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

by Alyson Santos

  Lumbering in an uneven gait, I lurch forward to catch my balance, but my knee isn’t as strong as it should be. Weak. Useless. The emergency stop does nothing because I’m already going down. Like the save, it’s too late. Always too late. I land hard, crying out in terror at the fresh burst of pain from my knee.

  CHAPTER 8

  Who will carry the weight of knowing

  The path overflowing with could-have-beens

  Light eyes dark with angry sparks

  When bitter farce claims victory

  Regret so quiet

  Amidst the screams

  Fear clawing wild and free

  Who will carry the weight of knowing

  A mirrored girl’s longing

  Now staring sadly at me

  GENEVIEVE

  Oliver doesn’t answer my texts after my mom leaves. I may have smoothed things over with her, but my stomach swirls in a constant stream of nausea at the thought that it came at his expense. I panicked in the moment. Everything he said was accurate, but standing there, staring down the monumental cliff of my life, I realized I’m just not strong enough to jump. It’s too high. Too far to fall. Maybe that means I’ll have to keep ignoring the girl in the mirror, but I’ve survived for twenty-two years as this ghost of myself. What’s a few more? Still, I don’t like that he’s not responding at all. I’d take a bitter screw you over this radio silence.

  When I still don’t hear from him the next day, I try calling his cell, but my calls go straight to voicemail. Seated in the salon chair, waiting for my color to set, I keep staring at my phone as if sheer willpower alone will make it ring.

  “I’m guessing you haven’t heard from him since he left,” Hadley says, eyeing the phone that’s been bouncing on my manic knee since I sat down.

  “No. He’s not answering my texts or calls.” I bite my lip, replaying the scene with my mom for the hundredth time in the last twenty-four hours. In all the reruns, I stand up to her. I put my foot down and tell her I don’t want to go on a world tour. I don’t want to sing about hanging with my girls in a club when I don’t even have real girls to hang with. In the new scene, I take Oliver’s hand. I don’t let him leave. I tell him how amazing he is and how incredible our time together has been. I force my mother to leave and lead Oliver back upstairs to my bedroom. I strip him again, enjoy everything he is, inside and out, and we wake up this morning in each other’s arms. In this fantasy he’s at my house now, having a lazy morning while I get my hair done. He’ll be waiting for me when I get back. Maybe he’ll go with me to my interview, sit beside me in the studio. Every time I get nervous or need a spark, I’ll look over and there he’ll be with that addictive smile and warm, soothing gaze.

  But then cold reality hits. That’s not what happened. In the heat of the moment, I chose easy. I chose familiar. I chose a sense of duty over what I wanted. I showed Oliver that he wasn’t worth the pain—and I lied. Because he is. He’s worth everything, and now my stomach is in knots, my heart is shattered, and my head is a storm of regret and panic. Without him I’m cold and colorless again.

  I’m so sorry, Oliver. Please talk to me.

  This last text makes it my ninth unanswered message. They sit in the text window like a blue tidal wave of rejection.

  I wanted to choose you, my brain screams to him. But I didn’t. Like usual, I chose by not choosing. I let life choose for me. I let them control my fate and now I’ve probably lost the one thing that truly meant anything to me. The one person who saw me. Who put me first. So what’s next? Keep choosing by not choosing or finally suck it up and go after what I want?

  “Can you reach out to our contact at the Trojans?” I ask suddenly. “You may have to check with Selena to see who she spoke to when she set everything up. See if you can track down Oliver and make sure he’s okay. He lives with Raffie Sanderson, so if we can get an address, even better.”

  Hadley straightens in surprise and nods. “You got it, boss.” I know she reads the rest of the silent story, and I’m grateful she spares me a speech or critique. I messed up. But maybe that’s the kick I needed. He’s been fighting for me since the day we met. Maybe it’s finally time I fight for him.

