Broken (The Guitar Face Series Book 1)

by Sasha Marshall

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you,” I apologize.

  “You didn’t offend me,” he snaps at me.

  “What did I do?” I push. “You shut down out of nowhere.”

  He grows agitated, but I can’t seem to stop. “Jag?”

  “Let it go!”

  “Fuck you.” My voice does nothing to hide my hurt.

  I decide it’s probably best to just stop speaking to him altogether. I take my hurt feelings and shove them down as far as I can. Maybe he’s just upset about the paparazzi. I lean out the window and watch the world go by.

  “So, now you aren’t fucking talking? You wouldn’t shut up two minutes ago.” He raises his voice, but I keep quiet because talking is what got us in this trouble.

  “Do you hear me talking to you?”

  I can see him look at me out of my peripheral vision.

  “Great, now you’re just going to shut down.”

  I plead with him, “Stop it, Jagger.”

  He lets out a big breath of air and drums his fingers on the wheel.

  “Fuck,” he screams at the top of his lungs.

  I retreat into myself, away from his temper tantrum, an obvious misunderstanding, and his nuclear anger. I’ve seen his temper before, when he was younger, but I’ve never been on the receiving end of it. I block everything out, even as I hear him speaking to me. I have no idea what he says, I escape into my mind and watch the seconds slide by as we drive closer to my home.

  He’s screaming at me, and he can scream all he wants, but what he says cuts deep... all the way to the fucking bone. “Classic Henley. Any little thing happens in your life, and you check out. How long is it going to be this time, Henley? How long will you not speak for now? How far away will you run from your problems?”

  I try to keep the tears at bay, but there are too many to keep from spilling over. I continue to look out the window. I try to sniffle as quietly as possible, so he doesn’t know I’m crying.

  His voice is so cold, it makes me feel like I don’t know the person in the car next to me. I sure as fuck don’t know why he’s pushing me away so hard, trying to hurt me.

  “Jesus fucking Christ. Poor Henley. She’s had such a hard life being a guitar prodigy and then making it big before she was even old enough to fucking vote. She’s just so damn pretty, and it’s hard for a girl to be that damn pretty. It’s not easy having every straight man on earth wanting to stick his cock in you. Poor Henley.”

  I know from my surroundings that we still have several minutes before we arrive at my home. He finally quiets down for a few minutes.

  He finally breaks the silence. “I’m sorry.”

  I keep my eyes on the asphalt ahead, not daring to speak a word. He doesn’t speak the last five minutes of our trip. My face is covered with tears.

  He pulls into my drive, and pleads with a gruff voice, “Don’t get out yet.”

  “I need to go inside.”

  “I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”

  I finally turn my eyes on him, square my shoulders and say, “Don’t ever speak to me like that again.”

  “Yeah,” he responds while he stares at the hands in his lap.

  Tears streak my face as I continue to inform him, “I won’t ever be that woman. I’m not sure how other women let you treat them, but I’m not...”

  His head snaps at me with the fury in his eyes shining back at me again, “What the fuck are you talking about? How I treat other women? What the fuck are you talking about?”

  I roll my eyes in exasperation at the player of the decade next to me, “Apparently, someone let you speak to them like this which is why you think you can speak to me in that same manner.”

  “Fuck you, Henley. Maybe you should ask yourself why I’m talking to you like this. You’re not better than any of those women!”

  My face falls and a sob escapes.

  He screams, “Aww. Henley’s crying. What, you can’t handle the truth? You aren’t the coveted diamond you once were, so don’t act like you’re above all the other women I’ve fucked. You’re irrelevant in this town. You think you can make an album after all these years without Caleb and it be worth a shit? Everyone is already starting to forget who you are. The only reason anybody is talking about you now is because I’m fucking you. Your fame now depends on whether I’m on your arm. Not the other way around. What are you crying for?”

  I keep walking toward the door. I have to stop and start another path in an attempt to get away from him. Once I make it to the door, I realize Jag has my keys.

