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

by Alyson Santos

  “I’m sorry. I just…” Genevieve looks down, and I tug her hand. Tell them! Tell them something’s wrong! She glances up at me, reads my imploring look, then tears her gaze away to focus back on the others. “I think it might have been food poisoning,” she lies.

  Do they buy it? Selena, maybe. Sam, no.

  “Ah. Well, we’ll get this sorted out. Okay, I think we’re good for now. I’ll send my notes shortly, along with any follow up questions,” Selena says. “You good?” she asks Sam and Genevieve. Both nod, and Selena sends a tight smile. “Good to see you Sam, as always. You too, Gen. You look fantastic, by the way. Whatever you’ve been doing the last week or so, keep it up.”

  “Thanks,” Genevieve says.

  Selena disappears from the screen, and Genevieve reaches for the disconnect as well when Sam calls out to her.

  “Just a second if you have time,” Sam says.

  Genevieve tenses and sighs. “Sure, Sam. What’s up?”

  Sam’s gaze passes between us. “Are you ready to tell me what’s really been going on? Come on, Gen. We’ve known each other for years. I know something’s up.”

  Wow. Points for her manager. I watch Genevieve struggle with the question and resist the urge to jump in. It’s so obvious this woman cares about her and wants to help. All Gen has to do is say the word and Sam can work the paths I’m helpless to clear for her. Moral support? All day. She needs a shoulder, a fighter, a friend? I’m there. But when it comes to her career and this industry, I might as well be the maintenance guy picking up garbage after the show. I’m used to team play, everyone with their roles. It’s obvious what Sam’s is and she’s damn good at it, so why won’t Gen let her off the bench?

  Genevieve’s hand tightens in mine. Her foot makes sharp arcs in the carpet as she stares at it. Say it! Tell her you’re not happy.

  “Nothing. Everything’s fine. Just been overwhelmed.”

  I manage to swallow my grunt. This girl is going to drive me crazy.

  “Food poisoning?” Sam asks. “Again? You had ‘food poisoning’ at the meeting last week too. You seem to get food poisoning a lot around White Flame. Are you not happy with them?”

  Genevieve pales, her eyes huge and round before she lowers her gaze again. Maybe she really does have food poisoning? I’d believe it if we didn’t just come from dinner. “No, White Flame is fine. They’ve been great. Lived up to all their promises.”

  “Then what is it? It’s not like you to back out of responsibilities and commitments.”

  “It’s…” The knuckles of her other hand turn white on her knee. I reach over and smooth my fingers over those too. She glances up quickly, her eyes watery and terrified. Yes, that’s what it is. Pure terror in her gaze, and for the first time I start to understand the monstrosity of what she faces. More accurately, that I don’t understand. Can’t, really. I don’t think anyone can.

  “I got your back, no matter what,” I whisper to her. Genevieve’s lip quivers as she leans into me. I wrap my arm around her shoulder and pull her to my side. Resting my lips on her hair, I wait along with Sam for the verdict.

  “I’m… It’s all fine, Sam. Everything’s fine. Just been stressed lately,” she says. I hear the forced brightness in her tone and sense Sam does as well. Her manager doesn’t look relieved at all as she studies her client for another moment.

  “Okay,” she says finally. “Well, if it’s ever not-fine, you call me immediately, okay? I want to help you, Gen, but you have to let me.”

  “I will. Bye, Sam. And thanks.” Genevieve hangs up and releases a heavy sigh. “I know, okay? Don’t say anything.”

  “You know what?” I ask, curious because I’m not sure I do. My shirt feels wet, and when I look down there’s a distinct patch where her eyes rest against me. “What is it you know, Genevieve?” I repeat softly.

  Her arms tighten around me, her head burrowing into my chest as she holds on. “Oliver…” My name is so broken on her lips. I squeeze harder, wanting to fix it all, furious that I can’t. It seems like my entire life right now is a series of battles I can fight but never win. My knee. Gen’s soul. Every day I get up, push through the pain, follow the protocol, do everything I’m supposed to do, for what? So my knee can mock me with the same brutal routine again and again and again. So tabloids can twist the grueling battle I face with one bogus misrepresentation.

