Though no one knows she
Rides beyond the phony
Tracks they only see”
A lead guitar joins with a riff just as my voice shifts from sultry to angry. I don’t remember the rasp in my tone from that night, but now that I hear it, I don’t want to sing another song without it.
“Cuz I’m no princess
And if you think I’ll miss this
Better get the message
I won’t
You can keep me on the guestlist
Cuz I’m about to mess with
The secrets you’ve been left with
Just broke”
With a dramatic drop, the music strips back to the understated drive of the opening verses, leaving my toes curled and my back strained forward with anticipation.
“Such a shame your endgames
Don’t concern me anymore
Yeah, see, I’ve heard heard heard it all before”
Break.
And then…
Manic.
“No, this damsel doesn’t need your confession
These cries aren’t desperate
Just more leverage
Against the broken ties
Of sheltered minds
Hypnotized eyes
Bleeding lies
That no longer shake me”
I’m practically screaming now. Xander must be getting the workout of his life with the violence he’s inflicting on his kit. Joel’s bassline continues to run rampant, the guitars wailing in protest at my deep-seated anger bursting into the light.
“Make me sing while
This castle wall is coming down
Around old fears
These tears are just the fucking years spent getting here.
Yeah, I’ll sing through the sting
Because nothing’s worth the time I’ve lost
In the thought
I can’t live without a throne.”
When the song ends, silence echoes through my studio. Only my labored breaths give any hint of the magic that just occurred. I did that? My words? My voice? My vision? The bridge, the chorus, the breakdowns and builds, all of it works together to tell my story in music. My evolution. My metamorphosis into something else. Well, not me—the new artist no one knows.
The girl in the mirror.
Stunned, I pick up my phone and snap a picture of my face. Pulling up the chat with Joel, I send the photo.
This is what I think, I type back, dragging a sleeve across my tear-soaked cheeks.
I listen to the song several more times and work out a schedule with Joel to finish it before finally braving the journey back to reality. Maybe I feel stronger than usual, bolstered by my morning with Oliver and artistic self-discovery. I probably should have read the slew of other messages I’d been ignoring, but couldn’t bring myself to ruin the bliss one second earlier than necessary.
Hadley hovers at the top of the stairs as if she’s been waiting for me, her expression severe and focused.
“It’s bad, huh,” I mutter, brushing past her toward the kitchen. She follows behind me, her laptop tucked under her arm.
When she doesn’t respond, I glance back and see her staring at her phone.
“Crap, your parents are on their way,” she says.
I groan and reach for a glass. “Tell them no.”
Her gaze shoots to mine. “Okay, but have you seen any of it?”
I try to swallow the chill that rushes through me at her grave question. “You mean, the internet gossip about last night? What else is new?”
She looks away, and my stomach twists with nausea. I fill my glass with water and take a long drink to soothe the ache.
“It’s…” she pulls in a deep breath and opens her laptop. “I have a conference call scheduled with Selena and Sam this evening after rehearsal.” She flips the screen around, and my heart stops.
“BACK IN ACTION?” reads the headline on a major gossip page.
“Injured goalie Oliver Levesque’s knee looked just fine as he made the rounds with pop sensation Genevieve Fox and socialite Regina Jeffries at The Six Stone Lounge. Sources say, while he started the evening with Ms. Jeffries, it was Ms. Fox who got cozy and took him home. Not bad for a hockey player who isn’t even on the ice. Does this mean Genevieve finally found a replacement for ex-fiancé Darryn Shields? Or has Levesque found a new game to play while stuck on injured reserve? You can bet we’ll be keeping a close eye on this shocking pairing.”
I stare at the photos for a long time. Grainy shots of Oliver and me rewrite our amazing night together with a bitter filter. We look so happy, so connected and free. It feels sinister now that they’ve stripped us down to blurb fodder. Sprinkled among our photos are images of Oliver and another woman. Whoever this Regina Jeffries is, I presume. She’s pressed against him, her lips at his ear while he appears to be concentrating on what she’s saying. He’s not smiling in any of the photos with her. Maybe one, but it’s hard to tell in the dim lighting. I’ll ask him about her, but I’ve had my words and actions twisted enough to know things are rarely what they seem.
“That’s the kindest of the articles,” Hadley says quietly.
“I guess we shouldn’t be surprised. It’s my first time being linked to anyone since Darryn. What are they saying?”
When she hesitates again, I give her a sharp look. “It’s better if you just tell me, Had. I need to be prepared when I see it for myself. It’s not like I haven’t gotten this stuff before.”
She clears her throat and pulls the laptop back to her. “I know. It’s just… it’s mostly aimed at Oliver not you. Is he used to this?”
Aimed at Oliver? My stomach drops. Why would they target him? I’m the bigger name, the bigger story. Wait, that’s exactly why it’s aimed at him. I make him the better story. I’ve publicly turned a saint into a sinner.
Hadley presents the screen again, and I drag in a heavy breath.
“PLAYER A PLAYER?”
