Breaking South (Turner Artist Rocker #3) - Alyson Santos Page 0,70
always be babies to me. Dad died of a heart attack right before they were born, Thomas just a couple years later. In a weird way, I’ve always been the father figure in their lives.
She nods, biting back a smile. The phone angles away from her face and lands on a large sheet of paper. I startle a bit, choking back emotion at the image before me.
“I told you, Oli. You’re not just some famous athlete,” she says softly. “And you’re not a popstar’s boyfriend either. You’re our brother and you are everything to us.”
I suck in a breath at the rough image of me in a superhero cape, standing in front of our house with my fists on my hips. Mom and the others surround me, smaller in stature but clearly depicted with representative characteristics. Lea and her guitar. Zoe and her camera. Camille with her books, and Eric and Emma with the dog they forced Mom to get last year. I blink back tears at the two figures in the sky, smiling down at us. Dad and Thomas, alive enough in memory and love to be depicted by young minds who never even knew them.
“We need you, Oli. I need you,” Camille whispers. “You’re our world.”
I swat the tears from my cheeks, nodding my response as the words catch in my throat. “I know. I’m… Just having a hard time,” I choke out. “I wish you were here.”
Tears glisten in her eyes as she stares back at me. “I want to be. More than anything. I love you, big brother.”
“Love you too, little sis.”
She softens, studying me for a moment. “I have to go now. But, Oli?”
“Yeah?”
“I can’t wait to meet Genevieve one day. The girl you chose must be amazing. I really hope she appreciates what she has.”
I force a smile. “Thanks, Camille. I hope you get to meet her too.”
“Ollie?”
I gasp awake, groaning at the sharp pain in my back. Disoriented, I glance around, surprised at my strange surroundings. Am I in a stairwell? Wait, my stairwell? I push away from the wall and turn toward the voice, squinting up at the bright light streaming in from the open door above me.
“Shit, man,” Sandy mutters, lowering to where I’m wedged against the wall on the top step. He grips my arm, shoving his other under my shoulders to help me up. My sore muscles scream in agony as he tries to lift me from the floor. I do my best to help him, but my knee does me no favors after the long day of rehab, trauma of a fight, and punishment of my awkward position on the step.
“What time is it?” I mumble as we limp downstairs.
“One AM. When I never heard from you, I came to check and make sure you didn’t break a hole through my foundation or something. Didn’t expect this, though. Damn, kid. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”
I shake my head. “Genevieve,” I force out, but there’s no fire in my voice anymore. She’s gone. Wait. No. I hurt her. She doesn’t want me. Or. Was it all a dream?
“She’s fine, Ollie. I saw it on the news. Just a concussion and sprained ankle. She’s going to be okay.”
The air immediately lifts around me. “Thank god.” I can actually breathe again. My own body may not have fared as well, however, as we inch back down to my apartment.
“Damn it, kid. Why’d you have to fight me so hard?”
I shrug, but even that hurts. I suppress a groan with each step, refusing to let on how much I’m hurting. Sandy shakes his head as if he knows anyway.
“I’m messaging Carlos and telling him you’ll be late tomorrow. Let’s aim for an after-lunch session and keep it short. It’s Sunday anyway.”
“No,” I grunt as we finally reach the landing in my kitchen. “I need to train.”
“You need to fucking rest and get your head on straight. That’s what you need to do. Look, I get that you’re going through hell right now, but you can’t take your emotional shit out on your body, okay? Get some rest and deal with the breakup mess tomorrow.”
My gaze shoots to him in alarm. “The breakup mess?”
His eyes narrow at me. “Ah fuck. Did you hit your head too?”
I shake it and straighten, ignoring the stiffness in my body. “What mess? Wait, what breakup? What are you talking about?”