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The Truth About Lennon

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“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.



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