Falling North: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 2)

by Alyson Santos

  Lydia lowers herself beside me and leans against the neighboring stack of chairs. She’s close enough that I feel her heat in a room that’s become arctic. Her hand rests between us, her fingers tapping careful rhythms on the concrete while her mind works. I’m glad one of us has a functioning brain right now. Mine staggers toward my brother, resulting in a fresh rush of ice through my blood.

  “I need to find Matty. Where is he?” I start to push myself up, surprised when she pulls me back.

  “Not yet.”

  I glare at her and make another attempt, but her grip only tightens.

  “Xander, I’m serious. You need to sit down and deal with this for yourself first.”

  “Matty is—”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine? You fucking think he’s fine right now?”

  Her eyes widen, then narrow on mine. “Yes.”

  I swallow some guilt at my response. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped like that,” I mutter.

  “Sit, Xander.”

  I grunt and obey this time. How does she do that?

  “Real talk?” she says, turning to face me. “Maybe he’s not fine, but he’s sure as hell better than you are right now. And if I had to guess, he’s way better than you and your protective older brother brain give him credit for.”

  Bam.

  I choke on a throatful of air as she drills a look into me, daring me to argue. I shake my head. That can’t be true. What does she know from her week of experience with us versus my lifetime?

  She must read all of that in my face when hers softens. Warm fingers latch onto my icy skin, sinking into my forearm. “Xander, it’s obvious how much you care for Matty and look out for him. I can’t imagine what a burden it must have been throughout your lives, especially now that I got a glimpse of your mother.” She shudders, and the slightest smile tugs at my lips. “But he’s not a little boy anymore. From what I’ve seen, he’s stronger than you think. But even if he wasn’t, for your own sanity, you have to let go and look after yourself for once. When’s the last time you’ve put yourself first? Ever?”

  I blink and return my gaze to the floor.

  “From the second I saw you at the bar, I’ve also sensed the heaviness you carry. How long do you think you can sustain that?”

  At least twenty-seven years. I clench my jaw and pull away from her. What does she know anyway? She saw a few effed up interviews with my mother and suddenly she’s an expert on the Rogers-Silva horror show? As if the daughter of Stocker Carmichael could even begin to understand the monstrosity of what I’m carrying. Bet it was damn tough growing up in a massive mansion in a rich suburb. What, did the organic tofu and spinach smoothies get boring after a while? I’m going to guess she never ate uncooked boxed pasta because it was all she could find that day.

  “Xander…”

  I shake my head again, and this time push through her attempt to keep me down. “I need to find my brother.”

  “Xander! Will you just—”

  “No,” I spit, turning on her. “Don’t think for a second that you have any idea what it’s been like for us. I’ll let you experts figure out a way to spin this PR mess and make that woman go away, but I will take care of myself and my brother.”

  I can’t look at her as I shove away from the stack of chairs and march toward the door.

  CHAPTER 8

  LYDIA

  Xander is gone.

  We have two hours until soundcheck and no one’s seen him since his argument with me, and then Matty. In related news, Kate and I appear to be the only ones concerned. She’s off searching the underbelly of the venue compound, while I duck my head into the back bus lounge to interrupt whatever virtual sports-car-racing or alien-bug-killing is going on.

  “You have a minute?” I ask Matty once the guys pause their game. Maybe I do see some residual brother-fight resentment on his face when he rests his dark gaze on me. His eyes flicker back to the screen, his fingers clenching the controller as he considers. Finally, he releases a heavy sigh and drops the controller on the small end table.

  “Be right back. Play without me,” he tells his cousins.

  I straighten to clear a path for his exit, and he squeezes by to make his way to the front of the bus. Our bodies brush together in the tight space, but there’s no flirty look or snarky comment from him this time. Wait, is he mad at me too?

  “Here okay or do we need to go somewhere more private?” he asks when we reach the front seating area. Earlier today his inflection on “private” would have been playful. Now, he just sounds annoyed.

