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

by Alyson Santos

  I glance up with a tight smile. “Who? What do you mean?”

  She rolls her eyes, but shoots over a teasing grin. “Oliver. Obviously. He just messaged you, didn’t he? Your entire demeanor changed. Like a cloud lifted or something.” She returns to packing my belongings, and I relax a little when I sense this isn’t a critique. If anything, she seems pleased.

  I breathe a sigh and stare down at my screen.

  It went fine. Wish you’d been waiting for me in my dressing room. Am I really your friend? What does that even mean? I want to be a good one, but I’m not sure how. How often do friends message each other? Do they call? I really want to hear your voice right now. See your smile.

  Instead I type, It went fine. I’ll let you know as soon as I finish the shoot on Wed.

  “Can you give me less showgirl and more vixen?” Riela Corbin lowers her camera and studies me with an intensity that concerns me. A good photographer can find streaks of your soul and Riela is one of the best. Usually, I don’t mind working with her. She’s very talented and more patient than a lot I’ve dealt with. Today, though, I’m the impatient one.

  “Gen, please. I’m not looking for pinup girl, but I need more than bored understudy.”

  I crack a smile and pull in a deep breath. “Sorry. Late night.” It’s not a lie. With another back-to-back show—this time in Chicago—I didn’t get home until three last night. I wasn’t asleep until four and had to be up at ten to get ready for the shoot. We’ve had four performances in the last week, and we’re not even officially touring right now—that’s what this afternoon’s meeting with Turner and White Flame is about.

  “Give us a minute?” Hadley asks Riela.

  Riela nods, signaling her assistants for a quick conference as well.

  “What’s going on with you, Gen? Real talk.” Her sincere expression invites real talk, but a brightly lit studio surrounded by strangers definitely does not.

  “Sorry. Like I said, I’m tired.”

  She shakes her head. “No, it’s more than that. You’ve been, I don’t know, dark lately.”

  “Dark?” It’s a good description, actually. She can’t know that. She already knows too much.

  “Yeah, like, distant and melancholy. And the mirror thing?” She whispers the last part in an even lower voice, probably to avoid any reprise of the earlier drama where I went all diva and made them remove every mirror from the set. I didn’t even like the one reflector that looked too “mirror-y” but let them keep it after a heated debate. “It’s not normal, Genevieve.”

  I flinch at the grating word as it scratches through my head. Normal. No, I’m not normal. Because what is normal? My normal isn’t normal. What she means is, you’re not being the person you’re supposed to be. I’m not playing my part well, and it’s easy to read the rest of the message on her face. You better figure this out before the meeting with White Flame. They won’t have any patience for the new you.

  She’s not wrong, and I suck in a deep breath to muster the most sultry, vixen-like expression I can muster.

  “I’m ready,” I call over to Riela.

  She returns to the set, looking relieved when she sees me through the lens. “Yes! Much better. This is perfect, Genevieve. Keep that up.”

  I am in control.

  CHAPTER 5

  Brown eyes dance

  Above the cliffs

  Of solitary bliss

  Just one kiss

  Would be enough

  To dismiss

  Violent waves

  The secrets he craves

  In time

  If he were mine

  Maybe I’d find

  The lonely tears

  I force away

  Are okay

  OLIVER

  I wanted to get an early start on training today. Genevieve has an hour and a half to spare this afternoon, and there’s no way I’m losing a single second with her. The short texts and surface greetings aren’t cutting it, not when I can tell something isn’t right in her head. I’m worried, but I can’t exactly blame her for blowing off my concerns. We barely know each other, and how deep can we go in a quick text exchange anyway? I need her in my arms, to be cemented in her awareness.

  Carlos couldn’t meet me until nine this morning, so I start warmups on my own at eight. I promise him I won’t do anything crazy until he arrives, and after some Carlos-approved isometric warmups, I pound the elliptical at only mildly dangerous levels. Of course, as my mind takes off, so does my pace when I lose track of the numbers. Maybe I end up pushing harder than he’d like, and by the time he arrives, I’m drenched in sweat and breathing hard.

