Breaking South: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 3)

by Alyson Santos

  “Camille is amazing,” I say gently, searching her face. “I hope you get to meet her one day.”

  “I hope so too,” she whispers back.

  We move to the hot tub, which sounded dangerous at first, but proved to be a good compromise once we settled into the warm water. Seated on the wide bench, I lean against the wall, Genevieve tucked between my legs with her back to my chest. Just to be safe, I stretch out my arms along the perimeter of the spa while she nestles against me.

  We sit in silence for a while, enjoying each other and the tranquility in a way I’ve never experienced with a woman before. For some reason, I don’t feel the need to talk or explain anything, even though after the rocky start to our day, words should be pounding to come out. Maybe it’s because she seems relaxed as well, her body soft in a way it wasn’t a moment ago. Her fingertips run in lazy circles over my knee, and I finally give in to a light brush of mine on the side of her neck. Sighing, she leans into the touch, and again I can’t help but wonder how long it’s been since she’s been connected with someone.

  “Is your knee okay? You were limping a little on the way to the hot tub.”

  I continue to trace her skin, smooth and visible now that she’s secured her long hair in a messy pile on her head. She’s so beautiful she looks like a fabrication. A construction designed for a magazine editorial, untouchable and on display for the enjoyment of others.

  “Fine. Just a little sore from squatting by the pool after I came back over,” I say.

  Her grip constricts on my knee, but I can’t see her face to read it. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Squatting or coming back?”

  “Both.”

  I shudder at the pain in her voice and reach around her to tighten her to my chest. She breathes out a long exhale and snuggles closer.

  “You bring colors, Oliver. Did you know that?”

  A chuckle sieves from my throat. “I bring color? Really.”

  Her hair scrapes my cheek as she nods. “Yes. When I’m around you… I don’t know. Everything isn’t gray anymore. I feel like I can breathe.”

  My stomach turns; my ribs feel compressed. She means it as a compliment, I think, but that’s a hard world to imagine and a heavy burden to carry. I’m even more desperate to find the girl in the mirror so she can color her own existence. I’ve glimpsed the gray and it’s no place for a person to live.

  I stare past her at the stunning landscape surrounding the pool. It looks like a tropical paradise, every plant and stone trimmed and fitted to perfection like the rest of her estate. Like her. Like I’m guessing everything in her life has been for as long as she can remember.

  “I’ve trained my entire life to get to the NHL,” I begin after a long pause. “It wasn’t just a dream; it was a driving force for me. My entire existence revolved around hockey. My present was my future. I sacrificed, I fought, suffered broken ribs, broken fingers, broken teeth… you name it, I’ve given it up to get here. And just like that…” I snap my fingers. We stare at my knee and the pain surges back like it happened yesterday. The pop of ligaments fresh in my ears, the white-hot spear of agony. The sudden blackhole of awareness that it could all be gone.

  “My world wasn’t gray that night,” I continue quietly. “It went completely dark.”

  She tenses in my arms, and I pull her close. “You must have been so scared,” she whispers.

  “Fucking terrified.” I drag in a ragged breath, inhaling a heavy draught of her shampoo. “I was nothing without hockey. It was like having twenty-three years of my life ripped away from me. Everything I was. Everything I had to live for. Part of me hoped I wouldn’t wake up from the anesthesia. You know how I got back up?”

  “Surgery?”

  I laugh, loving the sweet smile she tosses back at me. “That too. But even the best surgeon couldn’t help my broken spirit. Mentally, I was as shattered as my knee.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “Not me. It took someone else. One night shortly after the injury, when the pain was unbearable and my mental state was worse, Camille called. I tried to hang up on her. Everyone else gave me space, probably afraid of me. But she refused. Kept calling until I stayed on the line long enough for her to say one thing.”

  Emotion burns behind my eyes. My jaw tightens at the memory.

  “What did she say?” Genevieve’s voice is so faint, so desperate for answers.