  The rest of the day is brutal. With Hadley’s help I make it through, but I need to rely on her as my brain more than usual. I’m back to zombie-mode, performing at every phase of my schedule with the stage presence of a stadium show. On the outside I’m Genevieve Fox, but inside I’m a caustic blend of warring identities. Only Oliver would be able to sift through the tornado and help me pull one out, but he’s not here thanks to me. Not surprisingly, the Trojans publicist wouldn’t give out information on Oliver’s location, not even to Genevieve Fox, but she promised to pass along the message. Points for false hope, I guess.

  After dropping my stuff at the entrance to my house, I start toward the kitchen for a glass of wine. I’ve just turned the corner toward the kitchen when my gaze freezes on the door to my basement studio. Oliver’s voice comes filtering back, soft and matter-of-fact in that stirring accent.

  “You should record them.”

  As if it were that easy. I stare at the door. Happiness isn’t about easy.

  “I’ll be down in my studio,” I call out to Hadley who is several steps behind me. I glance back just in time to catch the giant grin on her face.

  One song in particular has been in my head since Oliver came into my life. I slide onto the bench of my baby grand piano and position my fingers on the keys, trying to work through the lyrics in my head. It never felt right as a sad anthem of a lonely girl. Maybe that’s because it was never supposed to. Maybe it’s been in my head because Oliver is changing it.

  Was changing it before I pushed him away.

  I swallow the twinge and focus instead on the haunting progression. The original song was in the key of G, but I raise it to A, feeling stronger in the moment. A sudden lead-line emerges through the simple chord rhythms, and I cement the tentative notes with firmer hits on the keys as I repeat the intro several times. What would an electric guitar sound like playing that riff? I glance over at my electric hanging neglected above its amp. I haven’t touched either in over a year. My pedal board is woefully lacking, but I bet I could run some cool midi-effects in production.

  I work for several hours, rewriting lyrics, tweaking melodies and chord progressions until I’m satisfied with the basic structure and ready to start recording. It’s late for most people, but I don’t want to risk losing my momentum. Besides, in the world of music and recording, the night’s just getting started for most of us. I text Joel, my most trusted audio engineer, to see what he’s up to.

  Working on a secret project. Could use your help. You in?

  Joel writes me back a minute later. Hell yeah. When?

  How about now?

  “That was hot, Gen,” Joel says, leaning back in his chair at the console after I come out of the iso booth. He studies me for a second, his grin widening. “You know, I’ve been working with you for five years and I’ve never seen you like this after a session.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I get it. He’s right. It was hot. Everything felt good, so real and organic. Joel had to finish another project before coming over, but came as soon as he could. We’ve been working for a while, but the late hour is hardly affecting me. I’m on a high. I feel like I could do this for another twelve hours. I don’t remember ever feeling this way in the studio.

  “You’re… I don’t know. Locked in. It’s gonna be hard choosing from all these takes. Usually it’s the opposite with you. No offense.” He laughs, and I shoot him a mock glare. “No, seriously, though. Your voice is just extra on this song. Your tone, dynamic. So much to freaking work with. Why is this top secret again?”

  “Um, because it’s different?”

  “Hell yeah, it’s different. It’s sick.”

  “And gonna get me in trouble if White Flame finds out I’m messing around with a new direction on the sid
e. You can’t tell anyone about this, Joel. Promise me.”

  His eyes narrow in an expression strangely reminiscent of a certain hockey player who inspired this experiment. “So what are you planning to do with this then? It’s a shame to let it sit. People need to hear this.”

  I shrug, warming at his words. Joel is a well-respected engineer and producer. If he says it’s good, it’s good. “I’m still trying to figure that out. For now, let’s just finish the track and see what we get.”

  He still looks skeptical, maybe even annoyed, as he lets out a breath and turns back to the console on the desk. “Fine. But, Gen. This shit is special. I don’t know where you found this inside yourself, but you need to go find more.”