  I keep my voice level. “You tell me. I’m worried about your argument with Xander. Where do you want to discuss that?”

  A cloud drifts across his face, and he glances toward the back of the bus.

  “Let’s go,” he says, heading to the exit.

  I follow him off the bus, and we walk in silence until we find a secluded service entrance. After situating ourselves on the concrete steps, he rests his elbows on his knees and angles a look over at me.

  “So what’s up?”

  “What happened between you two? He left me in a huff, determined to make sure you were okay, and next thing I know I get reports of an argument and he’s MIA.”

  Matty shrugs and fixes his stare on the asphalt below us. “He’s just being Xander.”

  “Yeah, well, you have soundcheck in less than two hours, so we need to figure this out.”

  “He’ll show. He’s just blowing off steam.” I narrow my eyes at him, and he grunts. “I’m serious. This happens all the time.”

  “What does?”

  “This,” he says, waving his hand in front of him. “He…” His gaze wanders to me for a second before he studies his hands again.

  “I’m worried about him, Matty. This isn’t about the soundcheck. You should have seen him after he found out about the video.” I swallow the memory of finding him on the floor, powerful body folded against a stack of chairs like he’d just been crushed.

  For several seconds, Matty and I watch his shoe scrape abstract patterns on the lower step. He almost seems guilty, the way he tugs at the ends of his sleeves and studies every object around him except for me.

  “Matty, please. I can’t help you guys if you don’t let me. I will fix this thing with your mother, but I need you to give me something to work with.”

  “Stacy,” he mutters.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Call her Stacy, not our mother.”

  Whoa. I force myself steady. “Okay. I can do that. So what did you and Xander argue about?”

  “What we always argue about.”

  “Which is?”

  There’s that look again. Guilt, maybe some pain as old wounds rush to the surface. My heart hurts as I watch the remaining swagger drain from his posture. For a brief moment, I see the boy in that awful video, not the cocky young man I met at a party a few weeks ago. I couldn’t stand him that night, and when I learned he’d be part of this assignment too, Fate and I had some choice words. In this moment, though—and honestly, many times throughout our brief time together—I’ve caught glimpses of a more complex side to Matheus Silva, a side that clearly reflects the influence of his older brother.

  “He still treats me like I’m ten. Like it’s his job to make sure every atom in the universe is in the right place at the right time.”

  “He loves you. He’s just trying to protect you.”

  “I know.” His toe returns to scratching invisible messages on the step. He draws in a ragged breath, and I soften when I notice the shimmer in his eyes.

  “Matty…”

  He swipes the sleeve of his hoodie across his face. “I don’t know where he is now. I’ll help you look for him.”

  “Matty, talk to me.”

  “About what? I just did.”

  “What’s really going on? What happened with you and Xander today?”

  He bites his lip and rests his head on his fists.

  “Matty.”


  He mumbles something, and I wait for him to give in. After dragging in another long breath, he turns to me. “He’s upset because I told him to stop treating me like a kid. I told him—” He stops, his face shattering before he looks away. “I told him I don’t need him anymore. That no one asked him to be fucking superman all the time and solve the world’s problems.”

  Oh my god.

  “Because that’s what he does, Lydia!” he cries, pleading with me. Tears cloud his brown eyes, drowning any chance I have at resentment. In that moment, I see how much Matty loves his brother right back. How much he does need him, despite what he’d just said. How guilty he feels for saying otherwise and how broken they both must be beneath the rocker edge they fight so hard to project. That shell must be reinforced steel to hold up against the storms I’ve barely glimpsed.

  He shakes his head, hiding his face from me again. “Do you know how hard it is to watch someone take a punch for you?” he whispers. “To go hungry so you can eat? To shiver so you can have the one blanket? I’ve spent my entire life watching him suffer to protect me, and I… I can’t do it now. Not again. Not for her. He has to stop fucking caring so much because I…” He blinks a few more tears down his cheeks before swatting them away again. “I can’t watch him get hurt anymore. I hate her, Lydia. And our father. Both of them can rot in hell.”