  “She said, ‘you’re not a hockey player, Oliver. You’re my brother. And you don’t need a good knee to be my brother.’” I clear my throat and brace for the fight. My knee. Her soul. It’s all the same battle isn’t it? A fight for color beyond what we can see in the dark. “You’re not a popstar, Genevieve. You’re my friend. And you don’t need to be anything to be my friend.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Hello, friend. How I’ve missed

  Your honest echo I hold so dear.

  Hello, foe. How I resist

  Your graceless way of drawing fear.

  Hello, demon. Glad I’ve found you.

  The angel takes my breath away.

  She pretends, while you’re hell-bent on preserving true decay.

  GENEVIEVE

  I’m already counting the seconds until I can see Oliver again. I hated when he left yesterday but we both have demanding lives that are currently unsynchronized. We also never had sex. He didn’t even kiss me, though he clearly wanted to. There were times it seemed to physically pain him not to give in, but for some reason he fought our powerful attraction. I don’t know why because I would have moved heaven and earth for a taste of him, and I’m pretty sure he knew it. Even now, I burn at the memory of his hard body against me. The heat of him—his scent, virile and clean, still lingering in the recesses of my awareness. It was so bad, I had to take care of “urges” after he left, all while picturing him doing the same. When that wasn’t enough, I picked up my guitar for the first time in a while.

  True to his word, Oliver didn’t play games either. I woke up to a text this morning, direct and sweet: Had a great time. Hope to see you again soon.

  Me too *heart*, I typed back immediately. Wish it was today. Wish you were here now, I could have added but didn’t.

  “Must’ve gone well with Oliver,” Hadley says, hanging the Balotelli gown she picked up on the rack outside my walk-in closet.

  “How can you tell?”

  “Uh, you’re smiling.”

  I squint over at her, testing the sensation on my lips. It does feel strange. Like my lips are, in fact, in an upright and locked position. Huh. Interesting.

  “Ugh. He’s so hot too,” she continues. “Why didn’t you say that’s what hockey players look like? I totally get it now. Please tell me how he looks naked. You don’t pay me enough to withhold details like that.”

  I snort a laugh and pull on a hoodie. I’ll change into my opening outfit at the venue. Might as well be comfortable until then. “Well. I. Wouldn’t. Know,” I say in a light tone. “I didn’t see him naked.”

  She blinks in surprise, cocking a hand on her hip. “How? I mean… you two practically disintegrated that arena with your sparks.”

  I shrug and grab the cappuccino she left for me on the vanity. “He just wanted to talk.”

  “He wanted to talk? Oliver Levesque, a professional athlete, wanted to talk?”

  I shrug again. “He also wants to see me again.”

  She lifts a brow. “To talk some more?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. It was nice,” I say softly. Her eyes change as she studies me, warming from gossip to compassion.

  “Okay. So when are you seeing him again?”

  “I don’t know. When can I?”

  She gives me a snarky look in exchange for my snarky question and pulls up the schedule. A chill rushes through me when her face falls. “Crap. Um…”

  And there goes the smile on my face. The color around me.

  “You know what? Let me see if I can move that interview with Songset Maga
zine. We can’t change the shoot, but if we switch the interview to phone, you can take that on the drive back which would give you two hours between the shoot and your meeting with White Flame.”

  “Two hours?” My voice cracks on those dismal words.

  “Well, an hour and a half,” she says dimly. “We’d need a half hour to get to the meeting.”

  Air. Gosh, I hate air and its ever-present control over my existence. A minute ago there was plenty. Now? “What are the exact times I’m free?”

  “One-thirty to three on Wednesday.”

  I swallow a foul-tasting knot in my throat. “That’s four days from now. There’s nothing else before then? Nothing?”

  She shakes her head, and her apologetic look doesn’t ease the sudden pain in my chest.

  “Change the interview. I’ll check with Oliver.”

