The Truth About Lennon

by K. L. Grayson

  “I didn’t—”

  “Yes, you did,” he counters. “You told me the basics and kept the important things to yourself. Don’t you think I had a right to know who I was getting involved with?”

  I look up at him. “I didn’t leave out the important parts. I left out the parts that could influence the way you looked at me. The important parts aren’t who my parents are, or what they do for a living. It’s not how big of a house I lived in or how large my trust fund is. I wanted you to look at me for who I am on the inside, not on the outside, and you did. You know me, Noah. Nothing has changed.”

  “Really?” He stares down at me. “Everything has changed, because right now I feel like I don’t know you at all.”

  “See? You’re doing it right now. You’re judging me because of who my parents are, because of the life I come from.”

  “No,” he growls, pulling out of my hold. “I’m judging you because you lied to me, because you didn’t trust me enough to tell me who you are.”

  “You know who I am!” I yell, frustrated that we’re talking in circles and equally grateful he hasn’t brought up the other bomb Mathis dropped.

  “No.” He shakes his head sadly. “The world knows who you are.” Dropping his chin to his chest, Noah grows quiet. When he looks back up and those brown eyes go liquid with pain, I know what’s coming next. “And the drugs. Drugs, Lennon! You were arrested?” he booms.

  “Noah…” My eyes grow wide. “You have to let me explain.”

  “I can’t fuckin’ do this,” he shouts.

  My blood runs cold. “What do you mean, you can’t do this? You have to do this; you have to let me explain.”

  Noah turns toward the front door. I wait for him to turn back to me, but he doesn’t. In three steps, he has his fingers wrapped around the door handle.

  “You can’t leave,” I plead. “We need to talk about this. You can’t walk away from me—from us.”

  Finally, he whirls around, giving me the chocolate eyes I crave. “This isn’t me walking away. This is me leaving so I can get my fucking head straight before I say something I’m going to regret.”

  With that, he rips my heart from my chest and walks out the door.

  I stand frozen as Noah climbs into his car, and somehow, I manage to keep myself under control until his taillights fade into the night. But the moment they disappear, the world crashes down around me. I fall to my knees, the weight of what just happened too much to bear.

  My heart breaks and while every part of me wants to blame Mathis and my mother, I have to own some of this too.

  Mathis—fucking prick—must’ve called the media. By the time I hit my front door, I’ve had two calls from local reporters wanting a statement on my “love affair with New York’s hottest socialite.”

  I hung up both times.

  “Nova’s asleep.”

  I nod. “Thanks, Mikey.” I shut the front door and kick off my boots.

  “Charlotte called me two hours ago and said you left the shop. She wanted to make sure you made it home okay.”

  “Charlotte needs to mind her own goddamn business.” Grabbing the remote, I shut off the TV and move into the kitchen, hoping Mikey will catch my drift and get the hell out.

  He doesn’t.

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  Grabbing a beer from the fridge, I twist the top and chug, not stopping until the whole damn thing is drained. All the while, Mike watches silently from the doorway. After I’m finished, I toss the bottle into the trash, grab another from the fridge, and walk back to the living room, stopping in front of Mike.

  “What do you want to discuss, Mikey? That the entire world knows who my girlfriend is except me? That she knows everything about my life, and yet I know nothing about hers?” Mathis’s words rotate over and over in my head, taunting me. As much as I don’t want to believe them, I can’t get them out of my fucking head.

  Kind of surprising that you’d choose another druggy after Kim.

  Druggy? Lennon?

  My heart doesn’t want to believe it, but my heart has been wrong before, and I sure as hell don’t want to go down that road again.

  I won’t go down that road again—and neither will Nova.

  “Or do you want to chat about how, apparently, our dear, sweet Lennon has a past with drugs?”

  Mikey’s lips part, and shock—similar to the way I feel about it—crosses his face. His mouth opens and closes several times as he shakes his head.

