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

by Alyson Santos

  Startled, I study the glowing orbs in the mirror, glistening now from tears instead of sunlight. Could that be true?

  Oliver releases his hold, and I watch in numb silence as he pushes up from the floor. He needs the support of the chair to straighten his knee and his limp is even more pronounced as he moves toward the guitar stand. I did that. I made him hurt. Once, twice, again. Or is it the fact that I’m forcing him to fight a battle for me I don’t need to fight. What if the vault isn’t empty, and I just never dared to see what was inside? What if it’s filled with light waiting to burst into freedom?

  He hands me the guitar, and I force away my instinctive bristle at touching the smooth wood. I used to love this instrument. It was a part of me no one saw, a comfort when I needed a friend in my lonely journey. But over the last few years, it became painful. It became a symbol of what I wasn’t, what I wanted but could never have. No, I represent glitter and fairy dust. I sing other people’s art, preach a bubblegum life I don’t live and don’t believe in anymore. Maybe I never did and I’m just becoming aware of it.

  “Play me something. One of your songs.”

  Oliver’s gaze is filled with hope, strength. He doesn’t just want to hear my music; he believes it’s a missing piece somehow. Oh god, what if he’s right? What if that’s what’s in the vault?

  My fingers already feel at home on the frets. My back already feels straighter and more confident than I’ve felt in months. I’ve played a little over the last few weeks, but never for someone else. Never have I shared the part of myself that I hide in that notebook.

  Oliver waits, so open, so expectant. My fingers clench into an E-minor chord and start to strum. Then C. Then back to E-minor. It’s an intro to a song I wrote a year ago. I barely recognize it now that it flows out openly. With witnesses it becomes real in a way it never did before. Musings become art. Pain becomes beauty. The gray turns to color.

  “I see you there with your unchecked stare

  How you pretend to care from stage left

  Stage right, house lights, long nights

  Of wondering who will be waiting

  Backstage, beneath the haze, in the daze of the wrap

  Curtain call, silent encore

  Curtain call, is there more

  Whose shadow will shadow the shadow I walk

  Alone when the rest have gone home

  Whose hand will I hold when my own grows cold

  When they’re not looking for handouts anymore

  Because I’m not the one

  I’m the end of the run

  A job well done for the creators

  I’m a timeless tribute

  A statue they kneel to

  A lie they have to believe in

  I’m the prayer unanswered

  The song unremembered

  A lyric rewritten and forgotten

  I’m a prize for the masses, a hope that shatters

  The hero who falls

  Beyond the curtain call”

  I’m exhausted after the song, but lighter at the same time. Oliver didn’t say anything when I finished, just lifted the guitar from my hands and returned it to the stand with a contented look on his face. Now, we lay on my bed, him on his back, his hands laced behind his head as he stares up at me. I’m on my side, pressed against him, watching my fingers trace lazy circles on his chest. I feel his muscles constrict beneath my touch, see the strain against the fabric of his shirt. Memories of his perfect body burn through my head, triggering an instinctive response that had been dormant over the last few days during my meltdown. Now though, newly freed and fueled by a fresh connection, the fire burns hot again, fierce like it had the first time I saw him in that weight room. He’s been so hesitant with me, though. Careful, as if he’s constantly fighting his own attraction. But something snapped between us just now. A wall fell down and flooded the space with warmth that’s quickly turning incendiary.

  My fingers circle a button on his shirt, less innocent than their absent trail a moment ago. I watch them with a steadily increasing pulse, wondering if they’ll be brave. Oliver adjusts slightly, his gaze still locked on me, as if asking the same question. Does he want me to be brave? I want it. To touch him. Badly. His warm skin against my palm, sculpted muscle hardening in my grip. He’d be magnificent to experience.

  My teeth sink into my lower lip as my path around the button intensifies. He doesn’t move, waiting. He must know what I want and he’s not stopping me this time. I let my gaze slide over his form stretched out on my bed. Even fully clothed, he’s a masterpiece. I slip open the button.

