But he couldn’t stop.
He sobbed with the pain he felt over his sister’s loss and the loss of the only mom he’d ever known. Decades of hurt poured from him. They’d never been in touch, not once, after she’d handed him over to the state. He’d kept imagining when they’d made it big that she’d at least come out of the woodwork for money, but she hadn’t even done that. He hadn’t wanted to see her, but it would have meant that he served some purpose in her life, that even in a selfish way she claimed him. But nothing he had to offer her was of any value.
Tears continued to fall. His and Georgia’s.
But as the sobs evened out, he knew he needed to finish. “At first, she told them I’d done it. She took the time to right the stool and clean up the candy before the emergency services arrived. I found out later that it was when the autopsy came in and they found out how long Jennifer had been dead, and that my mom had been in the middle of an eight-hour shift when she’d died, not at home with two young kids, that things fell apart. They began to piece it all together and took me away from her. I mean, they never conclusively proved what happened to Jennifer because I was too young to give reliable testimony and Mom was never there. But I thought being taken from her meant it was over. I thought I’d get to go to kindergarten, have a family, not go hungry.”
Georgia sat back on her knees, tears still falling. “I’m so sorry, Lennon.”
Her mascara had run down her cheeks, and guilt hit him squarely in the chest. He wiped his thumb along her cheek. “I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he said gruffly.
“It’s not your fault,” she said firmly. “But if I ever get my hands on any of the people involved in this, you might need to give me bail money.”
“I’ll tell you the rest,” he said, coming to his feet. He offered her his hand. “But let’s go get cleaned up and get into bed first.”
By the time the two of them were naked and cuddled up in the extremely large bed, he felt exhausted but more composed.
“At the hospital, they noticed things were wrong, but only the obvious stuff. I needed a lot of physical therapy because I’d rarely been let out of the crib. I was behind developmentally. Still in diapers at four. But they fixed me up, and I was sent to my first foster home.”
Vague memories of a room decorated with Maple Leafs memorabilia. The boy the father always wanted to follow the three girls they already had. But he hadn’t been able to catch up, and the physical therapy he’d needed had lasted longer than the professionals had predicted.
“The family returned me after a year because I wasn’t, in their words, “a good fit.” The next home was marginally better. I was there eighteen months, began to catch up on school stuff—counting, letters, those kinds of things. But I took too much time to engage. I wouldn’t stay focused. They were always calling me out because I never smiled. They found out that there was a suspicion I had been involved in the death of my sister, so out of fear for their own kids, they returned me, too. It kept happening. I’d go. Mind my own business. Do what I was told. But I never measured up, never settled down, never fit in, never cried. It was Maisey who saved me.”
Georgia’s hair tickled his shoulder as she lifted up on one elbow. “The one who bought the music equipment?”
“Yeah. When I was ten, my social worker retired and my case was passed to Maisey. She saw trends in my behaviors that everyone else had overlooked, like inability to form bonds, indifference, lack of emotion, and asked a psychologist friend who was outside the foster care system if he’d see me.”
“And what did he say?”
Lennon sighed. “The first three years of life need to be filled with attentive loving care. It sounds like a pile of horse crap, doesn’t it?”
Georgia shook her head. “Not at all.”
She was a neurosurgeon—of course she knew some of this. If it was true. What he’d believed his entire life. “I guess it takes two neural networks to thrive.”
Georgia sat up, the sheet slipping away from her breasts, and he was momentarily distracted until she spoke. Her face was serious. “The sensory perceptions gained through human interaction—smiles, voices, smells—and the network that understands pleasure and satisfaction. I cry, you come and soothe me.”
He nodded, barely able to speak.
“You hold me, I smile. You smile, you hug me closer. Love, affection, trust. Repetition bonds the networks, but if it’s missed . . .”
He didn’t want to say the words . . . didn’t want to admit the one thing he wished wasn’t true.
“I can’t form proper relationships. I never learned how. And now it’s too late to construct those pathways.”
* * *
Georgia’s head felt as if it were going to explode. Her heart felt as though it already had.
Tentatively, she opened her eyes and glanced over to the clock on the bedside table. Eight o’clock. Too early to be awake given the momentous emotional purge they had both gone through the previous evening.
Safely wrapped up here in Lennon’s arms, it was almost impossible to imagine the man beside her as the child who had been treated so heinously. She could only imagine what strength it had taken to come out on the other side of everything he’d been through. Pride seemed like such a weak word, but she was so deeply proud of him and everything he had done to overcome the start he’d had in life.
One day, she hoped she’d get to meet Maisey and Ellen. Without a doubt, those two wonderful ladies had played a pivotal role in helping not only Lennon, but every child who’d gone before and came after him.
Being a neurosurgeon, she found it impossible to not be fascinated with the psychology of what Lennon had gone through. But did she believe the part about it being impossible to rebuild neural pathways? Fundamentally, she agreed with the science around how they were developed, but she also believed they could be altered through new beliefs and emotions and experiences. But another part of her, the part that had always been more open to things that simply could not be explained, told her that despite the science, Lennon had found a way to create loving relationships, even if he couldn’t see them for what they were.
