The Truth About Lennon Read online

  The Truth About Lennon

  Copyright © 2017 by KL. Grayson

  ISBN: 978-0-9986253-0-0

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Cover photographer and Designer: Sara Eirew

  Editor: Jessica Royer Ocken

  KL Grayson Bio Pic Photographer: Elisabeth Wiseman Photography

  Formatting by Champagne Formats

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Other Books

  To Tom.

  It’s easy writing strong, sexy, sweet men when I have you as a husband. Every single day I thank God for bringing you into my life. You’re an amazing person, an even better father, and an extraordinary husband.

  “I am beautiful.” The narrator’s soft voice croons through the speakers.

  I cringe, but repeat the words. “I am beautiful.”

  Everyone has always told me how pretty I am. Gorgeous, stunning, breathtaking—all words used by my parents, friends, teachers, even strangers. But they see who I am on the outside.

  Daughter of acclaimed actress Renee Barrick and Vice Presidential candidate Christopher St. James.

  Socialite.

  Former child star.

  I despise who I am on the outside.

  Perfectly coiffed, manicured, waxed, and well-mannered, all wrapped up in one perfectly presentable package. Silky blond hair with big, beautiful beach waves—thank you kindly to my extensions—designer clothes, and lips that, according to my ex-bestie Lizzie, can bring grown men to their knees.

  And believe it or not, those are all things I hate about myself.

  Who gives a shit if I’m a size six or my hair has the perfect balayage? What about who I am on the inside? What about my kind heart and sympathetic soul? What about who I am when no one is looking? Don’t those things matter anymore? Today’s world is so consumed with beauty and the perfectly sculpted body that the really important things people have to offer go unnoticed.

  Such as kindness and compassion.

  “I am strong.”

  Glaring at the screen on the dash, I wrinkle my nose at the narrator. This one is a bit harder because I’m the opposite of strong.

  I’m weak—a puppet of sorts, conforming to what everyone else wants, occasionally forgetting that it’s okay to have an opinion. It’s okay to be…me.

  And the real me doesn’t want to be a trophy wife. Or a CPA. The real me wants to sew and design—to be free to do what I want without the fear of repercussions.

  That’s exactly why I moved here… Well, partly why I moved here, away from the hustle and bustle that was my life. Away from the proverbial hell and straight into Heaven.

  Heaven, Texas, that is.

  Population ten thousand five hundred seventy-one, and home of the thickest, saltiest air in the entire universe. Air that is no doubt doing a number on my overpriced extensions. Normally this would be a problem. Today it isn’t. Because today is my new normal. Today is about letting go, moving forward, and embracing me:

  Lennon St. James.

  Seamstress.

  Designer.

  Independent woman.

  See? I’ve got this in the bag.

  My parents think they’re making me lie low, stay out of the limelight, so to speak, after the media shitstorm my life inadvertently caused. Public embarrassment, that’s what my mother called it. Apparently I shamed my family, putting my father’s campaign at risk. In my defense, I was trying to help someone I thought was a friend. But whatever. My parents are doing me a favor. Little do they know they’re also giving me what I’ve been yearning for: the opportunity to finally get away from it all.

  The life.

  The city.

  Them.

  Squaring my shoulders, I take a deep breath. “I am strong.”

  “Very good,” the narrator says before the gentle music fades. There’s a click through my speakers, and a huskier voice says, “This is the end of session one.”

  I’m not typically one to listen to self-help programs. In fact, I’ve never listened to one until today, and it wasn’t really by choice. The people who rented this car before me must’ve left the CD in the player, and considering I’ve probably spent a whopping ten hours in the front seat of a car—ever—I can’t figure out how to take the darn thing out. So, I took it as a sign. A little self help never hurt anyone, right?

  “Please insert disc two: Free Yourself of Anxiety and Stress.”

  I make a mental note to search for disc two while glancing to my right. I’m momentarily stunned by the most breathtaking coastal view.

  My world has until now been filled with skyscrapers and busy streets where a five-minute commute can easily turn into twenty or thirty, and people would rather bike or walk than drive. But here… Here it’s much different. The open road begs for rolled-down windows, cranked music, and soaking up the hot summer sun.

  And I plan to soak it up right over there in front of that sprawling blue ocean.

  Okay, it’s less blue and more murky, but it’s an ocean, and I’ll take it.

  My car hugs the curves as I cruise along the coast, glancing back and forth from the endless sandy beach to the road in front me, desperate to take it all in, which is probably why I don’t notice the subtle curve to the right and the motorcycle that comes barreling around the—

  Oh shit!

  Jerking my wheel, I swerve off the road and skid to a stop. My heart in my throat and my stomach on the floor, I throw my car in park and shove open the door in time to see the motorcycle slide across the road before landing in a large plume of dust.