  His chest lifts in a hoarded breath as I slide my fingers into the opening of his shirt. My palm runs over his skin, and my own nipples harden when I graze his. I skim across his left pectoral, down his side until the frustrating pull of fabric stops my progress. My breathing deepens as I unhook another button, and another, and another, until his shirt is only connected by a couple lone holdouts at the bottom. I’ve never had the urge to tear fabric before. Not like now. My hungry gaze studies the newly exposed work of art beneath my fingertips. His gorgeous heart seems to glow through his skin, brightening the tattoo above it. I run my finger over the intricate design, wondering, but too afraid to break the moment with words.

  Brother. Friend. The sad, lonely tree.

  My gaze tracks up to his eyes, and I almost flinch at the heat there. Passion I’ve seen before, but never unchecked like it is now. Passion I could have if I want it, and I want it so much it hurts.

  I straighten enough to pull my top over my head, loving the way his eyes devour me. In this moment, I feel like more than enough. Like I’m everything to him, the gem he sees in the mirror. I lean forward and test his lips with my finger, soft and full, but most importantly, willing this time. The fire inside burns hotter.

  His eyes still hold mine, curious and heated. Even as his body betrays him, he holds back, restraining his desire—his power—for me to direct. I see it in the expansion of his biceps with the clench of his fists, the contraction of his sculpted abs as he controls each breath. He’s a man with exquisite self-control and poise. I imagine him on the ice, staring down opponents with violent precision. He’s a predator trained as prey, and in that moment, I understand why he’s an elite goalie—and the tempering effect of sisters he adores. Yes, Oliver Levesque is an enigma, a complex blend of power and grace, brutality and softness, and right now in the chaos of my storm, my desire for him is the only certain thing in my life.

  I lean down and brush his lips with mine, loving how it only sparks a more dangerous explosion. Because soon my hands are in his hair, my leg sliding over his body to straddle him for better access. He meets my kiss with a demanding response, lifting into it until that’s not enough either. His fingers shove into my hair as well, molding me to him as his tongue challenges mine and takes control of the kiss. I groan into it, involuntarily, like everything else that suddenly happens to my typically controlled instincts. Stiff limbs become loose and primed to seek his body. Hips accustomed to trained movements, now sway in improvised choreography against his. One hand locks in his hair, tugging until he flinches. The other scales his chest and arm until the fabric gets in the way again.

  I straighten and rock back on his hips to finish unbuttoning his shirt. Once freed, he rips it off his arms and tosses it to the floor. I work at the button of his jeans, deciding those need to come off too. Gosh, I want everything off. I don’t want anything separating us anymore. I unhook my own zipper and add my jeans to the growing pile on the floor. I turn back to him and catch my breath.

  His hair, messy from where I teased it, drifts over warm brown eyes laced with affection and desire. I already knew his body was stunning, but seeing him like this, in my bed, fully exposed and waiting for me is almost too much to accept. The fact that his gaze scours my own with unchecked hunger sends my pulse into dangerous rhythms that trigger more aching surges. I find his lips again, melting into his kisses until I can’t breathe. With
a groan, he rolls us so he’s braced over me, and my hips instinctively lift to seek his.

  “Oliver,” I whisper through a moan.

  “Everything okay?” he asks, his voice gravelly and strained.

  “I want you.”

  I feel like a poet with the way my simple statement makes his beautiful eyes shine. Like he’d been waiting for those words.

  “I want you too,” he says, searching my gaze before leaning in for another kiss.

  I slide my hands around his lower back, shoving them beneath his boxer-briefs to latch our hips into steady alignment. My fingertips sink into firm muscle, perfectly carved like everything else about him. He hardens into steel against me, a pained grunt rumbling from his throat when my legs wrap around him to pull him in further. My body is an inferno, taut with need. I feel him pressed against my opening, but there’s still too much fabric between us.

  “Let me get a—”

  “Are you clean?” I ask, panting.

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’m on the pill. I trust you.”

