Falling North: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 2)

by Alyson Santos

  I nod, fixing my gaze on the familiar face. Suddenly, Deb shrieks and jumps up from her chair. She circles around with arms outstretched.

  “Oh my goodness! My goodness! Look at you! You’re…” She squeezes me and steps back to scan me slowly. “You were this big the last time I saw you.” Her hand hovers around her waist, which I find hard to believe, but still. Feels good to be remembered. “And my, aren’t you a looker. I bet the boys are lining up for a chance to take you out.”

  I laugh. “It’s good to see you, Deb. It has been a while. Is my father available?”

  “He’s finishing up a call, but I’ll let him know you’re here as soon as he’s off. How ‘bout that? And those shoes! Oh my goodness, my goodness. Why are you so gorgeous? I can’t stand it.” She presses a fist to her mouth, shaking her head.

  “Thanks. You look great as well,” I say with a grin.

  “Oh please. I look like an old lady.” She squeezes my arm before bustling back to her desk. Deb has worked with Dad for as long as I can remember. When he was a junior V.P. she was there. Senior V.P., Executive V.P., all the way up through the ranks until they reached the corner office of the top floor. Now she’s the executive assistant to the C.E.O. of White Flame Records—and still quite possibly the most positive, upbeat person I’ve ever known. I wonder if she still keeps a bowl of those peppermints on her desk.

  I search the area for a sign and find the container near her computer monitor. She lifts it toward me while tucking the phone between her shoulder and ear. “He’s off,” she mouths to me, then into the receiver. “Mr. Carmichael, Lydia is here to see you.”

  She hangs up and motions toward the door behind her. “Go ahead in. He’s ready for you.”

  “Great. Thanks again, Deb. So good to see you.”

  “You too, hun. Don’t stay away so long next time!”

  “I won’t.” Maybe. We’ll see what happens next.

  I pull in a deep breath and push into my father’s office.

  The distinguished businessman rising from his desk looks like the man I remember from Easter dinner, but something feels different. Maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s my half of the handshake that grips a little harder, holds on a little longer. His eyes soften as they search mine during the exchange.

  “It’s good to see you, Lydia. I mean it. Thanks for coming in.”

  “Of course. Sorry if I’m interrupting something.”

  “You could never interrupt.”

  Surprised, I stare at him, trying to read his expression. He didn’t get to this position without the ability to project what he wants others to see. I never felt like I could totally trust his demeanor, and maybe this moment is no different. Is he wearing the face of a pleased father or preparing me for something else? And then I see it. All of it. An entire shelf, and genuine emotion wells in my chest.

  I cross his office to the bookshelf near his desk and study the collection of photos and mementos lining the main level. There I am as a little girl, dressed in rags for my starring role as Annie in the fifth-grade play. There I am in a too-big navy power suit, holding up a trophy as a high-school junior after winning the district debate championship. There I am, times three, in a tri-fold collection of caps and gowns, high school, college, and graduate school. I blink back tears when I pick up a framed article announcing my employment with the Ross Agency in an interview I did for an industry publication. I didn’t even know there were print versions in existence—I’d only seen the online article. Did he track this down just to have a copy to display?

  “I didn’t know you had all this stuff,” I say softly. A shiny object catches my eye, and I lift the display box from the shelf. Oh my god. Tears spring to my eyes as I turn to him. “You kept these?”

  He smiles, the hard lines of his face softening into warmth I finally believe. “Of course I kept them.”

  I stare down in shock at the stupid collection of souvenir pennies. I’d gathered them from around the country during a road trip after my high school graduation. Dad and I had fought for months about my planned adventure with my two best friends. He thought it was a waste of a perfectly good opportunity for a summer internship and early college credits. I insisted I was an adult and had the right to do one reckless thing before I submitted to a lifetime of nine-to-fives and 401k’s.