She could see it in the way he talked about Maisey and Ellen and the impact they had on Lennon’s life. It was crystal clear in the way he talked about the band. At first, his comments had been very much directed to their tolerance of him, but as the night had gone on, his stories had adopted a much more sincere and loving tone. Like how on the day he’d been the last one to leave the home, when he’d arrived at the apartment Nik and the rest of the band lived, they’d bought him his very own second-hand set of drums as a moving-in gift. And how it broke his heart that he could barely look in the eye of young Petal or accept what appeared to be hero worship from Daniel, Kendalee’s son. If it was impossible for him to form relationships, then it would be impossible for the lack of them to break his heart.
And finally, she could see it in the depth of his emotion and the way in which he, despite the deluge of his own feelings, took the time to sit her on the bathroom counter and wipe her face clean of tears with a warm cloth. Is caring for somebody the same thing as loving them? And if not, how do you define the difference?
She quietly slipped out of Lennon’s embrace and tiptoed out of the bedroom, grabbing his shirt as she passed by the chair it was resting on. She needed coffee to help her process her own emotions. If she wasn’t mistaken, she’d well and truly fallen for him. Despite the seriousness of the previous evening’s conversation, it left her feeling as giddy as the young girl she once was who’d been given tickets to see Madonna at the Garden.
As she waited for the coffee to brew, she pulled Lennon’s shirt closed and fastened three of the buttons. The view from the hotel window as the sun beat its way over the Manhattan skyline was almost as spectacular as the view from her home. Her skyline. Her city. It made her wonder how much longer Lennon would stick around New York and what she would do when he left. It was certainly too soon in their relationship t
o have those kinds of conversations, and yet the previous night’s conversation felt like it was the most intimate of all. The idea of him leaving her behind when he returned to Toronto quashed the excitement she’d been feeling only moments earlier.
A fleeting image flashed into her mind—something about how she and Lennon were the same. Entrenched in old beliefs and patterns. Or maybe it was that they both needed to look forward, but the thought slipped away from her.
The coffee spluttered to a stop just as her phone, which she had plugged in next to the long side table the previous evening, pinged. She grabbed it as she made her way to the kitchen and checked her messages. There were plenty, as usual, but one brought back the sense of excitement that she’d lost. Coffee could wait. This was the e-mail she’d been waiting for.
Robson Drake had finally got his ass out of his lab and responded to her. She knew the high-tech prosthetic expert had a huge waitlist for clients, but she hoped that their short-lived romance where they fancied themselves as lovers, and whose demise ultimately boiled down to the decision that they should have remained friends, would count for something.
Georgie Porgie Pudding and Pie,
Your e-mail contained more intrigue than a two-part episode of Midsomer Murders. I’m going to read subtext into your introduction of Lennon, which I think you should clarify when you join him in his visit to my lab. I would love to see what I can do here, as it’s a challenge I haven’t yet undertaken. There are some freakishly incredible developments in the world of movable fingers and under-the-skin sensors, and just this morning I woke up thinking of how important vibration and playback of touch will be. So yes, lovely, let me know when the two of you can come for a visit. England is consistently rainy all year-round, so there is never a good time to come.
Robson
England. She thought of Dylan’s job offer. She hadn’t returned his call yet. But if they went to the UK, maybe she could handle both things.
She smiled at her plan, grabbed her coffee, and returned to her spot by the window.
What if she just went to the UK for a couple of years? It would take Robson a while to perfect the custom prosthetic to his highly technical specifications. And Lennon would be free if Preload weren’t touring and recording without him. They could both go.
But everything she’d built was in New York. How could she even consider leaving?
She could commute. Well, not commute, but plenty of people did long distance. Maybe it was foolish to even daydream such things, but she couldn’t seem to stop.
“What’s got you up so early?” Lennon asked gruffly as he wandered to her and tugged her into his arms.
Goddamn. The man was naked, and she couldn’t form words. She placed the coffee on the small table and placed her palms on his chest, allowing herself the luxury of letting her fingertips bounce along his abs. “Doctor’s habit,” she replied. His hair was standing up in all directions, and she couldn’t help but reach up and touch it. “You know, I didn’t want to cut this, but it looks really good short.”
“All I kept thinking about while you were doing it was I hope I don’t tent this towel. The feel of your hands turned me on.”
She smiled at him softly. “How are you? . . . After last night?”
Lennon kissed her forehead. “You want the honest answer?”
Nodding, she placed a kiss to his chest. “Of course.”
“I woke up in a panic because I’d thought you’d left, and my heart nearly dropped out of my chest when I saw you standing there in my shirt. There aren’t enough words to describe how grateful I am to have met you. To be standing here with you right now. You’re beautiful, Georgia. Every single part of you.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips.
It was a deeply intimate moment, one that only confirmed for her that she’d seriously fallen for the rock star. A freaking rock star. She grinned.
“What’s that for?” he asked. “The smile.”
“I was just thinking how ridiculous it is that I’m falling for a rock star.”