  My heart. It rocks in my chest as my fingers itch to reach out to him, to squeeze his slouched shoulder in a gesture of support. It’s impossible to sit here rattled in the wake of that bombshell and not want to hug him. But I don’t dare. With everything going on, the last thing we need is ill-timed physical contact that could explode another landmine.

  So instead I sigh, fold my hands in my lap, and try to keep my emotions from rushing out in a sloppy mess. Xander and Matty don’t need another burden to carry. They need Lydia Carmichael, brilliant associate marketing director who fixes shit.

  “Matty, I can’t begin to imagine what you two have been through. Thank you for being honest with me just now. That must have been really hard.” He presses his palms into his eyes as I suck in another quick breath. “Hey, why don’t you go back to the bus and unwind with the others? Kate and I will find Xander and get him back on track. Sound good?”

  The relief on his face helps ease some of the boulder pressing on my ribs.

  “Okay. Thanks for listening. Sorry for…” He looks away, and I allow the briefest tap of his arm along with my sympathetic smile.

  “Don’t be sorry. Honestly, this kind of sincerity is good for your brand. Wish we’d recorded it,” I tease.

  He huffs a dry laugh and swats at the remaining tears on his face.

  “I probably look like a wuss. All blotchy and shit,” he mumbles.

  My smile grows as I shake my head. “Nah. You look like a badass. Go kill some space spiders.”

  I hear him before I see him. Stupid. Nobody thought to check the one place you should look for an introspective poet drummer who hides his pain in the music. I text Kate to let her know everything’s fine, then settle in for a brutal private show.

  Sweat gleams over Xander’s body as he attacks his kit anchored on a riser on the left side of the stage. He doesn’t see me, and I hang back to study him as he works out his frustrations on his instrument. A few members of the crew bustle around me, still setting up for the show and testing equipment. But there’s an obvious vacuum of activity on that half of the stage, as if they know their boss needs space. Besides, clearly the drums are good to go.

  His expression is dark as he concentrates on his art. Well-defined biceps and forearms dance over each drum and cymbal, almost too beautiful to go with the hardness of his face. Okay no, who am I kidding? Everything about him is breathtaking in this moment—tragically so—and I can’t bring myself to interrupt. I think back to the moment I wiped the abandoned joy from his expression last night. What would I get with an intrusion now?

  So I wait. Silently stalking from the shadows as his complex rhythms pound through my bloodstream. Maybe I’m even swaying, unable to control his music in my veins. It’s another twelve minutes before he gathers his sticks in one hand and rests his palms on his knees. With heavy breaths, he continues to collect himself while staring at the snare and bass drum below him. He breathes like a lion, assaulting the air with each ferocious exhale. I’m not surprised. I’m staring at a survivor whose strength and determination saved two lives.

  Problem is, unlike my encounter with Matty, it’s not just an urge to hug him I’m fighting. No, I want to completely break him open and consume him until his mind, body, and soul are mine. I want every single breath that forms him, so when his gaze suddenly lifts and finds me hovering, my pounding heart detonates in my chest. I respond with a silent plea for him to stay. To make room for me in the storm cloud misting around him now.

  His eyes lock on me as I approach slowly. Are there others around us because it feels like the room has cleared. My sneakers barely make a sound, just a soft pat I absently count in my head. Two-three-four-five… all the way to twenty-two. Twenty-two steps separated us, and when I’m finally standing behind him on the riser, I realize I never want to be that far from him again.

  “Hey,” I say quietly.

  “Hey,” he answers, turning his head to acknowledge me. He doesn’t swivel in the stool to face me, however, so I’m stuck staring at his back. Through his thin, sweat-soaked shirt I can see the power in those shoulders, how strained and ready they are to unleash on something again. His fingers tighten around the sticks in his hand until his knuckles are white.

  “I read somewhere that you can get the tambourine sound of samba by using a brush on the snare drum?”

  “You were researching samba?”