  Joel stayed until just after four, with a promise to come back as soon as our schedules would allow. He’s also going to track some drums and bass for me, using what we did as a reference track to start from scratch with a full-band sound. If I like what he does, we’ll re-do the vocals and give me the epic rock-vibe I heard in my head. We agreed that, for now, he’d keep quiet about who’s behind this track. He’ll do as much as he can himself, and tell anyone else he has to bring in that it’s a new artist. My vocal sounds so different there’s little chance someone would tie it to Genevieve Fox without context.

  Once the adrenaline wears off, though, I crash hard and don’t wake up until mid-afternoon the following day. Thankfully, it’s a rare off-day, which almost feels painful as I blink awake and realize I would’ve spent it with Oliver if I could. I reach over to check my phone and bolt up in the bed.

  Stop stalking me.

  My stomach drops at Oliver’s first message, my pulse hammering in a simultaneous rush of pain and relief at hearing from him. It hurts to read his rejection, but at least he’s okay. Then, I see the smiley emoji, and tears spring to my eyes. He’s joking. Oh god. I can barely breathe as I open the chat window to see what else he wrote. Next is an address, followed by:

  Come over if you want. I’m here for a while.

  He’s there for a while? What does that mean? Panic mounts as I roll out of bed and practically run to the shower. Crap, I didn’t even answer him. I rush back to my bed and swipe my phone off the nightstand.

  Late night sorry. Just saw your message. I’ll be over as soon as I can.

  The bubbles populate below my message almost immediately, and I smile, hoping he’d been waiting for my message.

  Great. Sandy’s family is here, but he’s still on the road. I’ll let them know you’re coming.

  I’ve never showered and gotten ready so quickly in my life.

  The woman who answers the door wears a loose bun and stiff smile as she ushers me in.

  “You must be Genevieve,” she says. “Ollie’s in his room. I’ll show you where it is.”

  Ollie? Does everyone call him that? So cute.

  “Thank you. Sorry to barge in on you like this.” A tiny human scurries past in an opening up ahead, and I hear distant shouts from another child that probably wasn’t the runner.

  “It’s no problem, really. It’ll be good for him to have a visitor. With the team out of town and on a losing streak, now is not the best time for a setback.”

  “A setback?” I ask in alarm.

  She glances over her shoulder at me. “He didn’t tell you? I thought that’s why you were here.”

  I pull in a breath, guilt mixing with an ember of panic at her statement. No, I didn’t know. Because I removed him from my life. Again. I can’t bring myself to explain all of that to this stranger. Despite her words, I can’t shake the feeling that she’s not thrilled I’m here.

  I force a smile. “Yeah, I came as soon as I could,” I say, still not sure what she means but hoping that deflects enough to get me past this interview to find out.

  She nods and leads me toward a stairwell. “Well, he’s downstairs in the in-law suite.” I start down the steps. “Oh hey, I’m a huge fan of your music.”

  I return her polite smile and mutter a “thanks” before continuing downstairs. Yeah, no way that’s true. In fact, I get the sense she’s not a fan of me period. Oh well, I’m not here for Raffie Sanderson’s wife. I continue on as quickly as possible, circling the wall once I reach the landing.

  “Oliver?” I call out, scanning the space for any sign of him. A kitchenette with a fridge, sink, and a small range/oven unit anchors one wall. The other has a line of cabinets covered by a counter holding several small kitchen appliances. A breakfast table that seats two sits in the snug opening just before the room disappears to the left. The space is uncluttered and clean, if a little dark, which I guess is understandable given its location in the basement. Oliver clearly isn’t in his kitchen, so I keep walking, thinking I hear sounds from a television close by. I curve around the wall and suck in a quick breath.

  Color.

  Air.

  Light.

  Oliver.

  I force a casual approach when he sees me, his face lighting up in a way I don’t expect. Has he really forgiven me? Can he really be happy to see the crazy girl who keeps messing up?

  “You came,” he says, pausing the TV. A Trojans game is on the screen, but based on the time, it can’t be live. He must be studying the footage, and I realize how little I know about his world. I want to, though. I want to understand every part of his life, everything that makes him the incredible person he is.

