Page 1 of Marley
MARLEY
A CARNAGE NOVEL
From the author of Carnage 1&2, comes this follow up novel. Marley tells the story of Carnage from Marley Layton’s POV. It will give you the missing years.
Marley is a companion novel to Carnage 1&2 and both of those books should be read first.
‘So, they want me to write a book? They want to know about my band, my life, my loves and my losses. But they have no idea what they’re asking for. If I give them what they want, they’ll get so much more than the sex and drugs and the rock and roll they’re expecting. They’ll get the secrets that I’ve kept for so long, they’ll get an insight into the person I really am, or at least was. They think they know my story, they know nothing.
If I do this, if I write honestly and give them the ugly truth, people will get hurt. People that I love, people that have already suffered in the worst possible ways.
Do I do this, or do I walk away? Taking my secrets to the grave.’
Marley is an adult contemporary romance. It contains content suitable only for grownups with an open mind. There are scenes of group sex which include m/f/m a little bit of f/m/m and even some f/f/f/m/m/f/f/f. There is drinking and drug taking involved. A lot of swearing, some Essex slang and some very high emotion. Please don’t complain after reading this book that you wasn’t warned.
And yes, of course you’ll need tissues.
PROLOGUE
Iwipe the steam from the mirror with the palm of my hand, clearing it enough to see my reflection, resting 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 money, 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 ... toown.
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 noticed 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?”
