’s entire crew will have to find a way to put him back together again before they lose him forever.

This book is not a stand-alone novel. Books 1-3 in the Guitar Face Series should be read first. If you are looking for a story of redemption with comic relief and a heavy sexual tone, 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 has sex, death, violence, and harsh language.

About the Author: 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


On Broken (Guitar Face, Book 1) "Sasha Marshall created a true-to-life rock-n-roll world that makes you want to quit your job and go on tour with the gang! The friendships are so real, the characters are well-developed, and the music is more than a passing reference…Marshall's characters are complex, flawed, and interesting—and that leads to trouble. The book ends and leaves you aching for more. Happy to see this is only the start for this addictive series! 5 Very Emotional Electrified Guitars” —Backstage Book Blog

On Walking Back to Georgia (Guitar Face, Book 2)— "I'm headed to Amazon to one-click on Walking Back to Georgia [Book 3] to feed my addiction.” —Rosa Sharon, Netgalley reviewer

On Broken (Guitar Face, Book 1)—"Guitar Face rocks!” — She Hearts Books Blog




GRIEF IS PERHAPS the most perplexing of all emotions. We experi­ence grief after a relationship ends, or losing a significant lifestyle, but especially with death. I thought as a child that death was final. A person lives a set amount of years, and then they cease to exist. Caleb’s death taught me that there’s something out there after we take our last breath. I’m not sure what it entails, but I sense it’s peaceful. The people left behind after the life drains out of your body struggle through seven stages of grief, they say.

Grief begins with a jolt to your system. You aren’t sure what you’ve heard is correct, or if your mind is playing tricks on you. Then, numb­ness overtakes all aspects of the body. Most cases, people wonder if there is pain involved in the process of death, if there is indeed an after­life, and if so, if their loved one is at peace. They probably wonder if they were part of the life that flashed before their loved one’s eyes.

Chaos sets in next. Life is in disarray, and the pain from the loss is astounding, at least for most people it is. Most people are angry they’ll never see the person they love again. Angry they must live the rest of their existence without said person. Not me. I’m not angry because my father died. I’m angry because I feel guilty for not caring that the motherfucker is dead. The guilt is all-consuming right now. I’m angry because he never did a goddamn thing for me. He never played catch with me, never told me what a great student I was, never fished with me, and he sure as fuck never uttered an "I love you” in my direction.

I’ll never make shit right with him, but I don’t think the opportunity would have existed even if the miserable prick had lived to be a hundred. I don’t care if he felt pain when he died, or if he’s in an afterlife, and I sure as fuck don’t care if he is at peace. Hell, I felt nothing of the sort when I was around him. I know he didn’t think about me during his last breaths. I’m not pissed off that I won’t see him again, I’m relieved. I don’t care that I’ll live on this earth for any amount of time without the son of a bitch because he didn’t give a fuck about me. He made me feel insignificant, ignorant, and he made sure I knew I was the biggest disappointment in his life.

For the next few days, I’ll need to take care of his arrangements, greet people who will say how sorry they are for my loss, and pretend I give a fuck. I have to pretend to be the son of a soldier who served his country faithfully and with honor. Too bad those traits didn’t spill over into the rest of his life. Before I give in and play my part, I’ll do what I need to do.

I need her. I need to concentrate on the way she tastes, smells, and feels. I need to breathe in everything about her and touch every single inch of her body. I need all of this so I can do what I have to do when I leave this room. He doesn’t come first because I never did.

I left Henley in Detroit when my mom called. I didn’t know how to tell her, to say the words to her, so I left the hotel and everyone behind. I caught the first flight home, turned my phone off, and did my best to make it through the fog of numbness.

I knew she was here before she ever trekked up the steps of my mother’s home. The fury inside of me died down to mere flames when she called out to me. The fireball of rage became blue flames, burning hot but not so hot she got singed.

We pass a whiskey bottle back and forth, saying little. The rest of my friends join me in silent support until I finally have the nerve to glance at her. My fucking rock, my heart. Once I gazed into those gray depths, I couldn’t look away. I’ve lost myself there before and always found my way back. Sometimes getting lost in her eyes is the only thing I can do to stay safe. She stands and goes to the bathroom, and I notice everyone else is gone.

Where did they go?