  I look up at his beautiful crystal-blue eyes so full of rage. “Can I have my keys, please?”

  “That’s all you have to say to me right now? Keys, please? You aren’t going to respond to anything else I’ve said to you? Avoidance is now your thing, yeah? I think that is just as unhealthy as you entering a catatonic state.”

  And just like that, I snap. I’ve had enough of this shit. Poor Henley, my ass. I lean back and swing on him. I throw an uppercut straight to his right eye, and it dazes him.

  You didn’t see that shit coming, did ya’, Sparky?

  He drops the keys, and I quickly pick them up. And just for good measure, to ensure he won’t follow me into the house, I kick him in the knee, knocking him off balance. He falls down the four concrete steps that lead to my front door. I take that as my cue to get the fuck out of Dodge.

  Chapter 19

  I LOCK THE DOOR and make sure every window and door in my bungalow are locked. If he gets in here, I’ll fucking kill his ass. I go to the pantry and turn on the light, praying to everything holy that something in there is strong enough to take the bite out of his words. They play on a constant repeat in my head. Four bottles of Roscato stare back at me on the wine rack. Thank you, baby Jesus.

  I open the first and stuff the other three in the freezer. I hate room-temperature wine, especially red wine. I don’t give a shit what the rules say either. That’s the way I like it. I would have to make do with the first bottle and some ice. I found the biggest wine glass in the house and fill that motherfucker up to the rim.

  I hold my glass out to no one. “Fuck it. Fuck all of it!”

  It takes me an hour to go through all four bottles. I’m as fucked up as a football bat. His words jumble around in my head, but I can’t remember how the whole ordeal began anymore. His words still hurt like hell. So, I’m not the life of the party for the first time in my life. I have become the depressed woman who sits at home, drinks wine, and eats chocolate to soothe her broken heart. I don’t have any chocolate. I should get some. I need some cats too. Yup, I will go to the animal shelter tomorrow and get a bunch of fucking cats. I will just call them all Thing. Thing One, Thing Two, Thing Three... you get the gist.

  No. I will not be a cat lady. I’m still young and hot and talented. Fuck Jagger Carlyle. Yeah!

  “Fuck Jagger Carlyle,” I scream to no one. I bet he isn’t at his house acting all pathetic. I bet he doesn’t drink alone. He is probably in a strip club paying some herpes-infested whore to blow him. Oh yeah? Well, I can go drink with other people too! Fuck him. I begin to walk to my front door, but I realize I am in no shape to drive. Come to think of it, I’m not really in any type of shape to walk either. Staggering is probably not sexy these days. I should just go to bed.

  I WAKE WITH A heavy heart and an angry stomach. I jump out of bed and run to the master bathroom in time to heave up four bottles of wine. They were so much tastier going down. I brush my teeth and find a bottle of water. I need to hit the market for food. My cell phone is going crazy on the bedside table. I take a peek at the clock. Shit, it’s 5:00 in the afternoon.

  I ignore the calls and texts. If it is Jagger, I can’t talk to him right now. I click on the home screen and find Jessica’s number.

  She
picks up on the second ring. “Hey, sexy.”

  “Well hello to you too, gorgeous,” I say.

  “Oh, you sound like shit.”

  “Yeah, four bottles of wine will do that. I just woke up,” I croak.

  “Ah, the life of the rich and famous. Hey, I saw you and Jag were in L.A. last night. Well, I saw you on the television. I really love the hat you were wearing.”

  When she saw Jag and me on TV, all was right in my little world. I was in love with a kind, beautiful man. Now, I don’t know if I ever want to see him again.

  “Look, I need you in L.A. You busy?” I ask.

  “You pay me not to be busy. I will book a flight now. What’s going on, Hen?”

  “The Guitar Goddess is back. I will call the guys,” I say, and she shrieks with excitement.

  She books a flight while we talk. She will be here tomorrow at 6:00 p.m., L.A. time.