  And suddenly, maybe I do get it. I’m fighting my knee because one day I will wake up and the doctor will clear me to get back on the ice. One day I’ll stand in net again, diving for a puck or digging one out beside the post. One day there will be a breakaway with ten seconds left, and I’ll make a save that will embed itself in my mind for the rest of my life. I will feel the euphoria of the game again. I work through hell every day to reach toward a goal that’s more than worth the pain. What must it be like to work through hell for nothing? To fight toward a future you don’t want and maintain a universe that’s crushing you? That’s Genevieve’s fight. She battles through rehab every day of her life with no hope of ever fixing what’s broken.

  “Oliver?”

  God, she breaks my heart. Doesn’t she see how much she needs a breakaway? To just let herself fall?

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t want to be Genevieve Fox anymore.”

  CHAPTER 12

  She holds the trigger with reverent bliss

  Caressing the end of her

  the death of her

  the test of her

  Until through the mist

  Of endless tears

  Insincere years

  She presses down to expose

  Not a blast

  But a path

  GENEVIEVE

  I said it. Uttering that monumental truth should have triggered apocalyptic fires and discordant trumpet blasts, but if anything, I just feel relieved. And Oliver? Smiles. Yep, he’s actually smiling when I look up into those warm brown eyes.

  “Why do you look happy?” I ask, suspiciously.

  Oliver shakes his head. “I’m not happy. Just smiling.”

  “Smiling means you’re happy. You want your new girlfriend to be the disgrace of the century?”

  He huffs a dry laugh. “Disgrace of the century? Seems a bit extreme.”

  “I just said I don’t want to be Genevieve Fox.”

  “Yeah, you were finally honest with yourself. And I’m smiling because you’re smiling.”

  I still in his arms. Test my lips. Oh my gosh. I am. My smile widens. “I shouldn’t be smiling. This is catastrophic.”

  He shrugs. “Is it? Let’s go upstairs and see how many newborn kittens died and nuclear bombs detonated because you decided you’d rather not sing some stuff anymore.”

  I snort a laugh and swat his chest. “Yeah? And is that how you felt when you realized your knee was busted and you were about to lose everything?”

  His smile falters. “No, but I lost something I loved. Something I wanted more than anything and had worked my entire life to achieve. What are you losing, Genevieve?”

  “Something I’m not sure I ever wanted,” I breathe without thinking. More truth. Oliver seems to draw it from me like poison from a venomous bite. Is that how healing works? The first step over the cliff to the ground. Decide you’re ready to fall. “I feel so strange. Terrified, and yet free.”

  His smile returns. “That sounds about right. You decided you want to jump. Now we just figure out how.”

  “You make it sound so easy,” I mutter.

  “As easy as working my way back through a major injury? We’re both on the same journey, Genevieve. The difference is I’m taking the pain for something I want. After the fall, you’re going to face a shitstorm of a climb. Wouldn’t you rather it be for a prize that’s worth it? What’s at the top of the mountain for you? What makes you happy, Gen?”

  This moment.

  That smile.

  Those eyes.

  “You.” I glance up into his beautiful, strong face. He smiles back, and
I trace his lips, still in disbelief he came into my life when I needed him most. Or is he the reason my long-brewing battle has finally come into focus? It can’t be a coincidence that Oliver met a girl afraid of mirrors and now sits beside a girl prepared to blow up her life for something better. While smiling.

  “Good. What else?”

  I think back to my studio this morning, the flutter in my stomach at the thought of meeting Joel again in a few hours to finish recording.

  “My own music.”

  Oliver looks downright smug when that slips out. I think he enjoyed hearing it as much as I enjoyed saying it. And I did. It made me more than happy. It made me feel free. Whole. Like a badass who could face an entire damn wall of mirrors if she wanted to.

  “Speaking of… what are you doing tonight? Want to get a taste of my world?” I ask.