  Dad never officially gave his blessing, and I’d rolled out of the driveway with a mixed feeling of rebellion and excitement. I started collecting the pennies as a way to mock him in the beginning, choosing the cheesiest means of documenting each tourist trap on our journey. I’d stick the penny in the machine, snickering at the thought of a man in a five thousand dollar suit holding a smashed penny with a lame image on it. By the middle though, it was fun trying to find one of those machines everywhere we went. By the end, I was pretty freaking proud of my hoard of twenty-three milestone moments. I almost kept them when I got back, certain he’d just toss them in the trash as soon as I left the room.

  But he didn’t. He bought a display case, took them into work, and gave them a permanent home in a place of honor. Maybe he’s been staring at them, dusting them off, and explaining the story of his daughter’s adventure to people for eight years.

  “I— I can’t believe you kept these. I thought…” I shake my head, placing them back on the shelf with reverence.

  “You thought what?”

  “I thought you hated me for going on that trip.”

  “Hated you?” He sounds genuinely surprised, and I glance up when he moves beside me. “Lydia, I was so proud of you.”

  Hot liquid rushes my lids again, and I swipe at it. “Proud? But we argued for months. You didn’t want me to go.”

  “No. But you did, and you held your ground for something you believed in, even under tremendous pressure. And then you followed through. Not only did you accomplish everything you set out to do, you had the balls to rub it in my face when you got back with these silly pennies.” He laughs and runs his fingers over the display case. “I’d never been so damn proud in my life. I felt like I’d done something right if that was the woman I’d raised.”

  Emotion lodges in my throat as I stare up at the stranger beside me. This man I feared. This man who always seemed so cool and untouchable. This entire time he’d been using his edge to carve a badass warrior who would shove pennies in his face? I’m not sure I love his technique, but I love that in some twisted way he was doing his best.

  “And look at you now. A marketing director at The Ross Agency. Youngest director they’ve ever had, and you did that all on your own. I could have given you a ticket on any train you wanted, but you chose to walk. I’m so damn proud of you, Lydia.”

  I have no words, nothing, as twenty-six years comes rushing back beneath an entirely new filter. So no words, but I do have two arms and a father I didn’t realize I had until this moment—until I had the courage to search for him. He pulls in a quick breath when I tuck my arms around him. Then he lifts his own arms around me. We stand like that for a while. Me, resting my cheek against a suit shoulder worth more than my entire wardrobe. Him, rubbing awkward circles he doesn’t quite understand.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you think otherwise. I just didn’t want you to be spoiled or feel like your accomplishments weren’t your own.”

  I nod against his shoulder and work to pull myself together. “Thanks, Dad.”

  He’s smiling when I finally let go and glance up at him.

  “Well, how about we order some food and catch up? I heard a rumor you’re working with one of my artists. I’d love to hear more about that.”

  CHAPTER 13

  XANDER

  I call it “the hangover.” Maybe that’s even the official name for the dull ache, soreness, and exhaustion that follows my brain explosions, but mine seem special with their added guilt and emotional distress. Today’s is a hundred times worse than normal thanks to the humiliation of how this one went down last night.

  “I put the pills on your ni
ghtstand with water,” Matty says from his bed. He’s propped up and doing something on his tablet. How long has he been awake? “Also, Kate wants to drop off food so you can rest as long as possible before tonight’s show. What do you want?”

  “Thanks.”

  I brace myself for the light and turn on the dim lamp beside the bed. Squinting against what seems like the freaking sun, I fumble for the headache pills. Those little beasts do nothing for the sledgehammer terrorizing my brain in the main stage of the attacks, but knock out the aftershocks pretty well. I have prescription meds, but honestly, they don’t do much more than the over-the-counter stuff, and when you’re puking your guts out, any pill is kind of pointless. Really, I should be checking in with the neurologist again. It’s expensive, though, and a hassle, and I don’t get the hemiplegic ones that often.

  “Food, man. What are you eating?”

