Lennon Reborn

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Lennon Reborn Page 16

by Scarlett Cole


  She took a deep breath and sighed. She’d worried about that, the way he could change from open, honest, and hurt to closed off while appearing outwardly happy. “So far, he’s letting me see both sides. He’s sharing his emotions.”

  “He sent me an e-mail ten minutes ago telling me that we need to find a new drummer. That he isn’t coming back. That he isn’t coming back to Toronto.”

  Dred’s words hit her squarely in the chest. Two thoughts barreled through her at the same time: He’s staying for me. He’s not staying at all. Both scared her, one a lot more than the other. Her heart racing, she stepped onto the curb and flagged a cab. “One second, Dred,” she said and quickly muted her phone before giving the cabbie her address. “Okay, I’m on way over to his place to check in with him,” she said. Why would he send a message like that tonight? It had been four weeks since the accident, nearly two since he’d moved into the condo. She’d thought he was making progress.

  “Please, Georgia,” Dred begged. “I know you don’t know us, but we are brothers in every way that matters, and Lennon, well, we know what he’s like. We know he seemed to have a . . . fuck. Most people have a strong visceral affinity for staying alive. Lennon’s is . . . weaker. No, that’s the wrong fucking word. Shit, I’m explaining this all wrong. He’s not weaker. It’s just that what he’s been through is so much worse than what the average person has. I wouldn’t blame him if he wanted to give up, call it quits. Whatever.” Dred’s voice had dropped to a whisper, and tears burned Georgia’s eyes. She’d felt it when she’d held his hand on the bus. Even though the energy from him had felt so full and vibrant, his tone had been pure exhaustion.

  She began to shake, and a dampness slithered down her spine, across her skin. Never had she felt more out of her depth. Was it arrogance that had had her assuming she knew what was best for Lennon? Was she selfish to want to be the one to help him? Was she just being plain stupid for not telling them where Lennon lived?

  No. That had to be Lennon’s choice.

  Right?

  “I’m sorry. I know I’m dumping a lot on your shoulders, but what if we came to New York? Do you think you could meet us somewhere? Like if we book a hotel suite or something. Could you get him there to see us?”

  Buildings went by in a blur as the driver hustled his way through the city and she imagined tricking Lennon into seeing them. “Let me talk to him, Dred. Let me understand why he doesn’t want you to know where he is. I’ll call you back as soon as I’m sure he’s okay. If I think he’s at risk, I’ll let you know.”

  But the words he’d spoken on the floor in the bus, the words she’d tried to ignore, came to her mind. Again.

  I’m . . . tired . . . of my life. Just . . . let me . . . go.

  When the taxi pulled up at the condo, she threw the driver a fifty and hurried inside, trying not to slip as her heels tapped on the floor. “I’m here, Dred. I’m going to lose you in the elevator. I’ll call you back later.” She hammered the UP button on the old elevator, for once frustrated with its old-world charm. When she got off at his floor, she rushed to the door and hammered on it.

  There was no answer, so she hammered again, wondering if she should call security to come let her in. It wasn’t her apartment, but surely if she told them what Lennon’s friend suspected, they’d go in, even if they wouldn’t let her join them. As she dug in her purse for her phone, the door swept open.

  “Hey, I was just thinking of you,” Lennon said with a smile on his face. “I’ve got a surprise for—Holy shit, you look hot in that dress, angel.”

  He looked fine. In fact, he looked better than fine. Better than he had any other day she’d seen him.

  Dred’s words snaked through her mind. You don’t know Lennon like we do. He’s . . . damn, he’ll fool you that he’s okay.

  Lennon was freshly showered, his hair lying damp. He wore a fitted black Henley and jeans. “Are you okay?” he asked, reaching for her hand, his fingers warm as they wrapped around her frozen ones. “Damn, you aren’t. What happened, Gia?” he asked as he tugged her inside.

  What on earth could she say? The rest of your band thought you were going to kill yourself, and I almost believed them? But right now she was stuck for words. She didn’t know how to answer the simplest of questions.