His smile faltered slightly. “As much as I want to believe that, you know I’m never going to be able to return those feelings in the same way, right? What I told you . . . last night. I can’t. I mean, I don’t know that I’ll ever fully experience a normal relationship.”
Fear laced his words.
“This”—she pointed back and forth between them—“is enough. For now. We don’t have to have all the answers.”
This time his lips brushed hers. “I’m not sure what fucked-up plan was in place for me the day of the crash—you know, if there’s a higher power and all that shit—but you are my silver fucking lining. No, you’re more than that. You’re the reason I’m still here. The reason I even want to try and be more than what I am.”
Stepping onto her toes, she kissed him, this time with even more of the love she was starting to feel for the man who wrapped his arms around her. And she felt his response, the way his tongue brushed hers, seeking to deepen their connection. The way his arms tightened around her, his hand slipping to her butt to pull her flush against his growing erection.
Unable to help herself, she groaned. Last night they’d been too exhausted to do anything more than fall into sleep, but now she had plans. “We should get back in that big bed, where I can show you just how here I am for you.”
“I like the way your brain works, Starr, but I have a better idea. There was something I planned for us to do last night, before I took us off course.” He took her hand and led her in the exact opposite direction of the bedroom to a closed door on the other side of the living room. “Ever heard of Alexander Esguerra?” he asked, putting his hand on the door handle but not opening it.
“No, should I have?” What was behind the closed door? Another bedroom? It was, after all, a very large suite.
“He’s a New York artist who came up with the idea of . . .” He paused and pushed the door open. Inside, the furniture had all been pushed up against the walls and a large clear sheet had been laid on the floor. In the middle of it was a giant canvas. “Covering yourself in paint and making love on a canvas.”
Of all the things she had been expecting, this was not it. Her first thought was that she’d appear gauche, and then she thought about the practicalities . . . the mess, the cleanup—how the hell would they get all the paint off without staining the shower or the floors?
But then she realized it would be her and Lennon, naked, making love in the sunlight after a dark night and, holy shit, she freaking loved the thought of it. Realizing suddenly that hotel staff must have known, she felt heat fill her cheeks. “Did the staff do this?” she whispered, pressing her hands to her cheeks.
“Yes. But they have no idea why it is set up this way. And I won’t tell them if you don’t.”
He unfastened three buttons of her shirt. “Have some fun with me, Georgia. Get naked with me. Let’s make a permanent reminder of this moment. One that will turn you on every time you look at it hanging in your condo.”
She let him slide the shirt off her shoulders, his eyes hungry as he followed its descent down her body.
“How do we do this?” she asked, her voice unnaturally husky. Taking him in hand, she slid her palm up and down his hard length.
Lennon gasped. “Just like that,” he said with a wink that turned her insides to molten mush. God, she was useless around him.
“I meant the paint.”
Lennon reached behind himself and grabbed a bottle of what looked like gold paint, but she grabbed his wrist before he could do anything with it. “This is safe to put on the human body, right?”
He kissed her lips. “Of course it is, Doctor Starr. You want me to read the ingredients, or are you going to let me squirt it all over those lovely tits of yours, pun intended?”
Georgia laughed, and grabbed the bottle of black paint. If he wanted to play, she was at least going to get armed.
* * *
This wasn’t how he’d planned it. The hundr
eds of candles that had been placed around what had been the study until his plans took shape stood unlit on furniture around the room. In his mind, when he’d set this up, the low lighting would have set the mood. But now, as Georgia grinned at him wearing nothing but a container of black paint in her hand ready to fire, he couldn’t imagine it going down any other way.
A new dawn couldn’t be a better time to do it.
Georgia studied him carefully. “Three, two . . .”
He fired, and Georgia squealed as the cool paint hit what was her undoubtedly warm skin. “Sorry, I couldn’t wait,” he said as he began to laugh.
Deftly, she shimmied out of his way. Paint missed the clear plastic sheet, but he didn’t care. The smile on her face was worth every penny of compensation he’d have to pay the Mandarin Oriental for what they were about to do.
“That was premature ejaculation if ever I saw it,” she said, as she lazily ran her fingers through the gold paint trickling over her nipples.
Lennon watched, mesmerized, as her nipples became firm under her ministrations.
Then, splat. “What the—?”
“You snooze, you lose,” Georgia said, slapping the black paint currently running down his stomach. Her eyes were bright with mischief, and the fine lines that usually appeared between her eyebrows when she was thinking had disappeared. “If you weren’t so busy watching me touch myself, you might have seen it coming.”
Lennon swiped the other colors off the table and onto the floor so they’d be within easy reach when he got her down to the canvas. But first she needed more gold, which he was more than happy to provide. He pulled her to him, moving his hips from side to side to smear the paint between them.
Georgia’s eyebrow was raised in suspicion. “I’m not sure I trust your motives right now, Mister McCartney. You’ve already proven that you are not one to abide by the rules.”
“Rule-breaking is something I’m known for, as you can probably tell by the havoc we are currently letting loose in one of New York’s finest hotels.”
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