“Must be nice to have time to play the field while your team gets clobbered on the ice. Although supposedly injured, hockey phenom Oliver Levesque was spotted ditching his team in favor of popstar Genevieve Fox at The Six Stone Lounge Thursday night. Interesting how a torn knee keeps him off the ice, but not off the dancefloor. Hard to blame him. We’d fake an injury for the chance to cuddle up with Genevieve Fox as well. Watch out, Gen. You might be the next to be played by this professional player.”
“Fake an injury?” I cry, slamming my fist on the island. “Does no one fact check anything anymore? And we weren’t dancing! We were just hugging each other.”
Hadley nods, her eyes narrowing in anger. “It’s total bull-crap. Another one said he dumped Regina for you, even though she’s pregnant with his baby, but most are along the lines of how irresponsible he is to be out partying when he’s supposedly injured and his team is struggling. Some are saying he must be faking the extent of the injury.”
Faking? Gosh, he’d do anything to be back on the ice.
“Oh please. He was sitting at a table drinking seltzer water the whole time. Besides, that’s not even how sports injuries work. And he was literally there with his teammates. They’re the ones who talked him into going.” I’d laugh if my stomach wasn’t so sick. The problem is, even the major news outlets have picked up the story of us together. There will be no hiding from this one. “Regina Jeffries? Do we even know who that is?”
Hadley shrugs. “Some heiress, I guess. Never heard of her before this.”
“I need to talk to Oliver.” I grab my phone from the island.
“Uh-oh. Your parents aren’t listening, Gen. They’re still coming. You want me to call security? Just make sure you’re ready for that bombshell if you officially block them.”
I release a long sigh and shake my head. “No. I’m going to have to face them eventually. Might as well be now.” I’m more concerned about Oliver anyway. Pulling up his number, I tap my fingers on the counter impatiently when the call goes
straight to voicemail. Crap. I leave a message, and then send a corresponding text to call me as soon as possible.
Shoving my phone down in disgust, I rest my elbows on the counter and bury my head in my hands. This is my fault. I warned him about the ugly, knowing full-well he wouldn’t run. I knew he’d take the pain. I’ve watched him battle through it since the first time I saw him, and I hoped he would handle mine. He’s a warrior, and I’m his cancer. A curse. I’m a caricature of a life I can’t live, a persona I can’t satisfy. The world wants the girl teetering on the edge of the summit, the girl who’s so far up she can only look down. Forget happiness and fulfillment. My identity has been formed by fear. Every choice, every move, every waking moment an exhausting effort to secure my footing on the slippery edge of a cloud, staring south at the distant ground. My entire existence is devoted to not falling.
Except, then came Oliver and the girl in the mirror he dragged to the light. Is she afraid of the fall? She’s a spark who thrives in the shadows. She can go into a studio with Joel and make art until four in the morning. She has drive and determination and purpose. Maybe, just maybe, she’s a glimpse of what I’ve been taught my whole life to fear.
“We’re going to figure this out, Gen,” Hadley says firmly. “We’ve got the best people already working on it, and if necessary, we can involve the label. Plus—”
She stops when I lift my head and meet her gaze directly. “I know,” I say in a steady tone. She searches my face in surprise, her expression changing from anxious to curious.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” She tilts her head, studying me. “You’re just… Taking this better than I thought? A couple weeks ago you seemed ready to break. I was so worried about you. Something like this could have crushed you. And now? I don’t know. You’ve been different lately.”
Different. There’s been no scarier word than different throughout the course of my life. Different is the enemy. Different is the first step over the cliff into death.
“And, Gen? Trust me. This time different is good.”
“I knew he was trouble from the moment I saw him!” my mother snaps, pounding the island. “As if it wasn’t bad enough he’s been planting all these crazy doubts in your head, now we find out he’s a fame whore?”
I almost choke on my water. Manic laughter bubbles in my throat. We’ve been at it for an hour, so it’s probably delirium as well, but come on. Oliver? A fame whore? This coming from the woman who lives for the spotlight. And that’s not even the most ridiculous thing she’s said since she and Dad invaded my house.
“He’s clearly using you, Genevieve,” she continues. “How can you not see that?”
“Using me for what?” I retort. Her eyes widen at my rare defense, but bravery is a virus, feeding on itself. Once the truth starts flowing, it’s hard to stop. “His life has just been blown up because of me. Yesterday he was the darling of the NHL. Today he’s—we don’t even know how bad it is yet. What’s he getting out of this?”
She tucks her hands on her hips. “Are you serious? Come now, Genevieve. You’ve always been a bit naïve but—”
“If I’m naïve it’s your fault, Mother!”
She gasps, but I don’t retract my statement.
“Do you know who taught me how to use a knife? Oliver. I can’t do anything normal twenty-two-year-olds can do thanks to you. Who gave me the strength to face the darkness that’s been drowning me? Oliver. Who helped me not be afraid of my own fucking reflection?!”
“Genevieve!”
“What?!” I scream back. “Don’t curse? Oh no. Someone might hear it and post a critique. Alert the press! Genevieve Fox used a naughty word! Guess what, Mom? Fuck! Shit! Fucking shit damn asshole! I know them all!” I wave my hand and lean back in challenge.