  Did I just say that? I haven’t had sex since my break-up with Darryn months ago, but suddenly I can’t imagine not being with Oliver right now. No consequence seems important, no barrier too big. His beautiful eyes search mine. What’s he thinking? For a split second, I see the hunger. The animalistic impulse that’s driven him to the top of his sport. I shudder with anticipation; a deep longing burns low in my belly to experience that instinctive primal drive. But he quickly shields it, shaking his head as he straightens and reaches for his jeans.

  “Thank you for trusting me. That means a lot.” He fishes a condom from his wallet, and somehow I’m not surprised that the guy who resists partying and other carnal temptations would fight this one as well. Honestly, right now I don’t care how it happens; I just need it to happen.

  He returns, and I forget all about the negotiation when he braces over me again. He’s art in this moment, beautiful and strong. A force I suddenly need to experience in full before I explode. I position him in place, gasping as he pushes inside.

  “Is this okay?” he asks in a labored voice.

  “So okay,” I breathe. “Oliver… ah!” I buck my hips, seeking more of him, and he obliges with a deeper thrust. His groan at my ear is more of a growl, like a part of him is escaping after being caged. The sound fires through my blood, hot and angry, stirring into shivers of desire. My legs wrap around his, pulling him further into me. His breathing comes in heavier gasps as well, matching mine as we start to move.

  “I’ve wanted this since the first time I saw you,” I gasp out, moaning when his expert movements trigger tiny ruptures in my blood stream.

  “So did I,” he says.

  My eyes clench shut against the building current, sparks flaring white hot through my core. My heels dig into the back of his thighs, his large body braced over me, close but not close enough. I latch my hands around his thick, toned biceps that anchor both sides of my head, pulling hard with each lunge. It’s still not enough, and a small whimper of frustration filters out of me. I want his entire essence inside me, everything he is incinerating the void and brightening it with his light. He seems to sense my need and pushes harder, taking my breath away and forcing the sparks into explosions. One, two, three, four… hotter, brighter, building into volatile, unstable collisions of lust. The urges become penetrating aches I can no longer bite back with restraint. The fire rages, a gushing river of flame that plunges through my stomach and lodges deep in my core. He reads me perfectly through my agony, driving hard with several deep thrusts as I crash over the edge seconds before he does. My lips lose the battle against the scream, my body completely shattering in its sweet death. Am I crying? Oh no, it feels like I’m crying, and I blink in rapid succession as I come down, riding the intoxicating wave he continues to rock slowly inside me. I squeeze him harder, suddenly panicked at the thought of ending this moment, this connection. I never want him separate from me again.

  “Oliver.” I whisper his name with reverence, and he blinks those beautiful brown eyes at me. Lazy and sated, they scan my face with a mix of awe and concern.

  “Are you alright?” he asks, searching my gaze, probably noticing my tears. He starts to pull out, and my legs clamp around him.

  “Don’t. Not yet,” I say, tucking myself further into his arms. He sighs, content this time, and allows his weight to drop slightly on his arms. I feel the strain of his muscles as I run my hands up and down his biceps again. But I need his lips too, and release one hand to lock my fingers in his hair and guide him back to my mouth. With a deep kiss, we cement what seemed surreal just a moment ago. I didn’t know I could feel like that. So whole and uninhibited. So open and honest. I was flying. I was real. He knows it too. I can see it in his satisfied smile. The way his gorgeous gaze traces my face in wonder and love. I wasn’t Genevieve Fox just now.

  I was the girl in the mirror.

  CHAPTER 7

  Five, the fingers on my skin, dragging streaks of fire

  Four, the times I’m lost in soothing reckless eyes

  Three, the cries that bind at the peak of harsh desire

  Two, the lips that bloom into drifting desert flowers

  One, the sun whose steadfast glare

  Shines beyond the mirror’s stare

  OLIVER

  “Your voice sounds different when you sing your own songs,” I say, tracing Genevieve’s collarbone as we relax in her bed. Her purple sheet is tucked mid-way up her bare chest, and I run my finger down her ribs to outline the slightly exposed swell of her breasts. I love that she shudders from that light touch, her gaze going hungry again when she turns it back on me.