  “Come here,” Lennon said, tugging her inside the condo, the door clicking shut behind her. “Let’s get you warm.” He sat down, pulling her down next to him before tugging the folded blanket from over the back of the sofa. He tucked it in around her.

  The condo was tidy. There were no dishes on the counter, no pile of stale clothes lying on the floor. Did it feel off? She couldn’t tell. His drums stood by the front door. She hadn’t noticed them when she’d first stepped inside.

  “You want to tell me what has you freaked out?” he asked, brushing kisses on the top of her head.

  She couldn’t lie to him. That wasn’t what their relationship was built on. “I got an e-mail from Dred,” she said, and Lennon stiffened almost imperceptibly.

  His kisses stopped, then resumed, as did the soft stroking down her arm. “He’s like an old woman. What did he want?”

  Turning to face him, she placed her hand on his cheek. “They’re very worried about you. Why aren’t you talking to them?”

  Lennon sighed and shook his head. “I don’t feel the need to tell them every bit of my life. They all live in one another’s pockets. What am I supposed to do, send them a daily journal update?”

  “Did you tell them you want to leave the band?”

  He looked at her with a look that said obviously. “I did, because even with great prosthetics or with custom drums, it’s going to take ages to relearn how to play. And Preload is their livelihood. They need to record, and tour, with someone who sounds phenomenal. That won’t be me for a long time. They need someone really fucking good, someone who can organically grow with the band, not a session drummer who just slots in for a while.” He shrugged his shoulders.

  She didn’t agree with the assessment, but he’d delivered it so completely calmly. Rationally. Or was it too unemotional? Shit, she was confused. “Did you tell them you weren’t going back to Toronto?”

  Lennon nodded as if it was no big deal. “For a while at least. The tour is over. I have an O-1B visa and am allowed to stay. My medical team is here. And so are you.” He kissed her lips.

  “I was worried you’d done something stupid, like . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say the words to him.

  “Kill myself?” Lennon finished for her, but he was looking toward the door, to the drum kit. “No. Look, I’ll call Dred in the morning.”

  “I said I’d call him back tonight,” Georgia said, feeling relieved and somewhat calmer from talking it through with him.

  “Fine. I’ll text him in a minute. But first, I want to take care of you.”

  * * *

  After he’d finally persuaded Georgia up to her apartment and into her shower, he’d left Dred a text as he’d promised her, and then set about bringing his drum kit to her apartment.

  Lennon ran his fingers lovingly over the skin of his Tama snare drum, custom made to his own standard, the surface tension exactly how he wanted it, the perfect springboard for his drumsticks. It was the first time he’d brought himself to open the cases that carried his prize possession, and he could barely swallow from the rush of tears that threatened to spill over as he studied the marks on the surface.

  All made by him.

  In a hundred different cities playing all their songs.

  The thought of someone else playing those songs caused him to simultaneously want to throw the snare off the balcony of Georgia’s upper level and throw himself off screaming for everything he was about to lose.

  This was his big surprise for Georgia, just like he’d promised in the hospital. He was giving her his favorite tour drum kit, his prize, his baby. His fucking “precious” that he would go insane without. But he couldn’t bring himself to play, couldn’
t bear to hear what it would sound like.

  His gut told him Georgia would look after it for him. That she’d care for it.

  Like she does you. His phone buzzed, chasing the thought away.

  If you’d answer your fucking phone, I wouldn’t have had to bother Georgia. Look, I didn’t mean to scare her, but you are scaring the fucking crap out of us. Will you just fucking call me instead of this texting shit?

  He couldn’t. Not yet. He’d spoken to Elliott, and that had been hard. Jordan had been even harder. But Dred was the one who could convince Lennon that giving it all up would be a mistake. Dred would tell him that he didn’t care what they sounded like as long as they were together, that they’d wait as long as he needed. But Lennon couldn’t do that to his friend. Dred deserved every second of the success he was chasing, as did the others. There was no way he was going to let all of them suffer financially or otherwise for something that had happened only to him.