  “First we’re going to record the lead vocal,” Joel explains to Oliver, handing him a set of studio headphones. My heart skips watching his awed expression as he takes the extra seat near the console. I love that I get to impress him for once. Joel adjusts his own headphones and runs a test clip of the track from the computer. Oliver’s eyes widen as his gaze shoots to me.

  “Oh, shit. That’s you?” he says, louder than necessary because of the music blasting in his ears. Music I can’t hear since I’m the only one not with headphones at the moment. Mine are waiting for me in the iso booth on the other side of the glass. “This is amazing. How is this not finished?”

  “It’s just the reference track,” Joel says.

  “It’s a rough vocal so the other instruments can follow along while they record their parts,” I explain further. “We’re going to do the real vocal now that the rest is recorded.”

  “Damn. So this next version will be even better?”

  I grin and nod, studying every detail of his face. Gosh, he’s beautiful. So strong and fearless, and yet secure enough to be honest in his wonder and appreciation of the things he loves. If Joel weren’t sitting here, I’d be in his lap right now, ripping off those headphones and giving him a private concert—with a lot less clothing. Even now, my gaze slips to the definition of his body through his t-shirt as he adjusts in the chair. He’s become my muse in so many ways. I catch his eye just to coax another heart-stopping smile to take with me into the booth.

  His grin lingers in my mind as I turn the corner to enter the smaller soundproof room. I slip the headphones on once I’m inside and position myself in front of the mic. My phone buzzes, and I glance down to see a text from Oliver.

  You’ve never looked as beautiful as you do right now. My heart. I blink down at my yoga pants and oversized sweatshirt. My hair is twisted up in a messy bun, and I hadn’t bothered with makeup today. I couldn’t look more casual, but when I peek through the glass to meet Oliver’s intense stare, I feel like a runway model. He’s definitely looking at me like I devoured him a moment ago. My pulse picks up, blood surging hot to my belly as I imagine him stripping off his shirt and looking as beautiful as I’ve ever seen him through the glass. I have to drag my gaze away to focus on the task at hand. Joel is here and his time is valuable. Maybe asking Oliver to join us wasn’t a great idea. I smile to myself, considering the fun we could have in an iso booth.

  “Can you hear me okay?” Joel asks through the talkback mic at the console.

  I give him a thumbs-up through the window. “Loud and clear,” I say into my own mic.

  “Good. I’ve got you too. Let’s do a full run-through to get you warmed up, and I’ll get some levels.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I clear my throat and shake out in front of the mic. The click track bursts into my ears a second later with a count-in to the intro. My original vocal track has been muted, and I come in on the first word with a breathy “unremarkable.” How many hours have I spent in a studio? And I’ve never felt as nervous as I do now. Because of Oliver? No, his presence always soothes me. Maybe it’s because it’s my own song finally coming to life. After this session, my experiment becomes art. A choice I will have to bury or share with the world. Either way, I hear the nerves in my voice on the opening lines and can tell from Joel’s expression that he hears it too.

  “You’re doing great,” he encourages at one of the vocal breaks. “Try to relax.” I glance over at Oliver who looks mesmerized but at ease, like he belongs in that chair, supporting me. In a flash, I see future years of this. Countless albums with him in that chair, urging me to be the best version of myself. Me in the stands, living and dying by every play on the ice. He tosses a smile that immediately soothes my nerves. I melt a little and close my eyes, imagining myself leaning into his chest as he stands behind me, his heavy arms wrapping me in a cocoon of security. The next verse comes out much more confident. By the final chorus, I’m nailing it like I’ve been singing this song my entire life.

  “Yes! That’s it, Gen. Give me that for the next take,” Joel says.

  “She’s amazing,” I hear Oliver say beside him.

  “She’s doing great. She was born to sing this stuff,” Joel returns. “Hey, Gen, you feel good?” he directs back to me. “I’ve got everything set. You ready to do this for real?”

  I’ve never been so ready for anything in my life. “Yep, all good.”

  “Great. Let’s start with the first verse and work our way through line by line until we get what we want. Sound good?”

  “Bring it,” I say.