  “Different how?”

  I shrug, enjoying the feel of her soft, smooth skin and a lazy moment with the woman I’m starting to want in more permanent ways. Maybe Carlos was right in his warning. What happens when she’s bored and ready to drop me for the next adventure? I’m still figuring out the broken knee. Can I handle a broken heart on top of it? “I don’t know. Your voice is harder. Edgier. It fits your music perfectly.”

  Her expression becomes thoughtful as she considers my words. “I’ve always loved rock. It’s my favorite genre to listen to.”

  “You sound like a rocker when you sing your own songs.”

  Her eyes brighten in a way I’ve never seen when she talks about her career. “Really? You think so? I hear the songs in my head with a full band behind me. Heavy guitars, drums, bass, the whole deal.”

  “I can see it,” I say, squinting at her. “And now you’re turning me on. You’re kind of a badass when you sing your own stuff. You just need a tattoo or two.”

  She snorts a dry laugh. “Right. I’ve always wanted one but Mom doesn’t think it’s a good idea. ‘Fads are always changing, Genevieve,’” she repeats in a mocking tone. “‘You can’t lock yourself into a permanent one.’”

  I study her bitter look. “Why does your mom have a say over your body? You’re an adult, right?”

  “Everyone has a say over my body except for me.” She must see my irritation at that, and her eyes narrow. “What about you, Mr. Athlete With A Messed Up Knee? Who owns your body?” She’s got a point. Still, that feels completely different.

  “If you want a tattoo, you should get a tattoo,” I say.

  She reaches over and traces the one on my chest. “What about yours? What do they mean?”

  I pull in a deep breath as she studies the slow outline of her fingers over the detailed design. Are we ready for this conversation? I’ve demanded honesty from her since the moment we met. Don’t I owe her the same?

  “Brother. Friend,” she reads in a soft voice. Her touch is feather-light, sending chills over my skin. “Who’s your brother and friend?”

  “It’s for Thomas,” I say finally. “I told you I have four sisters and two brothers. What I didn’t tell you was that only one of my brothers is still living.”

  Her eyes widen, and I look away.
“Thomas was the oldest of us, three years older than I am. The protector, you know?” I swallow a hard lump in my throat. “Anyway, one night he was hanging out with friends at a lake near my house. I guess they’d been drinking. They said they didn’t even know at what point he went under. They just realized later that he didn’t climb back on the dock with them.”

  “Oliver…”

  I clear my throat. “There was a big search, but his body wasn’t found until three days later when it washed up on the opposite shore. So yeah. One night I had my best friend, and the next, I became the oldest and the protector.”

  “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry.” Her palm spreads over my heart, pressing against the sudden ache. “Is that why you don’t drink?”

  I nod. “One of several reasons. He wanted me to go with him that night. I’ve always thought if I’d gone, I could have saved him. I’m a stronger swimmer, the athlete of the family. Maybe that night I should have been the one looking out for him. He’d been there so many times for me, but I wasn’t there when he needed me.”

  She shakes her head, touching my jaw to draw my gaze. “That’s not the way tragedy works, Oliver. We don’t get to rewrite the beginning after the fact.”

  I manage a weak smile, surprised by the insight and depth of her response. It’s strange how in some ways she’s so unnaturally innocent and in others so beyond her years. Maybe I’m the same. At twenty-three my life has taken a very different trajectory than most of my peers. I have more in common with teammates who are a decade older, than I do with the average person my age. How much of that is hockey and how much is life circumstances, I can’t begin to guess. All I know is that I haven’t felt like a kid in years. Ever? Even at age ten I had the work ethic of an adult. I had to in order to be the best, and once Thomas was gone, the pressure to provide for my family became another unspoken layer of maturity. I study Genevieve beside me, sensing she was never a child either. A girl who’s been a woman her whole life. No wonder she doesn’t know herself. She never got to grow up.