  Oh my God.

  Oh my God.

  I almost hit someone.

  I can’t believe I just ran someone off the road. What if he’s hurt or worse yet… No!

  I dart across the road and fall to my knees beside the the motorist.

  “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. So, so, so sorry. Are you okay?”

  The man fumbles with his helmet, his hands shaking, and after a few failed attempts to get it off, I reach out and help.

  With one swift tug, the helmet pops off, and I’m greeted by the most gorg
eous set of dark brown eyes. On any other day they’d probably be warm and inviting, but as it is today, they look a bit menacing.

  “Do I look okay?” he growls, glancing at his leg pinned under the giant hog.

  “You’re right,” I say frantically, holding out a placating hand. “Stay right here. I’m going to call nine one one.”

  “Where the fuck am I gonna go?”

  His words are harsh, which is completely expected considering I just ran the poor man off the road, and they’re probably also fueled by an immense amount of pain, which is why I choose to ignore him.

  “Right. Okay.”

  Scrambling to my feet, I dart across the road and call for an ambulance, all the while praying I don’t get hauled off to jail, because if anything would make Daddy Dearest piss his pants, it would be that.

  The dispatcher takes our location and encourages me to stay calm. She tells me a few other things, but I can’t concentrate because my damn eyes keep lingering on the sexy man across the street. The way his hair tumbles in front of his face. The firm set of his jaw and—

  “Ma’am?”

  “Huh?”

  “Are you hurt?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “An ambulance is on its way.”

  “Thank you.” I shove my phone in my pocket and run back across the asphalt.

  “An ambulance is on its way.”

  The stranger grunts, thanking me for for my assistance as he pushes up on his elbows, somehow maneuvering himself into an awkward sitting position.

  He struggles to get his leather jacket off, so I reach out to give him a hand, but a low growl deters me. A couple of minutes pass. Sweat is pouring off of his forehead, and eventually the stubborn man sighs and looks over at me.

  “A little help here?”

  As delicately as possible, I help him out of his coat. “I’m going to pretend you asked me nicely.”

  “And I’m going to pretend you didn’t just try to kill me.”

  He has a point, although I’m too distracted by the intricate swirl of tattoos running up his arms, the way his red cotton shirt stretches tight across his chest, and the chunk of dark hair that can’t seem to stay off of his forehead.

  No wonder they call this place Heaven. He’s like an angel wrapped in denim and leather.

  And if that isn’t the most perfect kind of heaven, I don’t know what is.

  “A little less staring, a little more help,” he says, grunting again as he tries to pull his leg out from under the bike.

  I should be embarrassed that I got caught checking him out. Oddly enough, I’m not—not one bit. The old me would’ve been, but not Lennon St. James. No sir, she’s a little minx that will do whatever the hell she wants.

  For the most part…as long as it doesn’t get her in trouble…or put her in danger.

  “Shouldn’t we wait for the ambulance?”

  “No, we shouldn’t,” he says tightly, glaring up at me. “Now would you give me a hand?”

  I’m not sure what he thinks I’m going to do. I’m lucky if I weigh a buck twenty soaking wet, and this motorcycle probably weighs ten times that.

  “What are you doing in Heaven?” Palms pressed flat against the bike, he pushes, but the heap of steel doesn’t move.

  “I’m an angel, where else would I be?” I give my brightest smile, but Motorcycle Man only glares. “Okay. Not the time for jokes. Sorry.”

  “You didn’t—” He huffs, pushing again. “—answer my question.”

  “How do you know I’m not from Heaven?”

  “Because I know everyone in this town. Plus,” he adds, blowing out a sharp breath, “the locals know there’s a curve on this road. Anytime there’s an accident, it’s a tourist.”

  “Yes, well, I’m not a tourist.”

  He lifts a brow, challenging me, and I clear my throat.

  “Okay, fine. I’m a tourist, but not for long. I’m moving here.”

  Temporarily, but he doesn’t need to know that

  “Why?”

  “I really don’t want to talk about it.” Pressing my hands to the tank, I push, hoping our combined strength will be enough to move the bike.

  It’s not.

  “Well, I do.” Taking a deep breath, he blows it out slowly and gives up on trying to move the bike.

  His forehead is pinched in pain, his eyes glassy, and I wonder if maybe he hit his head.

  “Listen, I’m trying really hard not to pass out here, so if you could just keep talking and keep me occupied, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Um…okay.”

  Come on, Lennon. You can do this. When I think about keeping a man occupied, I think about giving him a toe-curling kiss, or slipping my hand into his pants, but I highly doubt Motorcycle Man here wants me crawling on his lap at a time like this. Plus, he probably has a wife at home. A really gorgeous wife.