  He props himself up so I can see him over the back of the couch, and I appreciate the better view. Even in a simple t-shirt, he’s gorgeous, his muscular arms and chest clearly defined through the soft fabric as he holds himself in place. He’s not getting up to greet me, though. Guess he’s too comfortable? It does look like a nice couch.

  “Of course I did. Oliver, I’m so sorry for what happened. I shouldn’t have—”

  He waves his hand. “It’s fine. I get it. I’m the one who shouldn’t have pushed in front of your mother. This is your decision to make, your journey. And I think I get it now. Going down is a lot harder than going up. You have such a far distance to fall. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be looking down from the top and considering a step that would send you sailing to the ground. Just know that when you’re ready to fight the hard battles, I’ll be there with you. I truly believe it will be worth the pain. The climb back up will be so rewarding because it will be yours.”

  I bite my lip at the surge of emotion. Who is this prince? How do I deserve him? I don’t, and my heart stutters in my chest when I move forward and see the rest of him. His left leg is propped up on the couch, a pile of melted ice packs on the coffee table in front of it. A pair of crutches leans against the wall beside him.

  “Oh my gosh. What happened?”

  His gaze hardens for a second before he releases a dry laugh. “Treadmill injury. I know. It’s stupid. Thank god it’s just bruised and I didn’t re-tear it. Doc says I need to stay off it for a few days, but we should be fine to resume my rehab without an issue by Saturday.”

  I shake my head, studying him for more. The timing is suspicious, but if this latest injury is my fault, he doesn’t seem intent on blaming me.

  “Can I get you anything while I’m here? Are you hungry? Want something to drink?”

  He returns a lopsided grin that melts my heart. Gosh, how can he be so hot and so adorable at the same time?

  “You gonna cook for me, Genevieve Fox?”

  I laugh and shake my head. “No, but I can order something. I could probably figure out the microwave if you’re really desperate.”

  He laughs and pushes himself into a more upright position on the couch. “I’m not that desperate. Come sit with me.”

  I breathe a sigh of complex relief as I move around the L-shaped couch. Mostly, I just need to touch him. It’s been too long. Too many agonizing hours of imagining my life without him. I sit beside him, surprised at how well we fit together on the cushions. He wraps his arm around my shoulders, and I shove both of mine around his chest. He clamps me to him, and I rest my
head on his beating heart. My leg instinctively curves over his thigh to wedge between his legs, careful to avoid his bad knee. I hope this position doesn’t hurt him because I never want to move.

  “I’ve missed you so much,” I murmur. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I missed you too. And you can stop apologizing.”

  “When you didn’t respond, I thought I’d lost you.”

  I feel the air leave his lungs in a long exhale. “I know. I’m sorry for not responding. I was in a bad place over the last couple of days. Plus, I was busy with the doctors, coaches, and tests. God, I was so scared, Genevieve. I thought…” His voice trails off, and I glance up to read the fear on his face. “I don’t know what I would have done if I re-injured it permanently. Hockey is my life.”

  I avert my gaze, the guilt returning in full force. A treadmill injury… I want to take him at his word, but is it just a coincidence that his treadmill injury occurred right after another fight with me? I’m starting to see a disturbing pattern. I may need him in my life, but am I good for his? I think back to the woman upstairs and her cold reception. She obviously cares about Oliver. Does she wonder why a guy whose life is hockey would risk it all on someone like me?

  “Does it hurt?” I ask, staring down our bodies toward his knee. It looks purple, painful.

  He shrugs. “Nah, not really. Not compared to the tear and surgery. And now that you’re here, I don’t even feel it,” he says with a smile. I reach up and trace his curved lips.

  “I did it, Oliver,” I blurt out. “I recorded one of my songs.”

  His eyes widen, then crinkle into the cutest smile. I don’t know why the confession came out like that, but I’m glad it did. It felt right to say. Necessary. Like he needed to hear it as much as I needed to release it.