  “Noah, man, I don’t even know what to say. You know Lennon. Do you really believe she’d do drugs? She certainly doesn’t seem to be using now.”

  Opening my next beer, I take a swig and shrug. “I don’t know what to think. She lied to me about her family. Why the hell wouldn’t she lie to me about something else?”

  “Have you asked her?”

  His words light me up like a fucking bottle rocket. “I don’t want to fucking talk to her. I trusted her, Mikey. Gave her every last fucking piece of myself, and she gave me nothing. Nothing!” I yell.

  Mikey’s eyes dart down the hall and then back to me. “Quiet, man. I know you’re upset, but you don’t want to scare Nova.”

  He’s right. I don’t want to scare her. It’s bad enough that I might be ripping someone she loves from her life.

  And this is exactly what I didn’t want to happen.

  Stalking toward the front door, I yank it open. “I wanna be alone.”

  He nods, walking toward me, stopping when we’re shoulder to shoulder. “Talk to her, Noah. I know you’re hurting, buddy. Maybe she kept some serious shit from you, and I’m on your side, but don’t shut her out without hearing what she has to say.”

  “You done?”

  “Yeah.” He claps a hand on my shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Call me if you need anything.”

  My only response is to grunt and slam the door when he leaves. With the bottle perched at my lips, I turn to the all-too-quiet living room, which is saturated with memories of Lennon—laughing as she chased Nova down the hall; snoring softly when she fell asleep during the movie, tucked up against my side; smiling as Nova performed a dance routine on the fireplace hearth. The images shoot through my head like rapid-fire bullets, and I hate it.

  Taking another long pull from the bottle, I walk into my bedroom, but Lennon follows me there, too. She’s everywhere—her pajama shirt thrown across my bed, purple flip flops tucked in the corner. With every breath I take, I can smell her. It’s the smell of sunshine and flowers, and I fucking hate that too.

  Anger has been brewing inside of me since the second I walked into Tease, and now I can feel that anger preparing to explode, unleashing an avalanche of pain. I have to get it out. I have to work through it. Stalking back through the house, I head for my garage where there’s an old punching bag hanging from the rafters. I haven’t hit that damn thing in years, but right now it’s exactly what I need.

  With each swing, I growl and curse, letting the rage flow freely from my body and into the bag that sways under the strength of my arms and legs. I kick and punch, and I don’t stop until my chest is heaving, my arms and legs ache, and sweat pours down my face.

  Then, and only then, does the fog lift, and I realize what I have to do.

  With a loud sigh, I wipe the sweat from my forehead and return to my house. Every step is fueled by adrenaline, which only increases when I grab my laptop from my dresser, fire it up, and type Lennon’s name into the search engine.

  My blood runs cold, sucking all of the heat from my body as I’m hit with an onslaught of pictures and articles—all dated a couple of months ago, not long before she came here.

  Leni Barrick goes on week-long drug bender.

  Leni Barrick is at it again!

  Leni Barrick can’t stop, and this time she’s bringing her on-again/off-again boyfriend, Mathis Perry, along for the ride.

  Each article is accompanied by at least one picture, and I click on the first one, enlarging it.

 
It’s Lennon and Mathis walking toward a car. His arm’s around her as though he’s holding her up—or maybe she’s holding him up. It’s hard to tell because the pictures are grainy. They’ve got a coat draped over their heads, no doubt trying to shield themselves from the cameras.

  Several more shots follow that one, all of them of Lennon and Mathis as they duck into a car. But it’s the last one that causes my heart to stop. Lennon’s lifeless eyes are glassy and red as they connect with the cameras. Surrounded by dark circles, they’re void of any happiness, and Lennon looks so much like one of my final memories of Kim that it steals the breath right out of my lungs.

  Pushing my fingers into my eyes, I drop my head, trying so hard to justify what I just saw. Maybe she was sick, or maybe she had been crying.

  Or maybe she was high.