  I can’t. Not yet. He needed more time to get his head around it. More time to convince himself he was okay with it before he spoke to someone who had the power to convince him that he wasn’t.

  Petal misses you. Can you at least send her a fucking picture or something?

  Dred’s message cut him deeply. He missed Petal something fierce. But he couldn’t tell Dred that, at least not in so many words.

  Low blow. And yes. Now fuck off.

  The dots bounced his screen, which meant Dred was ignoring his request to be left alone.

  I love you. We all love you.

  He looked up at the ceiling, feeling tears threaten again. Shit, he was turning into a fucking pussy.

  Yeah.

  His phone pinged again, this time with a picture of Petal asleep in her crib, the jewelry box he’d bought her last Christmas clutched to her chest. It had to be uncomfortable for the sweet little thing, but she held onto it with a steadfast grip.

  With his heart firmly in his throat, Lennon stood and wandered over to the large greenhouse, filled with bonsai trees. It was obviously old. Suddenly feeling displaced and dizzy, he placed his forehead against the glass. He’d never been into the upper level of Georgia’s home, and exploring would give him something to focus on instead of the need to call Dred and have him reassure Lennon that everything was going to be okay. He focused on the solid outline of Central Park, stark in its darkness in contrast to the lights of the skyscrapers that surrounded it. He focused on the illuminated pathways, imagining who was currently down there. He could only imagine how much better her view of the park was than his own during the day.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shelf full of vinyl records and an old record player. Curious, he made his way over and began to flick through them.

  Miles Davis, Louis Armstrong, Dizzy Gillespie. Names he’d heard. But others he hadn’t. Thelonious Monk, Charles Mingus, Mary Lou Williams.

  Jazz.

  A long way from metal and quite a stretch from his favorite music to listen to by choice. But that seemed to be the sum of what was on the shelves.

  Plus, he hadn’t listened to music much since leaving the hospital. It had been a great shield while he was in there. He could put his headphones on and blast music so loud that it shut the rest of the world out. But maybe this was far enough removed from metal as to be . . . well, safe.

  He pulled an album from the shelf. The Dave Brubeck Quartet. He looked at the back-cover art. Holy shit. There were a billion words on there, explanations of each song. Pretty cool idea. Maybe he could convince their marketing team to allow them to do something similar. His heart vaporized a moment later when he realized he wouldn’t be part of that process anymore.

  Tucking the album under his stump, he allowed the vinyl to slip out into his hand and then placed it on the old turntable. Hoping it was set up for the right play speed, he placed the needle on the vinyl. The piano kicked in, and Lennon lay on the rug near the turntable. Once he was comfortable, he began to read the cover.

  “Blue Rondo à la Turk plunges straight into the most jazz-remote time signature, nine-eight, grouped not in the usual three-three-three but two-two-two-three,” Georgia said as she walked over to him. Her wet hair was pulled up into a bun. She was wearing a pale pink Henley with plaid pajama bottoms in pale pink, ivory, and brown that made him think of Neapolitan ice cream. She looked equally good to eat. “Did I get it right?” she said, tapping the cover as she lay down on the floor next to him.

  She had. Down to the last word. “A closet jazz fan?” Lennon said, raising his eyebrow.

  “No closet about it. I love jazz. These were all my grandfather’s. But I tend to listen to it on my phone more now when I am on the go, like in my car or when I’m working out. I guess I don’t have the time to lie up here too often and listen to this. There’s something terribly nostalgic about the crackle of vinyl, don’t you think?”

  Lennon put the album cover down and took her hand in his. From their position, they could see out through the wall of glass and beyond the greenhouse. Stars flickered brightly. It was almost fucking romantic. He turned his head to look at her. “Where were you tonight that had you looking so fucking hot?”

  “A charity thing my mother is involved in. I couldn’t wait to get out of that dress. I felt like I was stitched into the damn thing.”

  He laughed. “Don’t spoil the image I have of you in it. It looked . . . effortless. You looked beautiful. Tell me about your grandfather.”