“Foul language is a sign of the unimaginative,” she huffs, crossing her arms.
“No. You know what’s a sign of the unimaginative? Singing someone else’s damn songs all the time. Performing the same safe drivel over and over again. Building an entire spectacle on a premise that doesn’t even exist because it sells and makes people believe in bullshit. Genevieve Fox is no one, Mom! She’s an artist’s rendition of a human you and the producers and labels invented. It just took me twenty-two years to figure it out!”
My mother staggers back, her hand to her chest as if I’ve struck her. An instinctive retraction rushes to my tongue, a path to smoothing things back to “normal.” But what is normal? Is normal the sliver of light I saw in that brief moment alone in my studio? The blast of color I experience when Oliver is around? No, normal is the absence of pain—and the absence of happiness that goes with it.
“Call White Flame,” I direct to Hadley, while still staring at my mother. “Tell them I’m not coming in for the rehearsal today.”
“What?!” Mom shrieks.
“Sweetie, think about this,” my father says gently, late (and useless) to the party as usual.
I tear my gaze from my parents to rest on Hadley who blinks back with a stunned expression. “Call them,” I repeat.
“Wha—what should I tell them?” she asks.
“Tell them I’m not feeling well.”
I’m not. I feel like shit, actually. I’m feeling like my entire life is a joke. That my world is collapsing around me and nothing makes sense anymore. I’m feeling like there’s no way in hell I can prance around to Julie Sanchez’ polished chart-topper and pretend it’s remotely as fulfilling as that sloppy rough mix of my own song.
“Genevieve, think about this,” Mom says in a low voice. I hear the brush of panic in her timber. She’s fighting so hard to keep it at bay. It’s the same knife’s edge I’ve been living on forever. “You’re making lasting decisions on a temporary emotion.”
“Am I?” I ask, meeting her gaze. “And how do you know that? How do you know the difference between lasting and temporary in my life? Call Devin,” I say to Hadley.
“Where are you going?”
“None of your business. Now that my afternoon is cleared, I have something I need to do.”
“Gen—”
“Stay here, or go home, Mom, but right now I’m busy. I’ll call you later.” I turn and march toward the back stairs.
“Genevieve! Gen! Get back here, young lady! We’re not finished!”
I don’t stop. Don’t even turn around.
The guard at the security gate gives me an apologetic look as he lowers the phone. “I’m sorry, Ms. Fox. Mr. Sanderson said Oliver isn’t home. I can’t let you through.”
I could laugh at the irony, but instead lean my forearm on the ledge of my open car window. The poor guy looks stricken about saying no to me. I kind of like that he did. Would even applaud him if I wasn’t so desperate. I’m just lucky Sanderson is at his house. I vaguely remembered the players discussing an off-day last night at the club, so I was hoping.
“Right. I know. Tell him I’m here to see him, not Oliver.”
The man nods and repeats my message into the phone. His relief at the response must mirror mine when he finishes the call and hangs up.
“Go ahead,” he says with a smile, and I nod my appreciation. “Oh! Ms. Fox,” he calls as I start raising my window. Devin presses the break, and I lean toward the guard. He hesitates, and I notice the way his fingers outline a notepad in his hands.
“Would you like an autograph?” I ask gently.
He looks both guilty and excited as he nods. “I’m sorry to ask. I never do this. Out of respect for our residents and their guests, of course. It’s just…”
“It’s fine,” I say, waving him off and reaching for the paper and pen.
“My daughter is a huge fan. You should see her going around the house dancing to your songs all the time. I’d never forgive myself for not asking.”
“What’s her name?” I ask with a smile.
“Katie.”
“With an I E?”
He nods, beaming as I scribble out a quick message and shove th
e notepad back at him. I would have done it anyway, but being on the good side of security at Oliver’s gated community can’t hurt. Especially in light of what’s about to go down as he learns the cost of being with me.
“Thank you so much, Ms. Fox.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, signaling Devin before we lose more time. My brain is spinning, my heart racing as we pull through the gate. We park at Raffie Sanderson’s house, and I ask Devin to wait for me. I don’t expect this to take very long. Heck, I might not even make it through the front door. I can’t imagine I’m the man’s favorite person right now.
Climbing the stairs, I wonder if this is how Oliver felt the first time he came to my estate. It’s more intimidating than I realized. I’ve never had stakes like this before. Pursuing something you want instead of something you already have drastically changes the game.
Raffie opens the door, scanning me before motioning me inside. Maybe he looks angry. It’s hard to read the tough defenseman who’s known for his merciless checks and fearless on-ice demeanor. He’s a tough opponent. I’ll have to tap the strength I didn’t know I had until I ended up on his doorstep.
“Thanks for seeing me,” I say as he leads me through the hall to the living room.
“I’ll admit I’m surprised to see you. A little curious. You want something to drink?” he asks as we pass the kitchen.
“No thank you. I don’t want to take up much of your time.”
“I’m surprised a busy celebrity like you has time for this.”
Breaking South: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 3) Page 13