  Taking a deep breath, I look back at the computer and continue to scroll. My previous thoughts are erased when a picture pops up of Lennon pressed against a cop car. Her cheek is smashed against the white hood, her hands cuffed behind her back, and the sight is almost too much to bear.

  Then I see a plastic bag in the officer’s hand.

  “No,” I breathe.

  With a shaky hand, I zoom in, and my entire world tilts on its axis.

  “Fuck,” I hiss.

  Shoving up from the couch, I pace around the living room.

  This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. I know Lennon. She might not have given me all the details of her background, but I know her heart.

  At least I think I do.

  I’ve seen what drugs can do to a person. Not once have I looked at her and suspected she’s on drugs. This has to be a mistake.

  There has to be an explanation.

  With a resigned sigh, I vow to hear her out, but the pictures are pretty damn incriminating.

  Lennon’s mug shot is next, only she doesn’t look like my Lennon at all. Her hair is longer—blonder—and her face is thick with makeup, somehow making her eyes look much bigger than I know them to be. Black streaks run down her red cheeks, and her eyes are filled with so much sadness that I want to reach through the computer and comfort her.

  Socialite Leni Barrick was arrested Saturday night for possession of a controlled substance. Charges have yet to be filed against the daughter of vice presidential candidate Christopher St. James.

  The next photo was clearly taken on a different night, and closer inspection reveals it to be from several days before her arrest. She’s with Mathis again, but their clothes are different, and they aren’t being arrested. They’re in what looks to be a high-end nightclub.

  Socialite Leni Barrick appears to have danced herself into another round of media scrutiny

  Lennon has a drink in one hand and her other pressed to Mathis’s back. She appears to be whispering something in his ear.

  Seeing her that close to him makes me want to punch the little fucker all over again. Instead, I jam my finger against my mouse, flipping to the next picture. There are several more of the two of them huddled close together, only this time Mathis looks like the one who’s upset.

  And then I get to next picture.

  Leni Barrick makes her parents proud one blow at a time

  She’s sprawled out on the sidewalk, her skirt bunched around her hips, putting her long, gorgeous legs—as well as her red thong—on full display. Her eyelids are droopy, and it looks as though the picture was snapped either as she fell or as she was scrambling to get up, because the terror on her face is evident.

  I scroll down to skim through the article attached to the photo.

  Leni Barrick met with Mathis Perry and a group of friends for a night out on the town. The group started at Blue, a burlesque-style club, and ended the night at Glass House, where they dropped nearly 20K on drinks in less than an hour. After stumbling out of the club (pictured above) at 2:00 a.m., Barrick snuggled in the backseat of a car with Mathis, whom she claims she’s no longer connected to romantically. A source close to the couple tells us both Leni and Mathis love to party, and their tastes don’t stop at alcohol. But what does Daddy Dearest think of Leni’s extracurricular activities, and will they affect Joseph Morgan’s run for the presidency?

  I can’t read any more. As much as I want to devour every single article I can find, I can’t. For my own sanity, I have to walk away. But before I shut everything down, I print some of the pictures and articles, because I want Lennon to look me in the eyes and deny what’s right in front of me.

  As much as it pains me to say it, I’m not so sure she can, and I can’t have a woman like that around Nova.

  I knew she was too good to be true.

  Setting my laptop on my dresser, I crawl into bed. But it’s useless to try to fall asleep, because all I can think about is Lennon and how much it’s going to hurt when I have to let her go. Then I’m reminded that this is all her fault, and the anger starts all over again.

  By the time morning rolls around, I’ve gotten an hour of sleep. On pure adrenaline alone, I’m able to get Nova dressed and to my mother’s, all the while fielding and dodging Nova’s questions about when she’ll see Lennon again.

  And then, I text Lennon.

  “It’s over,” I say, looking down at the text Noah sent me at eight o’clock this morning.

  I’ll be at your house at nine. We need to talk.