  I wait on the platform, fists flexing in time to the count in my in-ear monitors. The sequined jumpsuit itches like crazy, but I ignore it in favor of reviewing the opening sequence. Riser up, stalk forward and down the LED-lined staircase, choreographed solo dance routine to an extended track-only intro of “Boy Crazy,” live band in with dancers to my right and left silhouetted behind a screen. Full four-count of a blackout and…

  Magic.

  Tonight’s show is sold out, like every show for the last three years. Thirty-thousand people here to see me, Genevieve Fox, do what she was literally born to do. I don’t blame them. I’m good at this. It’s not arrogance, just a fact resulting from being raised on a stage and in the glow of a spotlight since I was an infant. In many ways, I grew up with these strangers. I’m a distant relative they feel like they know, even though we’ve never met and I’m only a conception in their minds.

  I test a smile on my face, widening my grin to loosen stiff facial muscles. With all the makeup, my skin feels like plaster. The platform jerks to life, and I steady against the movement, balancing expertly on high heels I’ve been wearing for years. My mini-shorts jumpsuit feels welded to my body as I position each limb and muscle into its carefully choreographed place.

  “Intro-two-three-four,” a programmed voice warns in my ear.

  The riser clicks into place at the top of the elaborate staircase set piece, and I stalk forward to the first cue taped on the floor. One glistening heel stomps in front of the other, my hips sashaying with trained confidence. No smile yet—this is a pouty, sexy look. I’ll be their friend later.

  The crowd extends out in an expansive sphere around me, distant sparkling specks who’ve paid dearly to admire me. They’re shimmering pebbles with their flashing cameras and glowing phones while they jump and scream in excitement. My brain shuts off as my body launches into autopilot, contorting and rocking in flawless synchronization with the music its rehearsed dozens of times. I forget the crowd, the scrape of the abrasive fabric on my skin, caught up in the routine of another night, another ocean of strangers who will pretend to love me from afar–as long as I reinforce what they want to believe. Tonight, I do.

  “Heavy beats on the dance floor

  Can’t hear your blah-blah-blah

  Over all the oh-la-la

  I’ll be dancing the low beat, the high heat

  Grinding that sick riff with these hips you don’t own anymore

  No more thump thump of your cold heart

  Just the bum bum of the kick drum

  You won’t like what Imma bout to start

  Best grab that drink and find the door

  ‘Cuz this mess is yours, baby

  Hope you know

  It’s your show

  I’m not the girl you left, so

  Can’t blame me

  You’ve made me boy crazy

  Cray-ay-ay-eh-eh-zee

  Cray-ay-ay-eh-eh-zee”

  I navigate the stage effortlessly, ducking around dancers or joining them when I need to, soaking in the lights or avoiding their glare. I know when to smile, when to look confident, when to be touched and overcome with emotion. I know how to utilize every inch of the stage to reach as many members of the audience as possible and draw them into my fantasy. Make them believe in every magical moment that has been rehearsed until it looks natural and unplanned. Yes, I sell my soul to make thirty-thousand new friends. Like last night and the night before and the night before. I become what they want because I can be anything for two hours.

  And at the end of the night, when those thirty-thousand friends return to strangers, I will still be Genevieve Fox, alone, unknown, preparing to seduce thirty-thousand more.

  “Great job tonight!”

  “That was amazing!

  “You were stunning!”

  “You had something extra on ‘Horizontal.’ So good!”

  I offer a smile and thanks to all the well-wishers as I suck on a water bottle and launch through the underbelly of the stadium. With security clearing the way, we keep a good pace toward the sanctuary of my dressing rooms. Tonight went great, hardly a hitch except for a two-second delay on the trigger for “Barely There.” I’m sure no one noticed except me and the crew, but there will still be a meeting on that before tomorrow’s show. That brief pause will be treated like a global crisis, requiring a task force and urgent investigation. My performance was flawless, however, and I left the stage as a goddess, revered by thousands of new followers. I should be on a high, and yet, as I crash into my dressing room, those thirty-thousand friends are already forgotten in favor of one who wasn’t even here—the one person who won’t accept my sacred status.

