“What did she say?” Genevieve’s voice is so faint, so desperate for answers.
“She said, ‘you’re not a hockey player, Oliver. You’re my brother. And you don’t need a good knee to be my brother.’” I clear my throat and brace for the fight. My knee. Her soul. It’s all the same battle isn’t it? A fight for color beyond what we can see in the dark. “You’re not a popstar, Genevieve. You’re my friend. And you don’t need to be anything to be my friend.”
CHAPTER 4
Hello, friend. How I’ve missed
Your honest echo I hold so dear.
Hello, foe. How I resist
Your graceless way of drawing fear.
Hello, demon. Glad I’ve found you.
The angel takes my breath away.
She pretends, while you’re hell-bent on preserving true decay.
GENEVIEVE
I’m already counting the seconds until I can see Oliver again. I hated when he left yesterday but we both have demanding lives that are currently unsynchronized. We also never had sex. He didn’t even kiss me, though he clearly wanted to. There were times it seemed to physically pain him not to give in, but for some reason he fought our powerful attraction. I don’t know why because I would have moved heaven and earth for a taste of him, and I’m pretty sure he knew it. Even now, I burn at the memory of his hard body against me. The heat of him—his scent, virile and clean, still lingering in the recesses of my awareness. It was so bad, I had to take care of “urges” after he left, all while picturing him doing the same. When that wasn’t enough, I picked up my guitar for the first time in a while.
True to his word, Oliver didn’t play games either. I woke up to a text this morning, direct and sweet: Had a great time. Hope to see you again soon.
Me too *heart*, I typed back immediately. Wish it was today. Wish you were here now, I could have added but didn’t.
“Must’ve gone well with Oliver,” Hadley says, hanging the Balotelli gown she picked up on the rack outside my walk-in closet.
“How can you tell?”
“Uh, you’re smiling.”
I squint over at her, testing the sensation on my lips. It does feel strange. Like my lips are, in fact, in an upright and locked position. Huh. Interesting.
“Ugh. He’s so hot too,” she continues. “Why didn’t you say that’s what hockey players look like? I totally get it now. Please tell me how he looks naked. You don’t pay me enough to withhold details like that.”
I snort a laugh and pull on a hoodie. I’ll change into my opening outfit at the venue. Might as well be comfortable until then. “Well. I. Wouldn’t. Know,” I say in a light tone. “I didn’t see him naked.”
She blinks in surprise, cocking a hand on her hip. “How? I mean… you two practically disintegrated that arena with your sparks.”
I shrug and grab the cappuccino she left for me on the vanity. “He just wanted to talk.”
“He wanted to talk? Oliver Levesque, a professional athlete, wanted to talk?”
I shrug again. “He also wants to see me again.”
She lifts a brow. “To talk some more?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. It was nice,” I say softly. Her eyes change as she studies me, warming from gossip to compassion.
“Okay. So when are you seeing him again?”
“I don’t know. When can I?”
She gives me a snarky look in exchange for my snarky question and pulls up the schedule. A chill rushes through me when her face falls. “Crap. Um…”
And there goes the smile on my face. The color around me.
“You know what? Let me see if I can move that interview with Songset Magazine. We can’t change the shoot, but if we switch the interview to phone, you can take that on the drive back which would give you two hours between the shoot and your meeting with White Flame.”
“Two hours?” My voice cracks on those dismal words.
“Well, an hour and a half,” she says dimly. “We’d need a half hour to get to the meeting.”
Air. Gosh, I hate air and its ever-present control over my existence. A minute ago there was plenty. Now? “What are the exact times I’m free?”
“One-thirty to three on Wednesday.”
I swallow a foul-tasting knot in my throat. “That’s four days from now. There’s nothing else before then? Nothing?”
She shakes her head, and her apologetic look doesn’t ease the sudden pain in my chest.
“Change the interview. I’ll check with Oliver.”
I wait on the platform, fists flexing in time to the count in my in-ear monitors. The sequined jumpsuit itches like crazy, but I ignore it in favor of reviewing the opening sequence. Riser up, stalk forward and down the LED-lined staircase, choreographed solo dance routine to an extended track-only intro of “Boy Crazy,” live band in with dancers to my right and left silhouetted behind a screen. Full four-count of a blackout and…
Magic.
Tonight’s show is sold out, like every show for the last three years. Thirty-thousand people here to see me, Genevieve Fox, do what she was literally born to do. I don’t blame them. I’m good at this. It’s not arrogance, just a fact resulting from being raised on a stage and in the glow of a spotlight since I was an infant. In many ways, I grew up with these strangers. I’m a distant relative they feel like they know, even though we’ve never met and I’m only a conception in their minds.
I test a smile on my face, widening my grin to loosen stiff facial muscles. With all the makeup, my skin feels like plaster. The platform jerks to life, and I steady against the movement, balancing expertly on high heels I’ve been wearing for years. My mini-shorts jumpsuit feels welded to my body as I position each limb and muscle into its carefully choreographed place.
“Intro-two-three-four,” a programmed voice warns in my ear.
The riser clicks into place at the top of the elaborate staircase set piece, and I stalk forward to