  “He’s coming to break up with me. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “It’s not over.” Charlotte grabs the phone from my hands and puts it on the end table. “He said he wants to talk, so all you have to do is explain everything to him the way you did to me, apologize your ass off, and then boom—make-up sex.”

  “I’m not sure it’s going to be that easy, Char. You didn’t see the way Noah looked at me last night, like I was a complete stranger, or a monster. He was disgusted, and I don’t blame him.”

  I walk to the window and pull the curtain back, both surprised and relieved that the paps haven’t shown up at my door. Not that I’m that newsworthy, but last night Charlotte fielded several calls at her shop from reporters wanting to know where I’ve been and who my new “mystery man” is.

  “You’re not going to win him back thinking like that.”

  “Maybe I need to walk away now before I hurt them more than I already have,” I say, staring at Noah’s front door, just wanting a glimpse of him.

  “Well, that’s a stupid thing to do. Now’s the time for you to fight for him, fight for the life you want. You need to show him how much he and his daughter mean to you.”

  I shake my head, feeling helpless. “I don’t know how to do that. He’s not going to believe me.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  Letting go of the curtain, I turn to Charlotte. “Did you see how pissed he was last night? And that was because I didn’t tell him who my parents are. How the hell am I going to explain away a drug-related arrest?”

  “Easy.” Charlotte looks at me like I’m stupid. “You’re going to tell him the truth, and if he loves you as much as I think he does, he’s going to believe you.”

  For the first time since last night, hope blooms in my chest. “You think he loves me?”

  “Lennon.” Charlotte wraps me in her arms. “He wouldn’t be so hurt if he didn’t. You made a mistake not telling him.” She pulls back to look me in the eyes. “You’re human. We all make mistakes. The important thing is that you weren’t doing it to be malicious or to hurt him, and he’ll see that.”

  “Let’s hope—” Both of us turn toward the front door when my words are cut off by three loud knocks.

  “Here’s your chance.” She slaps my ass and pushes me toward the door. “I’m going to slip out the back.”

  “Hey, Charlotte?”

  “Yeah?” she says, glancing over her shoulder.

  “I always wanted a friend like you. No matter what happens today, nothing changes us. Got it?”

  Tears fill her eyes, and she nods jerkily before walking out the back door.


  With a deep breath, I tell myself that no matter what, we can overcome this, and I open the door.

  Noah looks exhausted. His hair looks as though he spent the night running his hands through it, and there are dark circles under his eyes, no doubt caused by yours truly.

  I have to shove my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie to keep from reaching for him. “Hey.”

  “We need to talk.” His clipped tone leaves me feeling dejected, and I scoot to the side when he steps into my house.

  Noah has a stack of papers clutched in his hands, and I don’t miss the small tremble rolling through them. My eyes roam up his arms, over his face, and toward his jaw, which is clenched tight, and it takes every ounce of strength I have not to throw myself at him and beg for forgiveness.

  Handing me the first piece of paper, Noah asks, “Is that you?”

  I gasp when I see what’s on the paper—a photo from the first night I went after Mathis. He had called me, threatening to kill himself if I didn’t at least talk to him. “Yes, that’s me. Mathis called and—”

  “And what about this?” he asks, completely ignoring me. “Is that you?”

  My stomach rolls when Noah holds up a picture of me getting arrested.

  Oh God, I think I’m going to be sick.

  “Yes,” I choke out. “But it’s not what it—”

  He tosses another photo at me, and a sob rips from my throat as my own eyes stare back at me from a mug shot. “Were you arrested for drug possession?”

  Tears well up in my eyes and all I can manage is a small nod. “It was the worst day of my life.”

  “I bet it was,” Noah says. “I want to know what drug you were in possession of when you were arrested.”

  Squeezing my eyes shut, a rush of tears falls down my cheeks. “They weren’t my drugs.”

  He scoffs. “I bet they weren’t. Funny though, that’s the same thing Kim said to me after she got arrested.”

  My eyes snap up at his hateful tone.