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

  This novel is a work of fiction and intended for mature readers. Events and persons depicted are of a fictional nature and use language, make choices, and face situations inappropriate for younger readers.

  Names, characters, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover Design: Maria @ Steamy Designs

  Cover Image: Wander Aguiar

  Cover Model: Evan Keys and Zack Salaun

  BREAKING SOUTH: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel

  Copyright © 2020 Alyson Santos

  All Rights Reserved

  BREAKING SOUTH CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  EPILOGUE

  MORE FROM ALYSON

  Excerpt from NIGHT SHIFTS BLACK

  STAY IN TOUCH

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Pour Jean-Philippe and Geneviève Mercier:

  C'était ton livre depuis le premier souper de crevettes toutes brûlées.

  CHAPTER 1

  She stares at No One in the mirror.

  No One laughs like her

  No One cries like her

  No One smiles, lies, or hides like her.

  No One believes like her.

  No One breathes like her.

  No One’s heart beats and bleeds like hers

  No One sees like her

  No One loves like her

  But no one does these anymore…

  GENEVIEVE

  Mirrors.

  They should be a refuge for a pop princess. Icons should love gazing at their own magnificence. Heaven knows the world believes Genevieve Fox does little else. Too bad that’s not even my real name.

  Hadley still hasn’t returned to the dressing room with my lunch and the schedule for today’s events. Normally, I’d welcome the rare solitude, but today feels different. Today my foreign reflection isn’t equipped for this afternoon’s charitable rendezvous—highly-publicized charity, of course. After all, it’s not every day a terminally ill child gets to meet a pop icon and a professional hockey player in the same breath… although it happens more often than you’d think when you’re the pop fairy granting wishes.

  I call these types of outings The Goodwill Shows—not to be confused with The Glamour Shows, The Publicity Shows, The Freak Shows, The Peep Shows, and of course, the actual show shows. My entire existence is a long-running performance fashioned solely for the consumption of others. Who is Genevieve Fox? Who isn’t she. Today she’s a nurturing philanthropist. Last night she was a cable TV sex goddess. Tomorrow… I need my assistant’s schedule for that.

  “Sorry it took so long. The lineup at the coffee shop was insane,” Hadley says, breezing past my security with a cup carrier and salad. “Your lunch, milady.” She hands me my royal kale mix with a slight bow, and I roll my eyes at my oldest (only?) friend. “Also, your parents called. They’re here and want to know if they should come back now or if you’ll meet them afterward.”

  “Thanks. I’m so hungry.” Well, I was. My stomach cramps with a different kind of pain at the thought of suffering through a meeting with my mom and dad right now. “After, and not on site. See if we can do an early dinner or something.”

  “They won’t like that. You pushed them off yesterday too.” She shrinks and lifts her hands at my glare. “Just saying.”

  “Their request has been logged. So what’s the plan for this thing?”

  “Let me grab the schedule.”

  Hadley pulls out her phone, while I crack open the salad container. Other than a fruit cup and yogurt, I haven’t eaten all day. We just flew into L.A. this morning after last night’s taping in New York, and the car took us straight from the airport to the L.A. Trojans training facility for today’s Goodwill Show. Oddly enough, this is my first time in a professional hockey team’s training center. I’ve performed in hockey arenas around the world, but never a practice facility. I’m sure my standard hockey-fan persona will work just fine for this. It’s one of the few personas that’s real. I even commissioned a custom Trojans crop top for the event. Go Trojans.

  “Okay, looks like you have about an hour until we need to be on the ice for the meet-and-greet. There will be five children total, and you will address each one first… wait, no… hang on.” She skims the screen while I chew my kale like a champ. “Sorry, you’re second. The hockey player is first, then you. You each give the kid a hug or whatever, maybe say a few words. They’re looking for about a minute max per kid. Then you all line up for the money shots and that’s it.”

  “Any gifts?” I ask through a mouthful of food. There’s no time for demure when cameras aren’t rolling. Stuff has to get done sometime.

  “Hmm… good question. I don’t see anything. The hockey player is presenting a personalized jersey, but there are no notes for you. Let me check on that.”

  The Hockey Player. I smirk at the generic title. Swap it out for anything and you have the same event. The Hospital Director. The Group Home Manager. The Game Warden, Prison Warden, Building Warden. Hadley doesn’t even bother with names anymore. Pretty sure she has a template she uses for each of these affairs. Insert co-host here. Insert gift here. Insert schmooze time here. Cameras, cameras, cameras… and out.

  But, yeah, this one feels different. Today feels different.

  I woke up with my chest constricted, my mind chaotic from the rush of something heavy and dark. Stress, maybe. But every second of every day has been stress since I was old enough to be paraded in front of cameras. No, this is worse. It’s sinister. A shadow that made my few seconds in front of the mirror just now unbearable.

  “You okay?” Hadley asks.

  I blink over at her, realizing I missed the last few things she’d said. “Oh, yeah. Fine.”

