The Truth About Lennon

by K. L. Grayson

  “Leni—”

  “No. You know what? I’m done. I can’t do this with you right now. I have a hair appointment I need to get to.” I don’t really have a hair appointment, but I plan on making one so it’s a legitimate excuse. “Plus it’s been a long, shitty day, and the last thing I need is to be lectured by you. I’m a grown woman, Brenna. I left because my father asked me to, and I don’t want to cause him any more problems. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit here and listen to you try to tell me what to do.”

  Right before I hang up, I lay the guilt on thick, mostly because I can…and I’m upset. “I know you work for my dad, but we were friends first, Brenna, and if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even have the damn job.”

  She says something, but I don’t hear a word of it because I mash my thumb against the screen, ending the call. Within seconds, my phone chimes with an incoming text, but I ignore it because I know it’s Brenna, demanding that I call her back.

  Instead, I power my phone off, stack a few pieces of pizza on a paper plate, and cover it with plastic wrap. After I left Noah’s house earlier, I went grocery shopping and then splurged on a large pizza. I ate half of it, and knowing Noah probably hasn’t eaten anything, I planned to drop the rest off. I also picked up a box of chocolate chip cookies as a peace offering. I’m hoping if I can talk to him again, I can convince him to let me help out.

  Grabbing my purse, I stack the pizza on top of the cookie box and make the short walk across the yard to his front door. I ring the doorbell and wait. Then I wait some more.

  Good grief. I figured he’d be slow, but this is a little exaggerated.

  “Noah?” This time I knock. “It’s me, Lennon.” Nothing. The crickets might as well be chirping because I don’t hear a damn thing coming from his house—not even a big thud signaling that he’s fallen while trying to get up. I knock once more before calling it quits.

  “I’m leaving some food out here for you,” I say, hoping he can hear me. Setting the box and plate down on the porch swing, I pull an old receipt and pen out of my purse and scribble a quick note.

  Thought you might be hungry. Don’t eat it all at once and save me a cookie ; )

  Call if you need anything.

  Lennon

  I scribble my number on the note, situate it under the cookie box, and reluctantly walk away.

  Going home isn’t really an option. That little house is way too quiet for my liking. A few minutes later here I am, driving through town, looking for something to occupy my evening. There are all sorts of quaint shops and restaurants lining the strip, but it’s a bright neon sign off to the left that catches my attention. Whipping my car down a side street, I pull into the empty lot. A bright pink neon sign flashes TEASE.

  A bell dings when I open the front door. A large, wooden desk takes up the front entrance area. A mahogany shelf is tucked in the corner, stocked with a wide variety of hair products. The walls are bright pink, and Michael Bublé wafts from the speakers, his soulful voice in stark contrast to the bright, fun environment of the salon. There are four stations set up for stylists, but no one around. I stand for a few seconds before calling out, “Hello?”

  “Be right there,” a delicate voice hollers. Before I know it, a young woman, probably close to my age, walks around the corner and stops in her tracks as soon as she sees me. What I expect is a warm greeting. What I’m not prepared for is the high-pitched squeal that comes out of her mouth.

  “Oh my gosh,” she says, rushing toward me. “You’re Leni Barrick! I can’t believe this.” Stopping in front of me, she looks me over as if trying to convince herself that it’s really me standing here.

  For a split second I’m hopeful that I can convince her otherwise, because this is exactly what I wanted to avoid by coming here.

  I shake my head no. “I get that a lot, but I’m not Leni.”

  “Yes, you are,” she insists. “I would know. I watched every single episode of Raising Ellen.”

  Raising Ellen was a tiny little show I starred in from the ages of thirteen to fifteen before ratings plummeted, ending my short-lived acting career—something I was absolutely okay with, but my A-list-celebrity mother was not.

  How this woman recognizes me all of these years later, I have no idea. I shake my head again, but she’s having none of it.

  “I’d recognize you anywhere. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe Leni Barrick is standing in my salon. I have to call Rachel,” she says, swiping her phone off of the front counter. “She’s gonna freak!”

