Author: Angie

Broken The Guitar Face Series Book 1 by Sasha Marshall Genre: New Adult Romance

2016 SIBA HUMOR AND NEW ADULT WINNER! “ Guitar Face rocks!” She Hearts Books Blog 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. Goodreads * Amazon

There’s No Crying in Rock-N-Roll The Guitar Face Series Book 2

Henley Hendrix —Queen of Rock-n-Roll—finds her world shattered and her heart betrayed, but is determined to get the band back together to reclaim her title in the world of rock. But when life continues to spin out of control, so does her behavior. Will she find her strength again amid all the chaos and pain, or will the bright lights consume her soul? This is a rock star romance series with a strong female lead, bad boys, and rock romance. This book is not recommended for those under the age of 18. It is also not recommended for those who take offense to profanity, sexual situations, drugs, or violence. This is not a standalone novel. Book One Broken should be read first. Goodreads * Amazon

Walking Back to Georgia The Guitar Face Series Book 3

I died. I fu*&ing died, and when I woke up in a Los Angeles hospital my best friend walked away from me. It wasn’t quite the welcoming back to the world of the living I thought I’d receive, and it rattled me. After an overdose, Henley Hendrix retreats to Georgia to chase sobriety and get her life together. To do that, she’s got to keep her distance from Jagger and company. But when an old friend pops back into her life, a private moment is leaked to the world, and someone she never thought would walk away from her does exactly that. She’s got to deal with rejection, a stalker, her return to the rock world for a promotional tour, jungle peepers, a riot of fans, a 1% motorcycle club, a one-eyed teddy bear, and two men fighting over her. Just when she’s figured out how to finally be the best version of “Henley” she can be and how to stay healthy, her world is turned upside down again when her eyes are opened to something she never expected. This book is not a stand-alone novel. Books 1 and 2 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.Goodreads * Amazon

Award-winning author Sasha Marshall is devoted to giving her readers humorous adventures with a love story sure to melt their hearts—and their minds. She wants you to laugh, cry, get angry, and sigh when you find redemption in the story, because that’s the roller coaster of real life. Her knowledge of the music industry comes from being a touring concert photographer with legendary bands such as The Allman Brothers Band and others she met along the way. 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 or poem. Sasha makes her home in the beautiful state of Georgia and loves to hear from readers. Facebook * Twitter * Instagram * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

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.

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Squared Away by Alicia Dill Genre: Thriller

Almost two years after she left the army and her best friend, Concepcion Chapa, Joells McCoy receives a cryptic voicemail from an Iraqi contact looking for Concepcion. When Joelle can’t reach her “battle buddy”, she’s told Concepcion died in a car accident, while working for the FBI. But Joelle has questions and those questions launch her into the arms of an FBI agent – one of Concepcion’s former colleagues – and a search for her friend that will bring her from small town Missouri, to Miami, and then on to Kosovo. Over the course of a year, Joelle will search for her friend, with the help of Concepcion’s former FBI colleagues, and try to come to terms with what their battle-tested friendship really means in her life. And why Concepcion would disappear without so much as a goodbye. “Absolutely amazing! It felt like I was back in country! Alicia captured the essence of what it is to be a female Soldier and the everlasting bond we develop with our sisters-in-arms! “ -First Sgt. Sara Maniscalco, Army Veteran, National Guard Goodreads * Amazon Check out Alicia Dill’s podcast interview with NPR! On this hour of Talk of Iowa, Host Charity Nebbe and Dill discuss “Squared Away,” Dill’s first novel, which is inspired by her time in the military. https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/strong-military- sisterhood-at-the-center-of-new-novel/id636025604?i=1000441852124 The author will also send a hand written post card to the first 10 people to show proof of purchase of Squared Away! Please email jess@mindbuckmedia.com !

ALICIA DILL spent six years as an Army soldier and globally published print journalist. She remains involved with many service members who continue to put their lives in harm’s way throughout the world. It’s because of that bond, the Missouri native wrote her debut novel in a series of untold stories of sisters in uniform. She joined the Army National Guard at the age of seventeen and received her degree in journalism and international studies at the University of Iowa. After her service, she was published by several weekly newspapers in Iowa, Missouri, and Illinois with over 75,000 readers. She continues writing in Iowa City, Iowa and enjoys traveling the world with her next book in mind. Website * Facebook * Twitter * Instagram * Amazon * Goodreads