  “What happened to a mild warmup?” he mutters as I wind down and wipe my face with my shirt.

  “It’s nothing. In fact, I’m feeling great. I think we should try some plyometrics. Box jumps or maybe even—”

  “Not a chance.”

  “But—”

  “Ollie, I love you, dude, but no.”

  I glare at him. “I’m ready, Carlos. Enough with the elliptical and balancing shit.”

  He crosses his arms, brows furrowing. “Oh? You’re ready? Really? Is that what you call what happened on the ice at that meet-and-greet the other day?”

  I clench my jaw and avert my gaze. “That was…”

  “Don’t lie to me, kid. You were hurting. You needed some tiny pop-tart to help you up. You’re lucky the guys didn’t see that.”

  Believe me, I had no such luck. A road-trip and slight time change didn’t stop the barrage of messages from my teammates when the footage aired. Most along the lines of: Dude, I would’ve jacked up my knee too for a piece of Genevieve Fox.

  “I didn’t need her,” I lie. “And don’t call her that. Her name is Genevieve.”

  His stance relaxes into surprised humor. “Is it now?”

  I roll my eyes and step down from the elliptical. “Are we doing therapy or what?”

  “You in a hurry or something?”

  “Maybe. I have to cut out around noon.”

  He studies me again, and I shrug through a few gulps of water.

  “Is that so?”

  “Quit asking questions. I don’t grill you about your off-ice activities.”

  “I don’t have off-ice activities,” he says with a smirk. “You’re my world right now, mon amour.”

  I roll my eyes and drop to the leg press. “Your accent sucks, you know.”

  “And yours is adorable.”

  “Don’t you dare hug me,” I warn, pointing at him.

  He laughs and adjusts the weight for me. “Seriously, Ollie. I saw your face just now. I don’t know what you’ve got going on with that girl, but be careful. You’re a good kid and I’ve been in this business a long time. Girls like that will eat nice kids like you for breakfast.”

  “She’s not like that,” I grunt through a leg extension.

  “No? You think we didn’t notice how she pounced on you after the meet-and-greet? Like moths to a flame. They love athletes, kid. The rush and excitement. You satisfy some caveman craving in them.”

  I let the machine slam down in a loud crash. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  He lifts his hands, unaffected by my venom. “Look, I get it. I’ve seen it a thousand times. Mostly it’s harmless since you guys are just looking for a good time too, but you’re different, Ollie. Saw it the first day you walked into that locker room. Hey, it’s a compliment. You’ve got substance. You also have an incredibly bright future and enough of a setback with your knee right now. I don’t want to see anything else drag you down. Those Hollywood flakes bring drama at a nuclear level, and I know how much you hate drama. I also know how badly you want this.” He waves his hand around the weight room. “You really want to allow a distraction like Genevieve Fox into your life with everything you’re already dealing with?”

  I glare straight ahead as I push through another set of reps, and Carlos makes a wise choice to stay quiet this time. I do
hate drama. I also hate nosy, know-it-all physical therapists trying to decide what’s best for me. My knee, maybe. My heart—he can’t begin to sort out. He knows nothing about me other than my stats and physiology, same as everyone else in my world. Besides, he didn’t see the pain in her eyes that day in the pool. That wasn’t a girl intent on using me for a good time. That was a woman who was deeply hurting and desperate for a lifeline.

  “You’re upset,” he sighs out. “I’m sorry for that, but not for saying what I did. You don’t believe me? Ask Sandy. He’ll tell you plenty of stories. Hell, half of them are his own before he settled down with Kelsie.”

  I ignore him, breathing through another string of reps. Press. Release. Press. Release.

  Crash.

  “I see how hard you work, Oliver. I know what you’re about. But I promise you, if you pursue this woman, your knee will be the least of your problems.”