  “Wait.” Without thinking, I yank the phone out of her hand and hold it to my chest. “Please don’t call Rachel,” I plead. “No one can know I’m here.”

  The woman smiles. “That’s gonna be sort of hard, don’t you think?”

  “Not really, no. That show ended years ago.”

  Her smile drops, a look of panic washing across her face. “Yes, but people still know who you are,” she says, stepping behind the counter. She digs and digs before jumping up and tossing a People magazine in my face. “Right here you made the front page!”

  “Okay, yes, I’m aware,” I say, shoving the magazine away because Lord knows I don’t want to relive that horrific memory. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “In my salon?”

  “No, in Heaven.”

  “Oh,” she says, nodding her head before shaking it. “I don’t get it.”

  Lord, help me.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Charlotte.”

  “I love that name,” I say, earning yet another blinding smile.

  “Charlotte, do you have time to do my hair? And while you’re doing it, I’ll explain all about why I’m here and trying to fly under the radar.”

  Something about Charlotte feels strangely familiar and comfortable. It seems manageable to tell a friendly female why I’m in Heaven. Hell, she probably already knows. It’ll be much easier than telling a hot guy who’s pissed off because I nearly ran him over.

  “Wait.” Her eyes go wide. “You want me to do your hair?”

  “Yes, do you have time?”

  “Do I have time?” she says. “Even if I was in labor I’d make time.” Grabbing my arm, she leads me into the salon and ushers me to a large, black chair. “First,” she says, draping a cape around my neck. “Tell me what you want done.”

  Curling my nose, I flick the ends of my hair. “Lets take these extensions out, and from there I just need you to make me not look like…me.”

  A sly smile stretches across Charlotte’s face. “So you want something fresh, something Leni Barrick would never do.”

  “Right.” I pause. “Well, within reason. Don’t shave my head or anything.”

  “Got it.” She pins a section of hair on the top of my head and starts working. “No shaved head.”

  “Bye bye, Leni Barrick. Hello, Lennon St. James.”

  Her hands freeze, and she looks up. “Who’s Lennon St. James?”

  “Me. Lennon Barrick-St. James. That’s my full name. Everyone who knows me knows me as Leni Barrick. So for now, I’m just going back to being Lennon St. James.”

  “Oh, right. Okay. Well, I know all about Leni. How about you tell me all about Lennon?”

  And right here is where our friendship starts. We spend the next three hours talking and laughing. I tell her the sordid tale of why I came to Heaven, and she listens with a patient ear, nodding and agreeing, offering her two cents every once in a while, and managing not to be too biased at all by what she’s already read in the rag mags. It doesn’t take long for me to fall head over heels in love with her. She’s the type of friend I’ve always wanted.

  The type of friend I’ve never had.

  After I told her all about me, she went on to tell me about her life. Charlotte had a rough childhood. After the death of her parents she was passed between family members before eventually becoming a ward of the state. She worked her ass off to get through college and open up this salo
n. She lives paycheck to paycheck, but she’s never been happier. I go on to tell her about the charity I started, Children Everywhere, and how it’s designed to help children who’ve gone through the same things she has. She seems almost more impressed by that than she was by the fact that I’m Leni Barrick.

  We laugh and talk, and when she spins the chair so I can look at the new me, I’m convinced she’s a fairy godmother in disguise.

  “So,” she says, barely containing her excitement. “What do you think? I know it’s not New York or Hollywood quality, but—”

  “Stop it.” I cut her off because she certainly does not need to be putting herself down. Lips parted, I run my fingers through my hair, amazed at how silky it is. “I love it.”

  “You do? Really?”

  “Yes,” I breathe, in awe of what she’s done.

  The extensions are gone, and she cut easily five inches off the length. My straight, boring hair is now tapered in a long stack that starts at the base of my neck and gets longer toward the front, dipping past my chin. It’s sleek, smooth, and nothing like I would’ve ever done before.

