Marley (Carnage #3)

Prologue

Iwipe the steam from the mirror with the palm of my hand, clearing it enough to see my reflection.

I rest my elbows on the granite counter and lean forward, taking in my image.

I rake my hand through my hair, then over the stubble on my chin.

My eyes are bloodshot from the weed we smoked earlier, the after-effects of which have also left me feeling decidedly depressed.

I stood in the shower and cried tonight for the first time in a long time over the death of my best friend, my bandmate, and my brother-in-law, Maca.

So pointless.

So tragic.

So unfair.

Drawing in a deep breath, I leave the steamy solitude of the bathroom and head for our dressing room, passing the sleeping form of my wife—my rock—on the way.

I smile at the thought of having a dressing room, feeling like a stupid fuck as I do.

Of all the material things that fame and fortune have blessed our lives with, this dressing room makes me feel like a horny teenager in a sex shop.

It’s the sort of room I dreamt of as a kid, back when I was thirteen or fourteen, trying to imagine what it would be like if Carnage made it big.

I never imagined having one like this though, on property that I never thought I would be able to afford … to own.

Ashley’s clothes are lined up along one side and mine along the other, with everything broken down by style and colour.

In the middle, we both have a mechanical shoe carousel that moves from floor to ceiling.

Ashley’s shoes take up her entire carousel, along with three-quarters of my space.

I’ve also notice that a few of her winter coats have managed to sneak their way over to my side.

The woman has fifty feet of wall space for hanging her gear, and another twenty for all her knickers and bra’s she insists she needs and still, she needs more room.

It’s not that I mind. She can have whatever she likes. She’s my world, and I would give and do anything for her.

At the end of the room there are two full-length mirrors that tilt and unfold so that you can see yourself from all angles.

In the centre is a tacky, Hollywood-style mirror, complete with lights around the edges.

In front of it is the kind of sink a hairstylist would use, with a chair that leans back.

All of Ashley’s crap surrounds the surfaces on either side of the sink: make-up, face cream, hair shit.

I have no idea what ninety percent of it is, or what it does—nothing, as far as I can tell.

You can’t improve on perfection, and my wife is perfect.

She’s stunningly beautiful, has curves in all the right places, and she’s so much more than I could ever deserve—so much more.

I pull on a pair of boxers and the automatic lighting turns off as I leave the room. I laugh to myself at the full-on description I’ve just run through of our dressing room. In case you couldn’t tell, I love that fucking room.

As quietly as I can, I take my sneaky stash pack of cigarettes and lighter from the chest of drawers next to my side of the bed.

Ash will give me shit if she catches me smoking. She makes an allowance for a few joints on occasion, but she hates me smoking cigarettes. It’s been an emotional few days and I need one, maybe two, to calm my nerves.

Ash has never smoked and thankfully, neither do any of my kids …

well, not cigarettes at least. I’ve caught Joe with a joint a couple of times, but the boy’s twenty-four so what can I do?

I’ve given him the talk—warning him of the dangers of hard drugs—but I don’t know how much more I can do.

I know, considering my past, that it’s highly hypocritical of me to lecture him, but at the end of the day, I’m his dad and it’s my job.

Besides, what I did when I was younger is irrelevant.

He does as I say, not as I do, or did. Yeah, I’m a pretty strict parent—who’d have thought?

I slip quietly out onto the balcony, closing the doors behind me and light up.

I lean one hand on the railing and bring the cigarette to my lips with the other, drawing in the much-needed smoke into my lungs.

I know it’s a filthy habit. I know the toxins and chemicals can kill me, but the pleasure I’m receiving from the little stick of poison right now, I couldn’t care less.

Ash has never been a nag. She’s never really got on my case about things, but she hates me smoking.

Fifty. I’ll be turning fifty next year, and I’m grateful for every day that I’ve managed to stay alive.

I let out a long breath as images of the life I’ve led, the things I’ve seen, people I’ve met, and places I’ve visited rush through my mind.

I’ve done some stupid shit in my time, and I mean some really stupid shit.

Goosebumps erupt over my skin, and I shiver.