  I glance over at my brother. Food. I should be hungry, but anxiety swirls in my stomach. “Maybe some toast.”

  He gives me a skeptical look and picks up his phone. “Toast,” he echoes dryly, typing with dramatic strokes. “Will you be requiring any condiments for your toast. Butter, perhaps? A dab of jam?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you moonlighted as a judgmental dietician.”

  “Only when it involves my brother not eating shit for two days. Don’t even think about the gym today, sir.”

  I roll my eyes, regretting the action immediately. “I’ll start with a shower and see where it goes from there.”

  Shifting my legs off the bed, I balance on the edge to let my head adjust. My phone lights up on the nightstand, and I look over to see it flash with a text from Lydia. Shit. There’s the guilt again. My gaze drifts to the area in front of the window where her silhouette still lingers in my mind. The skin of my lower back burns where she teased it; my dick recalls every detail of her hips. Blood stirs again, pounding at the raw arteries lining my skull, and I close my eyes to catch my breath.

  “You okay, bro?”

  I can’t look at him as I say yes.

  “It’s so weird that you got one of those fuckers out of nowhere. Usually, it’s only when things are crazy, right?” His voice sounds strange. Overly bright and inquisitive. Is he concerned or probing? “Good thing Lydia was here when it hit.”

  Probing. Fuck.

  “We were having a meeting.”

  “Yeah? About what?”

  “She’d posted stuff from our Pittsburgh show and it was doing really well. She wanted to show me the data and talk about the follow-up plan.”

  “Gotcha. All that marketing stuff she cooks up. Who knew there was so much, right?” He clears his throat and scoots off his bed. “Okay, well, you may be on bedrest today, but I have shit to do.”

  Despite the tension in the room, I can’t help but crack a smile. “You? What shit could you have to do?”

  He shrugs with a smile of his own. “Hey, one of us has to work around here. We got bills, kid.”

  I cringe through a chuckle which only makes his grin widen.

  “You’re gonna have a blast with that kit tonight, huh?” he teases.

  “Yeah. It’ll be great,” I mutter, swallowing a dose of migraine medicine.

  “Well, hey. I’m just glad you’re back up. I’ll take you at sixty percent over a track any day.”

  “Thanks, man, but I’ll be giving you guys at least sixty-one.”

  He smirks as he pulls on his sneakers. “Seriously, dude. Take it easy today. We need you.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  He nods and moves toward the door.

  “Matty, wait.”

  Turning back, he stills as I gather my words. “Just… thanks for taking care of me last night. I’m sorry for ruining your day out with the guys. I know you were looking forward to seeing Andy and Britt too while we’re in town.”

  His brows crease as he studies me. “Dude, don’t ever thank me for taking care of you. It’s what we do. Irmãos para sempre.”

  I smile, warming at the familiar phrase we’ve repeated to each other since that first night on a cold New Jersey apartment floor. “Irmãos para sempre,” I echo.

  With a last nod, he turns and disappears from the room.

  Irmãos para sempre.

  Brothers forever.

  I brave the text from Lydia on my way to the bathroom. The fact that it could be anything from “I hate you” to “I love you” to “How are you?” to “Please check your e-mail for a briefing on the new hashtag we’re rolling out” makes every message from her a mental marathon. Between what Lydia does to my body and soul, and the emotional violence inflicted by my mother, it’s no wonder my head got ripped apart last night. The fact that I had to keep all of it from Matty now threatens a reprise. I practically lied to his face just now. Not the first time I’ve lied to him, but the first time I did so for partly selfish reasons.

  I rub my temples as I shuffle onto the floor and breathe out a mixture of relief and disappointment when I open Lydia’s message.

  How are you feeling?

  Better. I can play tonight, I type back, pretending that’s the reason for her inquiry. Professional. Maybe this brain explosion was a fortuitous development after all. A literal sign that we’re being careless and stupid and need to step back before we explode something irreparable.

  I’m happy to hear that.