  Her eyes change as she studies me, and I look away. No time to explain the unexplainable. I hate mirrors now, Hadley. Fix that.

  “Who’s The Hockey Player anyway?” I ask by way of a distraction. Maybe I’m kind of curious too. Growing up in L.A., I’ve been a Trojans fan most of my life.

  “Oh. Um…” She checks her notes. “Oliver Levesque.”

  The injured goalie? Hmm. I suppose he’s still a big name with the savior-of-the-franchise phenom status bestowed upon him in his rookie season last year. But that was before The Hit Heard Around the NHL. There’s talk he’ll be out this entire season with a vicious ACL tear.

  “Levesque? Isn’t he on injured reserve right now?”

  Hadley returns a dry look. “Uh, what’s injured reserve? Also, what’s hockey?”

  “Right, sorry. Not your thing,” I say with a smile. “I just mean… Well, maybe that makes sense. His schedule is probably pretty clear at the moment.” Playoff hero to team PR whore? He can’t be happy about that.

  Hadley’s face scrunches into a mix of admiration and disgust. “It’s adorable how much you know about hockey.”

  “It’s criminal how much you don�
��t.”

  “Perfect complements we are. It’s what makes us such a great team.”

  I return her smile, but the mood settles again as she gets lost in her work and I get lost in my head. Because once it’s silent… there’s that horrible mirror again. I hear it shouting from across the room, reaching out invisible tentacles to reel me in. It wants me to look, always looking but never finding. Always seeing but never understanding.

  She stares at no one.

  And suddenly, I can’t breathe. This room is too big and too small and too bright and just too freaking much right now.

  “Hey, so, I’m gonna take a walk before showtime. Clear my head. We have a few minutes, right?”

  Hadley glances up, concern etched into her face. She nods slowly, her gaze locked on me. “You sure you’re okay?”

  I force a smile—my killer, show-stopping one—and close the container of half-eaten salad. “Absolutely. Just, you know, with the pace lately, I need a minute. I’ll be back in time for touch-ups before we go out.”

  “You want company?”

  “No, I’ll be fine. You have a lot to do. In fact, keep them also.” I motion toward Brett and Walt stationed at the entrance.

  “They won’t like you wandering around alone.”

  I smirk and push to my feet. “Yes, well, they do like what I pay them, so they can suck it up.”

  Once I escape that stifling mirror, the air comes a little easier. The practice building is smaller than the cavernous arenas I’m accustomed to, more laidback and intimate with its carpeted hallways and team memorabilia lining the walls. Best part, with the Trojans out of town on an East Coast road trip, this place is a ghost village except for the occasional maintenance worker or member of my crew. I’m sure the main rink area is packed with press and guests, but back here, I’m free to be no one. Gosh, I just want to be no one for a while.

  I run my fingers along the wall as I wander the corridors like a new Disney princess in her first castle. If I started singing, would a handful of creepy talking rodents assemble? Maybe those annoyingly happy birds. See, no one talks about the excrement those rats and birds would leave behind. Still, I’ll take a fake castle over a real one any day. The deserted conference room could be my pretend dining hall. The training rooms, my royal spa. Oh, and the weight room—

  “Fuck!”

  I stop cold at the cry—very close, very male, and very violent. Peeking through the wall of glass to the team gym, I find two men glaring intently at each other.

  “Ollie, you need to stop for today.”

  “I can do it!”

  “I’m serious, man. You’ve been at it since the crack of dawn and—”

  “I can fucking do it, Carlos!”

  The older man grunts and steps back as the younger one lifts his right leg to balance on his left. He lowers about an inch, holding the position for a split second before buckling. Carlos lurches forward to catch him before he hits the ground. A long string of French expletives rushes from his lips as his trainer helps him to a nearby weight bench. I don’t speak French, but I’m fluent in frustration.

  The player shoves his hands in his hair, pulling hard while the older man looks on with a mixture of sympathy and severity.

  “You’re pushing too hard, Oliver. You have to follow the protocol.”

  “I know.” Oliver doesn’t look up, his fingers gripping harder in his medium-length brown locks.

  “Look, I get how difficult this is, but it’s imperative that we not rush this.”

  “I know.”

  “There’s a reason for the protocol. If you push too hard, you’ll re-injure—”

  “I fucking know, okay?” he snaps, blasting a glare at the trainer. His dark eyes flare with anger. Pain. Frustration. Failure. I bet he despises mirrors right now as well.

  He releases a heavy sigh and shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I just…”

  Carlos’ expression softens as he clasps Oliver’s shoulder. “It’s hell, man. I know it is, but you’re gonna get through it. We’re getting you back on the ice, got it?”

  Oliver returns a weak nod that tugs at something inside me. In fact, my entire stomach feels clenched in one giant knot.

  “Okay, well you have about a half hour to get ready for that meet-and-greet. Grab a shower and clear your head. You did good today.”