It’s a beautiful warm summer’s evening—the kind that reminds me of the long school summer holidays we enjoyed as kids—days when the sun always seemed to shine and the air smelt of fresh cut grass.

We thought we were invincible back then.

All that mattered was the music, practising our next cover, and attempting to write our next song.

We thought we knew everything—thought that we would live forever, but obviously we knew fuck all.

The damn breaks again and I grip my hair, trying to quiet the loud sobs that are escaping. I hear the door click behind me and turn to see Ash staring at me.

“Babe?”

I turn away from her, gripping the rail as another sob escapes.

“Oh Marls, I knew this would happen. I warned you, didn’t I?” She’s not accusing, just stating a fact. She did warn me. She knows me better than I know myself and I love her for it. Her naked front pushes into my bare back and her arms slide underneath mine, wrapping around me.

“Talk to me, Marls. Please, don’t shut me out.”

I turn and face her, pulling her in tight and breathing in the scent of the woman I’ve loved for twenty-five years.

She’s one of the very few things that I haven’t fucked up in my life, not since the early days anyway.

She’s loved me at my worst, stood by my side, and pulled me back from the brink so many times I’ve lost count, but she still doesn’t know all my deepest, darkest secrets—most, but not all.

“It hurts, Ash. It still fucking hurts so much,” I say into her hair. The smell of her shampoo calms my racing heart.

“Of course it does, especially on nights like tonight when you’ve been talking about him and remembering all the good times.” She pauses for a few seconds and I know she’s struggling not to cry herself.

“It’s normal, Marls. You just need to let it out. Don’t bottle it up like you used to. Just let me in and the tears out.”

She takes my hand and leads me back inside to the bedroom and over to our bed.

“Get in and give me a cuddle. You’ve shut me out these past few weeks and I’ve missed ya.”

I let out a long sigh as I climb into bed, feeling guilty because she’s right.

I’ve spent the last few weeks practising for this year’s Triple M concert with Conner Reed, lead guitarist for Shift.

Because of the tragedy his band has recently endured, we thought it would be a good idea to collaborate and bring in some extra revenue for the charities we support while at the same time, commemorate and celebrate our lost bandmates.

This will be the thirteenth year we have held the event and it’s gone from strength to strength.

The diversity of the charities we raise awareness and money for keeps a broad selection of the public interested.

Despite Maca being gone fourteen years this December, there are still a lot of Carnage fans out there who turn out every year to support the cause, and I couldn’t be more proud of what we’ve managed to achieve between Georgia, Len, and myself.

Georgia, George, G, or to Maca, Gia, is my little sister and the bravest person I’ve ever met.

How she has held her shit together and clawed her way back to becoming a functioning human being again, I will never know.

I couldn’t have done it, but she did, and with the help of Cam, she’s in a good place.

She still has her moments. I still get the odd call from her in the middle of the night when she can’t sleep, or because she’s had a bad dream, but they are few and far between now and I’m glad—glad that she’s found her place in the world.

Her family and this charity pretty much take up all of her time, and despite the fact that her job is to promote a charity that was set up to honour her dead husband, Cameron King has been on board and one hundred percent supportive since the very beginning.

Despite my doubts about their relationship when it first began, he has been a bigger man than I ever could have been, and I’m not just talking about the size of the man’s dick here—which is apparently legendary.

No, I’m talking about his capacity to love my sister the way that he does.

I might even go as far as to say he loves her more than Maca did.

Don’t get me wrong, Sean loved George, but their relationship was borderline obsessive of each other.

I let out another long sigh as I pull Ashley back into my front and she grinds her arse against me.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks me quietly.

“Anal mostly—Humph,” is the noise I sorta make as Ash elbows me in the ribs.

“We were being serious, Marls.” I kiss the top of her head and give her nipple a squeeze.

“I’ve got a hard-on now. I don’t wanna talk, I wanna fuck.”

“Don’t try and deflect. I wanna know what’s going on in that head of yours right now.”

“I just told you and it earned me a crack up the ribs,” I complain.

“You either talk to me, Marley Joseph Layton, or I go and find another bed to sleep in. Don’t shut me out, I’m being serious.”

“George,” I tell her honestly.