  “Tell me about your tattoos,” I blurt.

  His eyes narrow, lips slam shut, and he shakes his head. “Nope. Next question.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” he says, attempting to adjust himself. “Fuck,” he grits out, his jaw clenched tight. He looks away as though he’s trying to hide his pain.

  Typical man.

  Scooting forward, I position myself behind his back and wrap my legs around his hips to support some of his weight.

  “Here. Lean back on me. Take some of that weight off. You probably shouldn’t be sitting up anyway. I think you might’ve hit your head.”

  Surprisingly, he leans back, the weight of his body causing the palms of my hands to dig into the loose gravel at the side of the road. I do my best to ignore the bite of pain because right here, with my legs wrapped around a stranger on the side of a coastal highway in a foreign town, I feel more comfortable than I have in a long time.

  “I didn’t hit my head.”

  His words are soft, and I decide it’s better not to argue with him, so I change the subject.

  “Now that you’re situated and, you know, more comfortable, you can tell me about your tattoos.”

  “No.”

  “They’re really pretty.”

  “Tattoos aren’t pretty.”

  I shrug. “Mine are.”

  That catches his attention. Biker dude cranes his neck to look at me. “You have tattoos?”

  I nod, and he narrows his eyes.

  “The henna ones don’t count.”

  “It’s not a henna. I have—”

  I’m interrupted by the call of sirens as the ambulance comes into view. It pulls up along the side of the road, and a couple of men jump out, bags in hand.

  “Noah Fucking Cunningham.” The short one shakes his head as he walks toward us.

  The tall, lanky one unloads a stretcher from the back of the ambulance. “Only you would wreck your bike and end up in the arms of the prettiest gal in Texas.”

  Noah.

  Noah Cunningham.

  I wasn’t expecting him to be a Noah. He looks too rugged to be a Noah. When I think of Noah, I think of someone sweet, someone less leather and more…tweed.

  But I like it. A lot.

  “Shut the fuck up, Mikey, and get this goddamn bike off my leg.”

  I nudge Noah in the arm. “That wasn’t very nice.”

  “That’s all right, darlin’,” Mikey says, squatting down to secure Noah’s leg. “Noah isn’t very nice. In fact, he’s pretty damn grumpy. Unless Nova’s around.”

  “Nova?” I ask, hoping it’s his dog. “Is Nova your dog?”

  Mikey busts up laughing, and Noah just grunts, something I’m starting to realize he’s good at.

  “No? Your car?”

  Please let it be your car. It shouldn’t matter because I sure as hell don’t need to be thinking of Noah as anyone other than the poor soul I almost killed, and I sure as hell don’t need to be lusting after him and all his inked-up glory. In fact, I should probably steer clear of men altogether. Especially after what happened with Mathis. (Yes
, he wore tweed.)

  Except this man isn’t at all like Mathis. At least I don’t think he is. Only time would tell, and well, time isn’t something we have a whole lot of right now.

  “Yes,” Noah grits out between his teeth. “Nova is my car.”

  Mikey’s eyes dance with amusement. He smiles knowingly, but doesn’t say anything else, instead choosing to focus his attention where it should be—on Noah’s leg.

  In a matter of seconds, the motorcycle is moved and Noah is loaded onto a stretcher.

  Glancing down, I assess the damage I caused. Noah’s leg appears to be nice and straight, which has to be a good thing, but blood has seeped through his jeans, and there’s a giant rip in the denim, exposing a nasty-looking cut above his knee. I have to look away before I throw up.

  “It’s just a little blood,” Mikey whispers before loading Noah into the ambulance. He shuts the doors and turns to me. “Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of him. I’d offer you a ride, but a police officer is on the way to take your statement.”

  My statement? “Right.” Because I just caused an accident. “Okay. I won’t go anywhere.”

  Mikey smiles. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “It’s Lennon.”

  “Lennon. That’s an interesting name.”

  I wait for him to ask me if I was named after John Lennon, because that’s what everyone asks. But he doesn’t, and I’m grateful. It’s awkward telling people your mother has an unhealthy obsession with the Beatles.

  Instead he says, “Well, Lennon, we’re taking Noah to Heaven Memorial if you, you know—” He shrugs. “—want to check on him later.”

  I nod. “Thank you.”

  Mikey nods, patting my shoulder before climbing into the ambulance and whisking Noah away. Seconds later, the police officer shows up.

  Several questions, a not-so-well-drawn diagram of the accident, and one warning later, I find myself back in the car, winding through the streets of Heaven. I flick my blinker on when the navigation instructs me to turn left. Only instead of turning left, I turn right, following the small blue signs until I pull up in front of Heaven Memorial Hospital.

  Turn around, I tell myself.

  Of course I don’t listen. I’m too damn stubborn for that.