I stand and begin to clean up the mess I made when I destroyed my room earlier, but I can’t find the motivation. I look around the room and notice the picture beside my bed. I placed it there in middle school before I had my own room at the Hendrix house. A smile crosses my face as I remember the day. We were having a carnival at school and Henley’s mom snapped this picture. Henley and I both had them framed as soon as someone developed them. My arm is thrown over her shoulder and we’re both wet behind the ears. You don’t feel old or older until you see photographs of the past.

Henley Hendrix saved my life and told my dad to go fuck himself when she was only in junior high. The day I saw her do that, I knew I loved her. Throughout the years I’ve realized she has strength where I don’t, she still has fight in her when I’ve given up, and she loves when people least deserve it. I have little strength right now, no fight left, and I don’t deserve to be loved because I’m glad my dad is dead.

She opens the door to my bathroom, making my chest hurt, right smack dab in the middle. I can’t take my eyes off her. I don’t know what I’d do if she wasn’t here. I need her more than I’ve ever needed her in my life. I take in her partially open lips and the doe look in her eyes. I swallow the need down the best I can, but it takes a second to realize swallowing doesn’t lessen the pain.

"Hen,” I say.

"Kip,” she answers.

I’m trying to keep my tears at bay because what I feel for her is too much. It’s too fucking much, and it hurts.

"I need you,” I whisper.

"I’m right here. I’m not leaving.”

She’s not getting it. I need her to take the pain away, like she always has. I need her to make it stop. All she must do is love me, and it will all be okay.

"Ineed you,” I repeat, trying to tell her what I’m saying, what I mean.

"I’m here,” she says, slightly breathy, and I take that as my cue.

She gets it. She understands what I need, and why I need it. I close the distance and touch her face, taking in her beauty. I peer into those gray eyes and almost come undone. I lean forward to kiss her but second- guess myself, wondering if I’m pushing this new thing between us too far. I rub my nose against hers instead, giving myself time to garner more courage.

Fuck it.

I finally touch my lips to hers and do it again, and again, and again. I take her face into my hands because that’s what a man does when he loves a woman. That’s what a man does when he wants to show her this is far more than getting off inside of her. I push my tongue into her mouth and simultaneously press her against the closest wall.

"I. Need. You.” I say, emphasizing each word so she knows she’s the only goddamned thing I need right now. She isn’t fucking close enough. I need to feel more of her. I pull my shirt over my head and close in again.

"Henley. I fucking need you. I need you,” I declare on the verge of both tears and screaming.

I swear she can see inside my fucking soul, always has. Whenever she sorts out what she’s looking for in my eyes, she nods. Licking her lips only makes me harder.

"Baby, I need you so fucking bad it hurts. I need you,” I croak out as the tears fill my eyes.

She nods in understanding. I kiss her deeply, forcefully and pull her shirt over her head, and then snap her bra loose. I break the kiss to reach to her chest. Filling my hands with her, I lean down and pull a nipple into my mouth. While I’m licking and sucking, she moans. It’s the most beautiful sound in the world. She has the prettiest breasts I’ve ever seen. They’re natural, full breasts with perfectly round pink nipples. Playboy tits.

Her hand brushes against my cock while she works frantically to unbuckle my belt. Her hands touch me again when she unbuttons and unzips me. Fuck. She uses her hands to push my jeans down as far as they’ll go, and then her foot to push them the rest of the way. I move my mouth from her chest back to her mouth and reach down to work on her jeans. I push her pants below her ass so I can access her pussy and rub on the outside for a second while listening to her moan. That sound might be the death of me. Pushing the fabric to the side, I dip one finger inside, working her clit with another while she comes undone.

"So soft,” I say.

I rip my fingers out of her, relieve her of everything below the waist while she pushes my boxers down my legs. After we kick that shit to the side, I study the planes and curves of her body, and press my mouth to hers. When I pick her up, she wraps those pretty legs around me, and my cock touches her pussy.

"Condom,” she says.

I’ve always used condoms, never slipped up. I never trusted a bitch not to get pregnant on purpose. I have a lifetime supply but using one with her doesn’t feel right.

"Nothing between us, Hen,” I say and assault her mouth again.

She hasn’t replied, and it worries me. I need her to tell me she’s okay with not using protection. I want to feel all of her.

"Hen?” I pull my lips from hers to gauge her expression. "Say yes. Say you want to feel me. Please. I need you. I need you to feel me.”

"Kip,” she whispers and I’m afraid she’ll stop this whole damn thing.

"I won’t hurt you. I’d never hurt you,” I promise.

"I want to feel you,” she replies.

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