  “I research everything.”

  The crease in his brow softens slightly. “Right.”

  “So is it true? Do you ever use that tambourine sound?”

  “Tamborim, actually. And yeah, it’s…” He stops and reaches toward a bag hanging on one of the drums. He removes a short stick with long steely bristles protruding from the end. “Like this.”

  Settling back into the stool, he holds a normal stick in his right hand, the brush in his left, and starts tapping out a steady rhythm on the snare. The stick hits the drum then crisscrosses over the brush, while his right foot works a complementary rhythm on the bass drum.

  “Wow! That sounds incredible,” I say, leaning forward for a better look. His lips turn up in an almost-smile, some of the tension relaxing from his shoulders.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty cool. I also get the surdo effect—that’s the deep bass drum—with the floor tom.” He swaps the brush for another stick and launches into a rapid, complex beat on the big drum to his right.

  “Amazing… that’s… can I try?” Wait. What? I’ve never wanted to play an instrument in my life. I’m the girl who studies and prepares and directs. The girl who never had time to play with toys.

  I’m glad for my slip when the cloud around him noticeably lifts. He’s smiling for real when he gets up from the stool and motions for me to take his place.

  “You’re sure?” I ask, peeking back at him. Really, I just want a chance to see his face again. I’m rewarded with a flash of panty-dissolving light in those hazel eyes. “Ooh, this stool is so comfy.” I bounce a little, melting further when I catch his smirk.

  “Throne.”

  “Throne?”

  “It’s called a throne, actually. Or seat, but throne is more fun.”

  I flip my hair and straighten. “Pfft. Okay, your majesty.”

  He laughs, and yeah. Xander Silva’s rare laugh should be a whole music genre in itself.

  “Fair enough,” he says. “Okay, so that’s your snare, kick, high tom, mid tom, and floor tom.”

  “Wait, I thought this was a bass drum.” I press down on the pedal at my right foot, and shudder at the deep roll.

  “It is. Same thing.”

  “Got it. And what about these? Cymbals
, right?”

  We both cringe when I flick the big one near my left hand.

  His lips twist into an amused smile, and I can’t stop my own grin from leaking out. “Yeah, but… you know what, let’s not worry about those for now. You hold the sticks like this…” He pulls another set from the carrier and demonstrates before handing them to me. By his expression at my attempt to hold one thin piece of wood, drums is probably not going to be my long lost talent.

  “Uh… more like…” He shows me again with his own stick, and bites his lip, clearly holding back a laugh at my next try. “Hang on. Here.”

  He shoves his set in his back pocket and leans over me to grip my right hand. How this is supposed to help my coordination, I have no idea. I’m a freaking mess when he touches me, my lungs soaking in the scent of detergent. I’m pretty sure that’s not how I smell after a workout, but I can ask his secret later. Right now, my hand is on fire from the friction of his fingers. He runs them over my skin, gently manipulating each one of mine along the stick in my palm. My arm feels weak as I hold it out and beg it not to shake from the sparks shooting through it. My lungs are dead weights, hoarding extra air to keep from exhaling in a loud gasp while he’s pressed against me. His hair tickles my cheek, and I don’t dare to turn my head and allow my lips anywhere near his face.

  “You feel the difference?” he asks softly.

  Oh god. I feel. What don’t I feel right now? I feel his heat, the pressure of his body against my back, the thud of my rapid pulse pounding through every inch of me. It’s my own internal kick drum. Bum, bum, bum. Speeding up with each second of this agonizing contact. What I feel is everything, and especially the rumble of his silky voice when he asks if I’m okay like this.

  “I’m perfect,” I breathe out. Your voice is perfect, my rebellious brain echoes. Smooth, rich, with just enough of an accent to trigger every curious hormone in my body. With a voice like that I bet he can sing. Wait, I know he can sing. I’ve heard him for several torturous hours over these past few days as he writes on the bus. Suddenly, he’s holding a guitar while sitting on the edge of that imaginary bed in my mind.