  Oliver huffs a dry laugh as the trainer moves toward the exit. I’m far enough from the door that the man doesn’t see me when he takes off in the other direction. Oliver clearly doesn’t know he has an audience either when he swats at his eyes. Tears of pain or anger, I don’t know, but they only last a second. Cursing again, he pushes himself to his feet and rips off his sweat-soaked shirt to wipe his face.

  Maybe I’m a creeper, but the fires of hell couldn’t chase me from this view. My life revolves around beautiful people and beautiful bodies, but there’s something about this man’s raw power combined with the raw pain on his face that takes my breath away. Every muscle in his form is trained to its flawless peak, and yet physical perfection can’t overcome the one weakness that’s knocked him down. A few tattoos litter his skin and burn more questions into my inquisitive brain. Why the desolate tree on his ribs? The weathered guitar on his shoulder? The script emblazoned over his heart? There’s more on his right arm but he turns too quickly for me to interpret them. All I see now is a broad, sculpted back clearly unaccustomed to weakness. I shudder at the contrast of what those shoulders should do and can’t. Yes, Oliver Levesque is an astonishing human specimen, a gladiator, a god—and young. Gosh, so young, like me, but with that same ancient soul that lives a much older existence. Is he alone on a distant plane as well? What happens when you live for a game that’s moved on without you?

  I see all of that when he faces the window to the hallway again, his harsh reality fully on display now that he thinks no one’s watching. He takes a tentative step, grimacing in a way he wasn’t a moment ago in the show for his trainer. The mask. The lie. The story that everything’s fine when inside it’s an exploding nightmare thrashing to come out. But it won’t. It can’t when you’re the hopes and dreams of everyone else. When you’re Genevieve Fox.

  I watch the young hockey player limp across the weight room toward the showers.

  And maybe when you’re Oliver Levesque.

  Oliver is a different man when he joins us in the conference room twenty minutes later. Still smelling strongly of shampoo and bodywash, he’s obviously cleansed himself of any visible demons as well. The ends of his wet hair curl around a backwards Trojans ball cap, and a Trojans tee stretches over his broad shoulders, hinting at the power beneath. His smile is wide and contagious. Dark eyes that blistered with pain just minutes ago now glow with a warmth that has me wondering if I misinterpreted that entire scene in the weight room. Have I met someone who plays the game as well as I do?

  “It’s so strange to be in this room without Coach yelling at me,” he says, eyes bright with humor. Everyone laughs, quickly falling under his spell. Can’t really blame them. Even I’m cracking a real smile through my polished lips. “Genevieve, it’s so nice to meet you.” His Quebec accent stirs my blood, sending my thoughts back to an expletive-laced stream of frustration. Dimensions—complicated is my kryptonite. And his eyes. Up close, a girl doesn’t stand a chance against those dark thick lashes and hint of laid-back amusement. A small dimple appears in his left cheek when he smiles, and his brows are so perfect they almost look sculpted. His whole face really, but there’s no way the man I saw in the weight room gives a second thought to his appearance. In my refined and polished world, Oliver’s effortless appeal might be the most infectious thing about him. He walked out of the shower like this; my routine takes an entire morning.

  I take his hand, returning my own well-trained smile.

  “Great to meet you as well,” I say, lifting my gaze to his. He’s a good foot taller, so it’s no easy feat.

  Our fingers linger in a strange connection, and our smiles falter for
the briefest of seconds. He lets go first, tucking his hands in the back pockets of his jeans.

  “It’s so nice of you to visit us here. I’m sure you’re very busy,” he says. I try not to notice how his t-shirt stretches over his chest when he stands in that position, again highlighting the toned body beneath it.

  “It’s my pleasure. I’m just glad you’re not getting yelled at for once,” I tease. Tease? I did, didn’t I. Well, that’s a first.

  His return laugh coaxes my smile into genuine.

  Our eyes remain locked in that same strange bond, a spark shooting through me as he searches. What is wrong with me? I glimpsed his secret and now I want more. Professional curiosity, that’s what it is. Must be. A desire to pick his brain about how he survives the endless glare of a lying spotlight. No, my hungry gaze has nothing to do with the way he’s staring into me now. Like maybe I’m a puzzle he wants to solve as well. I’m used to being looked at, but not in.

  I clear my throat and tear my gaze away. Hadley’s waiting with a pensive expression when I focus on her, and I shudder at how well she reads me. The Trojan’s community relations director calls us to attention to review the plan, and I do my best to avoid Oliver’s dangerous gaze for the rest of the meeting. Focus, that’s what I need right now. Heaven knows my brain is already filled to capacity with distractions.

  But there’s no avoiding his presence throughout the rest of the meeting. He’s a force I feel even when I’m not looking… all because I saw something I wasn’t supposed to.

  On the ice, equilibrium returns. I’m much more confident once cameras are flashing and a fixed smile is enough to satisfy those around me. That’s all anyone wants from me anyway. A moment. A speck of time they can display as a trophy in their real lives to their real friends. Me, I’m an accessory. A commodity who grins and waves and flashes green eyes no one knows reflect bits of brown in the sun.

  “No way! You have three hamsters?”