  “What about the color? Is it too much? I tried to take you back to your natural shade. You were beautiful as a blonde, but now…” Admiring her work, Charlotte runs her fingers through my hair. “You’re even more stunning.”

  I’ve been a platinum blonde since the day my mother got her hands on my hair—well, her stylist’s hands—but after seeing this, I’ll never go back. “It looks like caramel.”

  Charlotte laughs. “It totally does. You’re the perfect shade of dirty blond.”

  I shake my head from side to side, watching the mirror as my hair bounces around. “So? Do I look like Leni Barrick?”

  “Well, I would still be able to pick you out of a crowd, but I don’t think anyone else would.”

  “Considering you’ve been the only one to recognize me, I think I’ll be okay.”

  Although over the years there have been a few random people, like Charlotte, who recognize me from time to time, most people don’t know who I am. My mom and dad are a totally different story, but me? I’m virtually a nobody.

  Reaching in my purse, I grab my wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

  Charlotte quickly waves me off. “No. You’re not paying me.”

  “I most certainly am.” I pull out a couple of hundred-dollar bills, the equivalent of what I would pay back home, and Charlotte’s eyes nearly bug out of her head.

  “Please,” she begs. “I don’t want to take your money. I swear I had more fun doing your hair than I’ve had in a long time. Just promise me that next time you need something done, you’ll come back.”

  “I wouldn’t dare go anywhere else.”

  With an exchange of phone numbers and a promise to get together soon for dinner, Charlotte walks me out to my car before heading back inside to lock up for the night.

  I start my car and power up my phone. Instantly it chirps with four new text messages. The first two are from Brenna, as I expected.

  Brenna: Please call me back.

  Brenna: Really? Now you’re not answering your phone? Real mature, Leni.

  Rolling my eyes, I delete both messages and pull up the next one. It’s from an unknown number.

  555-9923: Thank you.

  Two words. And I know exactly who they’re from. I grin, and that grin doubles in size when I see his next text.

  555-9923: I saved you a cookie. But then I ate it.

  “Hey, Mikey!” I yell, stepping out the front door and off my porch.

  He’s sitting on Noah’s front porch swing, sipping what looks like a cup of coffee, and when I approach, he pats the swing, inviting me to sit down.

  When I oblige, Mikey points to the container in my hand. “Whatcha got there?”

  “Blueberry muffins. Would you like one?” I hold them out, but he shakes his head.

  “Thank you, but I ate breakfast before I came over here.” Mikey downs the rest of his coffee and hands me the cup. “Would you take that inside with you when you go?”

  I nod and grab the cup.

  “Noah’s going to love those, by the way,” he says, pushing up from the swing. As he steps off the porch he adds, “Front door is open. If he gives you a hard time, just tell him I let you in.”

  I follow him toward the edge of the porch. “Where are you going?”

  “Work,” he says. “Always work.” Mikey gives me a quick wave, and I watch as he gets in his car and pulls out of the driveway.

  Without knocking, I push open Noah’s door. I’m not a total creeper, though. This is his home, which I haven’t really been invited to, so I holler an obligatory, “Knock, knock” as I peek my head around the corner.

  I look to the left, but the living room is empty. I turn to the right to find Noah standing in the kitchen, doing the dishes.

  Good Lord, that man is sexy.

  And it happens again, those thoughts I shouldn’t be having.

  Track pants hang low on Noah’s hips, and since he isn’t wearing a shirt, every last muscle in his back is on full display. I wonder what I’d do if I got to wake up to that every morning? I probably wouldn’t get a single thing done because this view would inevitably lead to crazy-hot kitchen sex.

  I swallow, watching the muscles in his back move beneath smooth skin. I’ve never been one to ogle a back before, but I’d gladly ogle his for hours if it were socially acceptable.

  With each move of his arms, another muscle makes itself known, and I blink in awe of how perfect Noah’s body is.

  Finally, he looks over his shoulder. Eyes narrowed, he watches me a for a beat and then asks, “Would you like to see the front too?” He cocks a brow, and my cheeks heat up.