Prologue
September 7, 2007
“What am I doing here?” I whispered, but saying the words aloud didn’t give me any further insight. The
seconds ticked by. The hourglass of my life sifted away from me, one grain of sand at a time. Being
deployed in one of the most dangerous places on planet Earth, I considered my mortality far too often.
How long did I have left? How would I spend it? Two questions a twenty-six-year-old should not be
asking.
It was my last guard duty, on my last deployment. Military life was not for me. After six years serving, I
knew it, and the Army knew it. When I had explained my job as a military journalist to my family, it had
all sounded so much more exciting than it turned out to be. I couldn’t stomach the idea of another year of
soldiering. Being assigned to guard duty instead of working on the camp magazine was like sticking a
fork in me—I was done. Instead of writing stories and using my degree, I was trying not to fall asleep on
my M16. It was loaded, after all. Sure, the money was great, but as an investment in my own sanity, I was
getting out.
“McCoy, it’s quitting time, you lucky…” The voice of Private First Class Jacob Glass trailed off as he
yelled up the steps of the guard tower. He thankfully stopped himself before he said something degrading.
This was the new world order where educated, empowered women were also stuck on watch.
I briefed Glass on the day’s inactivity and cleared my weapon in a nearby container. I packed my gear in
the small pockets of my Camelbak and headed down the ancient steps of the station. No one had to tell
me twice.
As I walked to the dining facility, I tried to make my meal options sound appealing. A hot meal was never
a possibility when working a shift that ended just before midnight. The second shift guards received
bottom-of-the-barrel leftovers after the local cooks stopped serving at eight p.m. My only hope was for a
stocked salad bar and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
After I assembled a chicken salad for dinner, I added the sun-dried tomato salad dressing my little sister
had sent me from home. I was a foodie at heart. I valued my slim hips, so I had to be creative with my
meals.
I grabbed a Styrofoam container at the beginning of the line and took my dinner to go.
On the walk to my room, I took a good look around. The way the endless black sky continued was
beautiful. I thought about my family far away. I considered my grandma smoking her nightly cigarette on
the porch in her southern Missouri home. They were under this sky, too, in some other time.
As I entered the cramped living quarters, I saw my roommate and best friend of six years, Sergeant
Concepcion Chapa. I owed her my life literally and figuratively after an amateur move on my part. It had
happened when we were running near the base; she ran ahead and tripped me. I fell to my knees, and she
pulled my T-shirt, dragging me back toward her. I pulled my headphones out , “Why’d you trip me?”
She pointed ahead on the path where a horned viper head peeked out while its body was burrowed under
the sand. With a combat boot, snakes were less threatening, but with tennis shoes and bare calves,
hemorrhagic bleeding wasn’t how I wanted to go out. I never let her run ahead again.
She was watching a pirated copy of one of the latest popular movies back in the States. With her
headphones on, she didn’t hear me come in. I set my food down and jumped on the bed, where her tiny
frame was sprawled out in front of my MacBook Pro.
“Dammit, McCoy, you ruined the sexy mood I was creating in my head. This is the best part,” she said. A
very naked eighteen-year-old muscular man was having fake sex with a plastic surgeon’s golden ticket, a
forty-something blonde cougar.
“Monkey puke, monkey puke,” I lifted her earphones off her head. The phrase monkey puke was
something my dad sang when the brief sex scenes of movies raced by my young eyes. He was too lazy to
fast-forward, and movie night was too sacred of a time to put my sisters and me to bed early. I later
decided this was the reason I became shy during all nude and kissing scenes. Concepcion knew about my
aversion to nudity and used it against me whenever possible.
After I riled my battle buddy, I walked to the communal bathroom to get ready for the night. Searching
the mirror, I smiled at my reflection, an old habit for applying makeup. At five feet nine inches, I was
taller than many other female soldiers, but less elegant or sophisticated than the rest of the women in my
family. Instead of waif-thin, I was lean and athletic, my coffee-colored long hair pulled back, making my
features look harsh in the halogen lights. I considered how soon it would be until I would be able to wear
my hair down for good. The strands were breaking off after being in a tight bun throughout the years.

I examined my pores up close and thanked my expensive and rigorous skincare regimen. My time there
was showing on my face, and no amount of miracle cream could fix my sunken eyes perpetually looking
tired. They were supposed to be my best feature, according to Concepcion. They changed in intensity,
from shades of green to hazel, as often as my mood. As a Gemini, I was a different person depending on
the day. I would pay for these years of stress on my body.
I heard the door of the bathroom open and close while I had my face pressed up to the mirror. In another
world, I would be able to obsess in private, but not in the Army. Before I could see who it was, a hand
slapped my toweled behind. Concepcion. Payback was sooner than I imagined.
“Get out of your head, girl. You’ll get another migraine.”
I turned around and shook my head. I didn’t respond. What she said was true. My migraine diagnosis was
another check in the “con” category for staying in the service.
I listened as the water turned on. I hoped Concepcion hadn’t moved my stuff away from the good shower.
I needed hot water to release some of the tension in my shoulders from holding up a gun all day. The
good shower meant temperature control was possible. I looked in the mirror to see her taking the shower
next to mine. Good girl.
“Are you ready to be out of this sandbox?” The noise of the shower between us. “Can I get a hell yeah,
Sergeant?”
“What are you saying?” She didn’t hear me.
Showers here were mostly private, but I was feeling giddy about leaving this place. As much as I bitched,
we were lucky we had running water. It was worse in Afghanistan.
Concepcion sang out louder so I could hear. She did a great Cher impression, and I could tell she was also
in a good mood for our last night.
I peeked outside the shower stall to see if anyone else had come in since I’d entered. I wasn’t ready to
entertain the whole camp.
I screamed out the next verse while I rubbed some remaining sand into my skin, exfoliating the sweat as
best I could. Her energy was infectious. She was as excited as I was to get back home. I was going to miss
our Cher-in-the-shower time.
Concepcion’s voice was stronger than mine, but that was okay with me. My stomach dropped a bit when I
considered leaving her at the airport. Like the Army, she was a constant in my life. She’d saved me from
myself more than a few times. I was going to miss my friend.

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