  The guard at Genevieve’s community security checkpoint was expecting me and lets me through without an issue. I get buzzed through her private gate and park further from the mansion this time, surprised to see another car already in the circular driveway. A driver waves from inside when I duck to inspect through the windshield. I return a stiff wave and keep walking. Is she coming or going? Is someone else here? She said we only have an hour and a half, and I bristle at the thought of sharing her with another visitor.

  I’ve barely ascended the steps when the door swings open and she rushes toward me. Laughing, I catch her small body and hold on as she buries her face in my chest.

  “Hello to you, too,” I say softly against her hair. Her arms tighten around me, and now I really want to get her alone and sort out what’s going on.

  She murmurs something that sounds strangely close to “I missed you” but I’m not sure I was supposed to hear it. This greeting is so different from the first time I visited her home. So honest and uninhibited. It warms me and stings at the same time. God, she must be lonely.

  “Are you hungry?” she asks, pulling back just enough to search my face. “Lana just made sushi. Were you training this morning?”

  I nod. “I’ve been up since five.”

  Her nose scrunches in the most adorable grimace. “You were getting up when I was going to bed.” She tugs me forward to guide me inside.

  “How was your photoshoot?” I ask, and she shrugs.

  “Eh. It was a photoshoot.”

  “And the interview?”

  “Same as always.”

  She doesn’t let go of my hand as she leads me through her home, only this time there are others milling around. Staff members, I assume, but I can’t begin to guess what they do. Not until we reach the kitchen and encounter “Chef Lana” putting the finishing touches on some amazing-looking sushi rolls.

  “Hi, I’m Oliver,” I say, lifting my hand. Hers are occupied, so she smiles back a greeting.

  “Hi, Oliver. Lana.”

  “Oh, you have to try her Breakfast Roll.”

  “Breakfast Roll?” I ask, loving the sudden light in Genevieve’s eyes.

  She plucks a piece from the tray and holds it up to my lips. “It’s all my favorite things about breakfast in sushi form. Are you allergic to anything?” I shake my head, open my mouth, and let her shove the bite in. Her finger brushes my lips, sending an unexpected shudder through me.

  Her eyes ignite as she waits for my reaction, so expectant and hopeful. I’ve never wanted to love a bite of food so much in my life, and a smile slips out as the flavors burst on my tongue. Tart grapefruit mixes with crunchy granola and creamy yogurt. A surprising hint of honey melts from the rice. These are the flavors of breakfast to her? I love that I know that.

  “What do you think? Good, right?”

  “It’s delicious. I’ve never had anything like it.”

  She seems relieved, and my amusement fades. I don’t want her happiness tied to mine. I want her eyes to light up over her “Breakfast Roll” whether I love it or hate it.

  “If you want something else, Lana can make it for you. Is that okay, Chef?” she asks the older woman.

  Lana smiles and nods. “Of course. Whatever you want.”

  “This is great,” I say. “Seriously, it all looks amazing.”

  Genevieve beams and hands me a plate. “Eat up. You must be hungry.”

  I am, but I’m more interested in watching her eat. Who am I kidding? I’m happy to do anything with her.

  “Okay, well, I’ll be back in a bit to clean up. Let me know if you need anything,” Lana says with a smile, but my relief at being alone with Genevieve only lasts a second when another young woman breezes into the kitchen. She stops abruptly when she sees me, her eyes widening.

  “Shoot. You’re here already,” she says, and I can’t help but smile at the blunt introduction.

  “I am. I’m Oliver,” I say, extending my hand.

  “Hadley,” she says, shaking it. Firm grip, probing gaze. I can tell by the way she hovers near Genevieve that she’s a protector. I like her already.

  “Hadley is my personal assistant and oldest friend,” Genevieve says. Maybe I kind of remember her from the meet-and-greet. In Hadley’s defense, I don’t remember much other than her boss. Genevieve has a very blinding effect on me, and I’d venture to say, most people.

  “Nice to finally meet you, Oliver,” she says, and I don’t miss the sly look she gives Genevieve. Genevieve blushes and returns a subtle glare.

  “Finally?” I say with a chuckle.

  “Yes, well, if you haven’t noticed, this one doesn’t like to share a lot of details. All I know about you is that you play hockey, have pretty eyes, and prettier abs.”