  I stare at the empty couch against the wall, wondering what it’d be like to find him here after a show, waiting to soothe the near panic that’s been simmering lately after the adrenaline rush wears off. Just one smile. That’s all it would take. One glimpse of that dimple in his cheek and the light in his eyes, and I’d be able to breathe again.

  But he’s not here. I’m alone. Stranded on my gilded island that’s been steadily shrinking for weeks.

  I grip the back of a chair in front of the wall of mirrors, trying to catch my breath. There’s no hope of that with the sticky reflection of a mannequin staring at me, so I quickly turn to lean my back against the stool instead. Crap, the other wall is mirrors too, and I clench my eyes shut, fighting the urge to smash them with my water bottle.

  I have to get myself together. My mom is probably already on her way here to the dressing room, and I’m in no state to handle her right now. I’m lucky she wasn’t the one waiting on the couch.

  It’s just a mirror. What is wrong with you? You’ve done this hundreds and hundreds of times. They love you. Everyone loves you.

  But they don’t. They don’t even know me. Where’s Hadley with my phone? I need my phone!

  Breathe. You’re okay.

  I count in my head, quickly at first, then intentionally slowing the pace to time each inhale and exhale. My therapist’s voice filters into my head. I visualize her calm expression as she explains anxiety and the many weapons at my disposal to battle it. I am in control.

  I am in control.

  I am in control.

  Hadley’s signature knock brings a wave of relief, and I let it settle over me. Still balanced against the chair with my eyes closed, I force in more steady breaths.

  “Gen? You okay? What is it?”

  “Fine.” I release a long exhale to match the inhale.

  I am in control.

  “Here, drink this.” She hands me a custom tea blend designed to soothe my vocal cords and frayed nerves. I’m drinking it more often now, lately multiple cups when one is no longer enough to calm the storm. This isn’t my first bout with anxiety after a performance, and it’s been getting harder and harder to stave off the panic that always seems to buzz just below my breaking point. But I can’t break. I won’t. I am in control.

  When I finally brave a look at Hadley, I don’t like the concern on her face. It means I’m not doing a good job with my mask anymore. She always reads me better than anyone, but usually it’s because I
want to show her more than the others, not because I can’t hide it. A rush of panic surges through me at the terrifying thought that maybe I’m not in control. I swallow a gulp of tea to block it out.

  “Do you have my phone?” I ask.

  She pulls it from her pocket and hands it over.

  “Thanks.”

  “Your mom called. She ran into Loren Hollinger from Fleur Noir Magazine and will be late. This is the one Sam was—seriously, Gen, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing!” I force a laugh and even wave my hand. “Tell her not to worry about meeting me back here. I’m going to shower at home tonight. One of the perks of a local show!” My joke is weak and doesn’t provide the distraction I was hoping for. I’ve totally lost the ability to fool Hadley. What about Oliver? Another person I can’t seem to fool. Speaking of, I stare down at the screen, filled with notifications, but none from him. Maybe I’m even disappointed by that. It would be crazy to call him, right? Of course. We just met. Then again…

  “You’re not a popstar, Genevieve. You’re my friend.” Friends call each other. How did he know how badly I needed to hear that? So simple, and yet spoken with such honesty and a depth of understanding that it lodged deep in my heart. Am I really his friend? In that moment, I wanted that more than anything. Camille sounds amazing. What would it be like to live in such unconditional love? Love that lasts beyond a two-hour performance or terms of a contract.

  My phone buzzes in my hand, and irritation melts into warmth at Oliver’s name.

  How was your show? Looking forward to seeing you Wednesday.

  “Man, he’s really got you hooked,” Hadley says, drawing me from my haze.