  “Clyde Starr was a force to be reckoned with,” she said, turning to face him. “He rebelled against joining the family construction firm to become a neurosurgeon. He smelled of peppermint, had a green thumb like you wouldn’t believe, and was a frustrated jazz musician.”

  Did she realize how wistful she sounded when she spoke of him?

  “What did he play?”

  “Piano.” Quiet fell between the two of them as the jazz continued. “Will you tell me about the band? Dred said you were brothers? You told me about Adam. But Dred, Elliott, the others.”

  Lennon swallowed hard. He should have expected the question at some point. “Nik’s the oldest. He’s the glue that kept us together as a family. Our social worker, Maisey, always said that seeing as biological families don’t get to choose their families yet somehow make it work, so should we. And Nik’s past . . . well, I guess he took it to heart and became the patriarch. Dred is the brains of the band, and the one most passionate about our music and careers.” Lennon swallowed hard, hoping to avoid a hint of emotion in his words. “Elliott is the mom of the group. Maisey says he has a way with broken kids. Guess Jordan and I would agree with that. Jordan is the soul.”

  “So what are you?” she asked, letting go of his hand and rolling close so she was on her side, her head on his shoulder.

  “The annoying little brother,” he said. Georgia smacked him playfully across the stomach. He automatically went for her hand to hold it against him but couldn’t reach. Fuck.

  “I don’t believe it for a second,” she said as she gripped his chin and turned him to face her. “They’re expressing too much love and concern for someone who is simply an annoying little brother. You did let them know you are okay, right?”

  “I did. Wanna check my phone?” he asked, then sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Gia. I have this habit . . . of pushing people away.”

  “Why?” Georgia asked, moving to her knees in front of him.

  He couldn’t help but look up at her.

  “You are lucky that people worry about you, Lennon. They love you, like genuinely, with their whole hearts. If anything happened to me, my father would care only about the implications for his neurosurgery legacy and who I would leave this place to in my will.”

  The words bounced around in his brain. He wanted to ignore them, wanted to let them fall into the cracks between the two of them, but he couldn’t. Because they came from her, he felt compelled to hear them. And because he was listening, like actually paying attention to every word that fell from those pret
ty lips of hers, he heard the hurt. Heard the loss behind the boldly spoken statement.

  She was lost, like him.

  “I’m going to hire a physical therapist to start coming to the condo every day and a personal trainer to kick my ass into gear,” he said suddenly. Perhaps if he jump-started his own life, she’d copy him and jump-start her own. “But I’m only going to do it if you agree to make some changes in yours.”

  “Lennon,” she said, those pretty eyes studying his intently, “you have to do this for yourself, not because of me.”

  “I know,” he replied. “But what’s wrong with a little motivation between friends? You need to stop more often, let more into your life than being a superstar neurosurgeon. I know you thrive on it, I know you love it. Happiness can come from so many different places, I think we both need to learn that. And I don’t want you to do it for me. Don’t you want it for yourself?”

  Georgia sighed. “I do,” she whispered, the weight of those two simple words hitting him squarely in the chest. Because in another life, in another time, he could imagine her saying them to him in a completely different setting.

  * * *

  “What are we doing here?” Georgia said as she stepped into the elevator of New York’s luxurious Mandarin Oriental hotel holding a small overnight bag. She straightened the hem of her black Valentino cocktail dress. With its tie neck, bead-embellished bodice, and flared skirt, it was one of her favorite pieces. Whatever they were doing here, she was treating it as their very first date, even if Lennon didn’t realize it yet.

  Lennon adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder. He looked more like the rock star she’d only seen in videos. His blond hair stood at all angles yet somehow fell in such a way that it framed those eyes of his perfectly. Silver-rimmed aviators gave him an air of mystery, while the black leather jacket hugged him like a second skin. And as much as he protested about the effort it took to pull on jeans, the way the pair he was currently sporting hugged his ass made every second it took to fasten them well worth it. He leaned forward and brushed his lips with hers. “All in good time, Gia,” he said. Then he smiled, but she’d bet dollars to donuts that it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

 

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