  The new me wants to say, Yes, actually, I’d love to see the front. Thank you for offering, but I’m not feeling quite that brazen this morning, so I do the next best thing: I clear my throat and ignore the question altogether. “Mind if I come in?”

  “A little late to ask, don’t you think?”

  I’m going to ignore that too. “Mikey said to let myself in.” Shutting the door, I walk toward Noah and hand him Mikey’s coffee cup, which he takes and puts in the sink.

  I offer him the container of muffins, which he doesn’t take. “I brought blueberry muffins; thought you might be hungry.”

  Noah looks longingly at the muffins, but then his face hardens, and he crosses his arms over his chiseled chest. “I don’t like blueberry muffins.”

  “Mikey said you’d love them.”

  His jaw ticks. “Well, Mikey was wrong.”

  “Okay.” I put the container on the kitchen table and turn to him. “I can make you something else to eat. Pancakes, maybe?”

  “I don’t like pancakes.”

  “How about cinnamon rolls?”

  “Too sweet.”

  “Bacon?”

  “I don’t want you to make me breakfast,” he growls. “I don’t want your help at all. What I want is for you to go back wherever you came from.”

  Ouch. I take a step back, and Noah drops his head.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “That didn’t come out the way I wanted it to.”

  Fuck him. A girl can only take so much. If he doesn’t want my help, I’m not going to waste another second on his ass, and my brain better get the damn message and quit having those inappropriate thoughts.

  Grabbing the muffins off the table, I make a beeline for the door. “You’re an asshole, Noah Cunningham.”

  “Wait,” he calls, but I keep walking. “Lennon, wai—shit.”

  Noah’s words are cut off by a loud thud, and I spin around to find him slumped over a kitchen chair, his foot dangling above the floor.

  “You’re not even supposed to be standing,” I scold, my anger dissolving into concern.

  Dropping the muffin container on the coffee table, I go to him, wrap an arm around his back, and help him to the couch. And I swear I don’t cop a feel of all those muscles I’ve been ogli
ng.

  Without a word, I help him get situated, pull up an ottoman, prop his foot there, and slide off his sock.

  Fuck me, even his foot is sexy, minus the swollen ankle that is now the ugliest shade of purple.

  I draw the line at ogling feet. It will not happen.

  Standing, I rush to the kitchen, hell bent on getting out of here. After dumping some ice in a bag, I wrap it in a towel and take it to Noah. He’s watching me as I move around—I can feel it—but I refuse to make eye contact with him because my feelings are hurt, and I’m still kind of pissed at the way he spoke to me.

  With a gentle touch, I situate the ice around his ankle. “Leave this on for twenty minutes, and then take it off.” I stand and reach for the muffins, but Noah scoops them up. “Give me the muffins.”

  I hold out my hand, but he shakes his head. “Not until you let me explain.”

  “Explain what?”

  It’s official; I’ve lost my cool. I’ve spent my entire life perfecting manners, and this man has managed to break me in a matter of seconds.

  “Explain why you’re an asshole? No, thank you. I’ve had enough of those in my life; I don’t need another one. Funny enough, I thought you’d be different, southern hospitality and all that. My mistake.”

  “Lennon—”

  “No.” I try to grab the muffins from him, but he’s got a death grip. “Give me the muffins.”

  “What do you mean ‘no’?”

  “I mean I don’t want to hear whatever it is you feel the need to say.”

  Oh man, that was good. I’m really proud of myself for standing my ground. This definitely deserves a pint of ice cream when I get home. Or hell, maybe I’ll eat this whole damn container of muffins.

  “Lennon—”

  “It’s Ms. St. James to you,” I snap, jerking on the container only to have him jerk it equally as hard.

  Noah smirks—actually fucking smirks—and I’ll be damned if I’m not tempted to let go of the container just so I can smack the look right off his face.

  “If you’d let me talk—”

  “I don’t want to let you talk,” I grunt, giving the container one last tug. It’s no use. I let the muffins go, and Noah falls back on the couch with a soft oomph. “I’ve been nothing but sweet to you.”