  “Hadley!” Genevieve cries, smacking her arm.

  I laugh, enjoying the crimson hue that spreads over Genevieve’s cheeks.

  Unphased, Hadley shrugs and piles sushi on her plate. “What? First guy you bring home in months, and all I get is the same thing I’d find on a hockey card. There are hockey cards like baseball cards, right?” she asks me.

  I grin back. “Yeah, but our abs aren’t on them. That would be new information.”

  Hadley snorts a laugh and lifts her fist for a bump. I oblige and tap it with mine. “I like you,” she says. “I approve. Carry on,” she tosses to Genevieve. Picking up her plate, she flutters a wave and disappears from the room.

  “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” Genevieve groans when we’re alone.

  “Don’t worry about it. She’s great.” Genevieve doesn’t look convinced as she pushes a piece of Breakfast Roll around her plate. “Is what she said true?” I ask. The red tinge of her skin deepens, and I laugh. “Not about the abs. Am I the first guy you’ve invited over in months?”

  Her gaze flickers to mine before it returns to her plate. “I don’t date much,” she says finally. There’s a cryptic undercurrent to her tone that makes me think there’s more to that story, but I don’t want to pry. I also like the idea that this is a date, however unconventional it may be. “Anyway, we have just over an hour left so let’s not waste it. Do you want to go to my room?”

  I choke a little on the rice in my mouth, and she cringes. “Wait, I didn’t mean… I just meant, for privacy. To talk.”

  I force a smile, strangely disappointed and relieved at the same time. It’s getting harder and harder to keep my promise to myself. Especially, with the way she looks in those cute sweats. Her hair is knotted in a messy bun, but her face is still made up in runway perfection, presumably from the recent photoshoot. The contrast of casual and glamour unites her two worlds in a dizzying spectrum of beauty that wreaks equal havoc on my bloodstream. I want her wholly and completely, in any form. I just want her.

  “Sure. I’d be happy to go to your room,” I say, trying to keep the desire from my voice. I want her to feel safe with me above anything. To know she can take me to her room without pressure or expectations.

  She slides off the stool and grabs her plate of half-eaten sushi. “You can bring your plate if you want. Gra
b a drink on the way by the fridge.”

  I follow her through a maze of corridors to a back staircase that I don’t think is the main one, since I recall an obscene dual set of stairs at the entrance. This path feels intimate, like she’s taking me on a journey through her home that others rarely see. I don’t take it for granted and study her closely as I follow behind.

  “Maybe next time we can go to your place,” she tosses back as we climb the stairs.

  I laugh and shake my head. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. I live with Raffie Sanderson.”

  “Wait, the Raffie Sanderson?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder.

  I shrug. “I guess? Trojans’ captain. I didn’t have a place to stay when I got called up, so I moved in with him and his family.”

  “You live with his wife and kids too?”

  “They’re cool.” I swallow the slight ache that rises in my chest. “I guess it helped me not miss my own family so much.”

  She doesn’t comment, but I catch the way her hand tightens on the railing. “I guess if it works. You just rent a room from them?”

  “It’s a suite. I even have my own kitchenette and living area. It’s cozy, and I don’t need much.”

  Given the castle we’re in, I’m expecting a harsh reaction, so I’m surprised when she says, “that sounds nice,” in a soft voice.

  We reach the top of the stairs, and she leads me down another long corridor to an ornate set of French doors. She pushes through with her free hand and motions me inside.

  “Welcome to my humble abode,” she says, stepping aside so I can enter.

  I try to temper my shock, but even with my grand expectations, I wasn’t prepared for this. A giant purple bed anchors a deep silver wall that stretches to a wall of windows. Through the expansive glass I see the pool deck below along with a distant vista of painted hills and the sparkling blue ocean. Other doors and alcoves fan off in multiple directions around the room, presumably leading to closets and bathrooms.

  “You look surprised,” she says, again sounding disappointed, and I force my gaze away from the luxury to focus on her.