Breaking South (Turner Artist Rocker #3) - Alyson Santos Page 0,13
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 Magazine. 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.