  I’m already slowly trying to get back to me again, but Jagger single-handedly pushed me over that cliff. I won’t ever be “Poor Henley” again. It is time I stop hiding and show the world what I’m made of. His words still eat away at my heart, and he might not like the result. I put in a call to Griffin, and he is booking a flight. He will be here in three days. My next call is to Rhys.

  “Yo, gorgeous, talk to Daddy,” Rhys answers.

  “Yo, yourself. You busy?” I ask.

  “Not for you. What’s the plan, my friend?”

  “It’s time to make music, Rhys.”

  He grows quiet on me for a beat. “You still in L.A.?”

  “Yeah, can you get here?”

  “Let me look at flights. Hold on a sec.” I hear him typing. “I can be there in a couple of days. I need to take care of some stuff in Mactown first. This is going to be amazing, Henley,” he says.

  I order some food from a local delivery joint and jump in the shower. As soon as I stand under the steaming hot water, the memories of Jagger and I showering together wash over me. He loves, well, loved to wash my long blond hair. His fingers always massaged my scalp, and it was surprisingly sensual. We were never able to take a shower without making love. I love seeing his big, tan, muscular body under the water. He is a sight to behold. The tattoo of an abstract guitar begins at his right hip bone and winds its way up his rib. It touches slightly on those rock-hard abs. The head of the guitar is tucked under his arm on the rib cage, and then it morphs into small black crows that run under the underside of his arm. They morph into music notes that sweep across his arm and then down his forearm. They are beautifully tucked into the mass of other tattoos. I would often kiss the music notes while we laid in bed, wrapped in each other. I have often thanked Stephanie for the beautiful tattoo she inked onto his skin.

  I shake the happy memories of Jagger and the shower. By the time I finish and dress, the doorbell rings. I creep through the dining room and look through the blinds. A small Asian kid stands impatiently while he rocks his head back and forth to whatever is coming out of the Beats on his neck. I grab some cash and open the door as his mouth falls open.

  “Holy shit! It’s you,” he says.

  Then I hear a song from Abandoned Shadow’s second album blaring from his headphones. That makes me smile, and I think, maybe they haven’t forgotten me after all. Maybe, just maybe, I don’t need to be on Jagger’s arm to be somebody. I pay for my meal, and he hands over the goods. Mmmm, it smells like heaven.

  “Ms. Hendrix?” he begins.

  “Call me Henley. I’m not old enough to be Ms. Hendrix yet.”

  “Henley, I just want you to know I’ve waited a long time for you to put out something new. I really love your music. I know you hear this all the time, but I really am your biggest fan.”

  I step onto my porch and kiss the boy on the cheek. He blushes, and I smile.

  “You may not have to wait much longer. Thank you for your kind words.” I step inside, close the door, and devour my food.

  IF I’M GOING TO show the world who I really am, I’m going to do it right. The sad thing about being a celebrity is that you have to always look your best. I’ve had over four years to slum it, and it is time to embrace the inner goddess. Going to the supermarket doesn’t give you an excuse to slum it, so I don’t. I dress in dark-wash skinny jeans, black boots with a ridiculous heel, a sparkly baby-blue racer-back tank, and a lightweight black leather jacket that only comes to the middle of my ribs. I put on baby-blue dangle earrings, a black necklace, and style my hair and makeup to the nines. It is high time to let the paparazzi take pictures of me at my best.

  I take my time in the supermarket. I slowly load up my cart. Several of the other shoppers smile, and I know they recognize me. I always smile back. When people stare, I look straight ahead. Then I spot them... the men with the big cameras are outside the market taking pictures through the window. I knew they would show. They are such predictable little creatures. I load up the cart with bottles of my favorite wine and check out at the register. On my way to the car, I see an older lady is having problems getting through the paparazzi. I push my cart to my car and turn back to help her. These assholes are relentless.

  I approach her, and she looks upset. The idiots are screaming my name and asking questions I pay no mind to. This poor woman had to be eighty.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” I ask.