  I study her response, itching to reply and take it deeper. I almost laugh that our piercing intimacy last night has led to the most banal of all conversations this morning. Banal. I grunt at my own pretentious word choice while brushing my teeth. Overwrought language can only mean one thing: a song is forming deep in the recesses of my brain.

  I jump in the shower, hoping the steady stream will nurture that seed or bury it. There’s nothing worse than being haunted by a prickly hint of art I can’t touch. After a few minutes without further inspiration, I have no choice but to slam the cell door shut, along with all the others that have crept open over the last twenty-four hours.

  I’ve just finished rinsing off in the shower when a knock on the door indicates room service has arrived with my toast. My stomach rumbles at the thought, and yeah, maybe Matty was right. It’s technically been over a day since I’ve eaten and longer since there’s been food in my system that stayed there. I grip a towel around my waist as I pull open the door to accept the delivery.

  Shit.

  “Lydia?”

  Her eyes widen in shock before her cheeks flush into an adorable shade of pink. “Hi. Um. Here.” She shoves a small paper bag at me, averting her gaze. “Kate had to run out and asked me to deliver this to you. I mean… yeah, that’s it.” She turns abruptly to leave, still clutching the bag.

  “You’re welcome to eat it, but then, you probably could have saved yourself a trip.”

  Her blush deepens when she realizes what she did, and she shoots her arm behind her without turning around. “Right. Sorry. Here.”

  I take the bag, trying not to smile. I know. This is bad, but it’s still hilarious.

  “You’re looking better,” she says, which is even funnier considering she’s doing everything she can not to look at me.

  “Because I’m on my feet and not puking my guts out? Yeah, I’m an Olympian right now.”

  “Those migraines are pretty effed up.”

  “They’ve made my last few years interesting, that’s for sure.”

  “You get them a lot?”

  “No. Just every few months. I’ll be good for a while—you probably won’t have to witness another one.”

  Her gaze finally drifts to mine, probably to check if I’m joking. I’m not even sure if I am, so I doubt she can tell.

  “I saw my dad last night, while you were… sick. When you’re, um, not naked we should talk.”

  I study her, still amused, but now I’m looking for clues about the new topic. I don’t know a lot about her family, but she’s mentioned they weren’t close. Plus… Stocker Carmichael? Any White Fl
ame artist would shudder at the name.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah, actually. More than okay.” Her lips turn up in a smile that has my body reacting on instinct. I adjust the towel to hide the evidence, and her gaze drops to the movement. My pulse picks up when her teeth sink into her lower lip.

  “Okay… so… later, maybe.” She points down the hall. “I should go. Just wanted to give you… that.” Clapping her hands together, she turns on her heel and starts an exaggerated march down the corridor. I watch her go, still grinning as she rounds the corner and disappears.

  After what happened last night, her seeing me practically naked is probably the worst thing that could have happened this morning. And yet, her reaction was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

  I see you’re in town.

  My back straightens at the message from the now familiar number. I glance around the empty bus, half expecting Stacy Rogers to pop up from one of the doorways. Everyone else is at soundcheck, but I hung back to preserve what’s left of my head for the show. So much for that.

  What do you want? I type back. My phone rings a second later.

  “I’d love to see you, Alexandre. How about tickets?”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “Fine, then I’ll get them myself. I see they’re still available.”

  A cold wave of panic rushes through my limbs at the thought of Matty. “Stacy, please don’t.”

  “Stacy?”

  “Mom. Please.”

  “You hate me that much, Alexandre? Wow.”

  “I don’t hate you, just…” I do. I really do, but right now I only have one goal. I pull in a long breath to steady myself. “Look, I know you don’t really want to see us play. Let’s make this easier for both of us and just tell me what you want.”

  “You know what I want.”

  “I still don’t have money.”

  “What about signing stuff I can sell?”

  I swallow and close my eyes. “I doubt it would be worth anything. We’re not big names yet.”