Breaking South (Turner Artist Rocker #3) - Alyson Santos Page 0,21

intentions were good, I swear, but when I see an open notebook on the nightstand, I can’t stop my eyes from scanning the artistic handwriting.

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

My heart pinches in my chest, and I glance at the closed door that just swallowed that amazing girl. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop my hand from turning back a few pages.

Diamond bright, how you sparkle

Rich indulgence you spread delight

Diamond bright, how they clamor

To plunder your unguarded treasure

Those parasites

Those thieves of light

Those borrowers of others’ dreams

They’ll claw and smother until you’re just another

rock

Oh god. Emotion burns hot behind my eyes. This can’t be the same girl who endlessly smiles for cameras. Who fills stadiums, radio booths, and magazine covers with her beauty. The girl who plays her part so well, even she can’t see the façade. No, this is the girl in the mirror. I finally found her, and it kills me that she hasn’t. My fingers shake as I turn back to the opening page.

She stares at No One in the mirror…

I glance up at the click of the bathroom door and catch my breath when I see Genevieve. Maybe on the surface she looks the same as when she stormed off, but she looks completely different to me now. Her gaze is deeper, her eyes rounder and sadder than before, now that I know what’s hiding behind her fake smile. She steps out from the bathroom and freezes when she sees me. The notebook lies open on my thighs, and I make no attempt to cover up my snooping. She needs to know someone sees her, that I’m committed to finding the girl in the mirror. Our gazes lock and her cheeks pale before reddening in angry blotches.

“What are you doing?” she hisses, eyes narrowed and heated. She resembles a threatened animal more than anything, a look I know well from many years navigating sisters. And like any confrontation with them, I respond calmly and directly.

“The notebook was open on your stand. Is this your poetry?”

“That’s none of your business!” She stalks forward and snatches it from my hands. Snapping the book shut, she practically throws it in the drawer of her nightstand.

“It’s really good,” I say gently.

“You had no right to read that!”

Maybe not, but that’s not why she’s upset. “I’m sorry I saw something you didn’t want me to see, but I’m not sorry I read it. It’s—”

“It’s none of your business, like I said. You should go, Oliver.” Her tone is back to steady and cold. I hate that she tucked away her emotions again. I hate that I’m the latest “crisis” she needs to manage.

“No.” I say, crossing my arms and meeting her gaze.

Her eyes widen in shock. “That wasn’t a request.”

“No, it was a suggestion. One that I’m choosing not to accept. I’m not running.”

“You invaded my privacy!”

“You invited me into your bedroom.”

“For privacy! Because…” She must hear herself, but instead of backing down, she digs in further. Wow, she’s committed, I’ll give her that.

“Do you even know why you’re upset right now?”

“I’m not upset,” she says, and it would be easy to believe her. How often does that work on everyone else? Always? Because she’s right. Her face isn’t upset; her voice is a smooth siren song. But the fingers hidden in her crossed arms dig into her skin. Her lips tremble with the subtlest tick. No one would notice. No one except me who’s become dialed in to every one of her frequencies. She’s become the puck. My focus, my drive, an instinctual force I sense even when I lose visual. She braces in front of me, and I’m back on the ice, locked in on a breakaway heading toward me at full speed. I read her every movement, feel what I can’t see.

“I want to meet her.”

She stiffens. “Who?”

“No One. The girl in the mirror. I want to meet her.”

She shakes her head. “She doesn’t exist. That’s the point.”

“She does. That’s the point.”

“Get out, Oliver.”

“No.”

“Get out!”

“I don’t run from a fight.”

“Don’t make me call security!” She picks up her phone, and I stare at her trembling hand. Her finger rests on a button, her eyes saturated with fear and pain. My stomach clenches as I study her. I don’t run from a fight, but I also don’t leave women scared and shaking in their own bedrooms. I