  “They are just making it difficult to get through,” she says, short of breath.

  “Let me help you. Just hang onto the cart, and I will push us through. Where is your car?” I ask.

  “I take the bus, darling.”

  Well, that just won’t do. I push through the paparazzi as they continue their assault on me. I finally manage to push her cart behind my own cart and the Range Rover.

  “May I take you home, ma’am?” I ask.

  “Oh no, that is quite all right. I usually just push my cart to the stop, and the driver helps me load them on and off. The young man inside retrieves the cart for me from the bus stop over there.” She points to an area about five hundred feet away.

  “I would really like to take you home, so these men don’t pester you any further.”

  “Well, I guess that would be all right. I get quite winded these days anyhow.”

  I help her into the passenger seat and load our bags into the car. This is all my fault. If I hadn’t pranced my ass around the store waiting for the scum of the earth, this woman wouldn’t have gotten so upset. I push the carts back to the metal racks that hold them in the lot. The paparazzi follow me the entire time with their cameras shoved in my face.

  Henley, where is Jagger?

  Do you know what happened to his face?

  Yeah, I decked his ass.

  Did you do that to him?

  Yup, I did.

  Did he cheat on you with another stripper?

  I continue to look straight ahead, but I don’t speak a word.

  Where were you last night while he was drinking half the bar at The Airliner surrounded by women?

  Oh, that hurt. So that’s how they saw his face.

  He told the bartender he was nursing a broken heart. Did you break his heart?

  Is this the end of Henley and Jagger?

  I reach my car and quickly jump in. I slowly back up, so I don’t hit one the fuckers behind me. I’m not going to be their payday because they jump behind my car. As soon as I’m clear of them, I speed up and get the hell out of there. The older woman’s name is Lilly, such a beautiful name. I take Lilly to her home. She lives in a condo about twenty minutes from my home. I help bring her groceries in and unload her bags. I even help her put them away.

  Before I leave, I find an old business card I previously kept handy. It has Jessica’s information on it, so people won’t bother me. I write my name and number on the back of it and ask her to call either one of
us if she needs to go to the store, or if she needs anything at all. She thanks me for my kindness, and I go home. Alone.

  It hurts to know that Jag is acting so malicious toward me, and yet he is so unaffected by what he did. He spent his evening drinking with beautiful women hanging from his limbs. My tears didn’t affect him last night. The revelation that I may not really know Jagger at all, after all these years, is crushing.

  I unload my grocery bags and put them away. It’s getting late, and I’m still hung over. So I lay in my hammock on the deck and listen to the waves of the ocean. It really is beautiful here. The ocean is incredibly peaceful, yet I feel anything but. My heart beats a steady ache, and I can’t seem to find a place in my mind where it gives me any reprieve. I decide to take a peek at my missed calls, voicemails, and texts. I might as well see where Jagger’s head is after last night.

  Koi, Kip, and Cam are the only missed calls. There are none from Jagger. That hurts like hell. I have a few voicemails from Kip, who claims to serenade me on the guitar. It hurts my ears. He’ll need a lifetime worth of lessons. Koi left several messages, checking on me. He wants to know if I’m okay. I don’t know what he knows, and I’m not going to drive a wedge between him and Jag. Jagger once told me if we ended badly, it ended badly for a lot of people. He was right, and I’m not going to bring others into whatever is going on with us.

  I check my text messages.

  Kip:

  I need lessons, woman!

  Listen to your voicemail. I’m getting good at this shit. I’ll be your man before you know it!

  Want dinner?

  You okay, gorgeous?

  Don’t know what’s going on... call me, okay?

  Koi:

  Did you give him that shiner?

  Samantha:

  Why is he at a bar drinking all night without you?

  I need to issue a statement. Please call me. I don’t know what is going on between you two, but I know a swollen eye handed to a man courtesy of you when I see it. I would like to keep in mind your current situation when I issue a statement. Call me. Love you.