  Joel leaves our session as excited as he was after our initial meeting. He’s going to find someone to track the backing vocals and will work on the mix as soon as he can, but for now I have to explain to my disappointed boyfriend that there’s nothing to hear yet. Yes, the finale of this momentous adventure will be a very anticlimactic saving of files and shutting down of equipment.

  “He has to go through all the takes for each part and pick the best ones. Plus add all the filters and edits and stuff. There isn’t even a complete version to hear until he does that.”

  Oliver makes a face. “Filters? Like autotune? What I heard sounded so good. You’re not going to mess it up, right?”

  I laugh and shake my head. “No, nothing like that. Just reverb and stuff to smooth it out. An untrained ear probably wouldn’t notice much of a difference, only that it sounds cleaner, richer, and better overall.” He sighs in resignation, and I elbow him lightly in the side. “Think of this like a team practice. Recording is a ton of practices and workouts before you get to enjoy the actual game. Most of the process is long and meticulous hours of finetuning small details.”

  Strong arms loop around my front and pull me back into a wall of muscle. I settle in with a smile, enjoying the warmth and closeness I’ve been craving all night. Gosh, he feels good. Like coming home and raging fires all at once.

  “Sorry,” he says, his lips close to my ear. “But what I saw tonight is nothing like my boring rehab. Do you have any idea how hard it was to watch you and not rush into that booth?” His lips explore the sensitive skin of my neck just below my ear, his hot breath sending shivers through me.

  “And do what?” I ask, breathlessly.

  “Smell you,” he says, running the tip of his nose along my neck. I feel the force of his heavy inhale, shuddering as if I could dissolve into a vapor and filter into his lungs. I can’t help but absorb an intoxicating blast of his own clean, virile scent. I don’t know what shampoo or cologne he uses, but I want to douse my sheets and wrap myself in it.

  “What else?” I ask, drawing in a gasp of air.

  “Taste you,” he says, sending a current of electricity through me with a light suck on my neck. I moan and reach up to tangle my fingers in his hair. His kiss intensifies along my skin to the dip at my shoulder.

  “What else?”

  “Touch you.” His hand slips down the front of my sweatshirt, wedging beneath the cup of my bra. My body instinctively molds to his touch, encouraging the slow, firm massage of his fingers as I mirror his movements with tugs of his hair.

&nb
sp; “Oliver…” Just his name. That’s all I can manage as he works my body with the expertise of one who reveres it. I press into him, my backside grazing his front in teasing strokes. He releases a groan, and I reach back with my other hand for more direct access. I want to feel him, to experience his need for me. He hisses in a breath as I rub my palm over him, deep and slow, loving the way he responds to me. “Should we go up to my room?” I rush out. “You haven’t exactly been an easy temptation to resist either.” I slide my hand up and under his shirt, sinking my fingers into firm muscle that always makes my mouth water. I need his clothes off him as soon as possible.

  “In a minute,” he says, surprising me. I try to turn to face him, but he holds me steady. It’s then that I notice his attention has shifted to something else. Curious, I follow the direction of his gaze and spot our reflections in the floor length mirror by the entrance to the studio. Above my startled expression rests his intense stare, studying our molded forms like a work of art. I squint at our image as he walks us toward it. Several strands of hair have slipped from the pile on my head. Unhidden by makeup, my skin is pale with a few freckles visible in the bright studio lighting. My lashes are dark, but not dramatic like usual, my eyebrows shaped, but thinner. But my irises are the same, glowing with a spark I’ve never noticed before. I lean closer to the mirror, searching for the flecks of brown Oliver loves so much. Testing a smile, I watch my lips turn up, full but unadorned, shining only with the slightest bit of lip gloss to keep them moist. My bare shoulder lifts in a shrug as I stare openly at the girl in the mirror, naked and exposed.

  “See? Perfection,” Oliver says, bending toward my ear again to say those words. I settle back against him, still scanning the foreign image in front of me. He drapes his arms around my front where I grab them to hold on. We look good together. We look relaxed. Real. He looks like Oliver, the injured hero whose strength moves mountains, but I don’t look like Genevieve Fox. Surprised, I blink in awe.