Lennon Reborn Read online

  An ex-boyfriend, Robson Drake, who was now based in the UK, was currently the most in-demand high-spec prosthetics engineer out there, having just fitted a professional Japanese gamer with an arm so high tech that he was crushing the competition. She smiled to herself as she thought of the man who’d been a much better friend than lover. He’d help. This was his kind of challenge.

  “Dr. Starr,” Dred said, walking over to her.

  Her eyes drew back to him. “Yes,” she said with a smile. “You look better than when I last saw you.” She held out her hand for him to shake, but he ignored it and pulled her into a bear hug. It was rare she felt small. At five feet eight, she wasn’t exactly short, nor was she skinny, and her dress size wasn’t something she had time to focus on, but compared to this man she was definitely tiny.

  Also, her family didn’t hug.

  He stepped back and held both of her biceps. “Thank you. For what you did for my family,” he said. “All of it,” he added, looking around the room. “I’m Dred. That’s Elliott and his fiancée, Kendalee. And that’s Lennon.”

  Lennon still hadn’t moved.

  Elliott awkwardly took a step forward on his crutches. He held out his hand. “I’d hug the shit out of you too, but I’m still a little unstable. The cast and a separated shoulder are making balancing tricky. Thank you for everything, but especially for him. The doctors said that if he’d bled out much more . . .”

  The room fell quiet. Though it was the only certainty in life, death was an uncomfortable topic any day of the week.

  Kendalee joined them and hugged her. “If there is anything we can ever do for you . . .”

  “Yeah,” Dred agreed. “You work at the children’s hospital, right? When we get through this and everybody’s home, we’ll be in touch for ways we can thank you. A donation to your hospital or something.”

  Georgia shook her head, even though the head of the hospital would probably hate her for it. “That really isn’t necessary.”

  “Yes,” Elliott countered, “it really is. Let us. It’s the least we can do.”

  From her brief internet search, she knew the band was hugely successful. If they did call her once it was over, she’d consider their offer.

  “Do you mind if I have a word with Lennon, please? Alone?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Dred said. “But he’s . . . well . . . don’t judge him based on how he is now. It’s tough for him to . . .”

  “I get it,” she said. “I’m a surgeon. Anger, depression, grief, sadness . . . all completely normal and understandable.”

  After they left the room, she walked over to Lennon’s bed. There was a pressure around her chest. She wasn’t sure why she felt the tightening every time she was around former patients, but she was certain it stemmed from immense feelings of gratitude that she was capable of saving a life mixed with the very energy that came from the living breathing spirit of the person she’d saved.

  “Hey, Lennon.” Her voice was soft, unfamiliar. Tangled curls fell over his shoulders, and she wondered if someone had offered to brush them for him. She wanted to offer, but it felt too . . . intimate.

  “Fuck off,” he said, without opening his eyes.

  Yeah. Anger was completely understandable.

  “Lennon, it’s Georgia. Dr. Georgia Starr,” she said loudly.

  One eye opened and then the other. His residual limb moved as he tried to remove his headphones with his missing left hand.

  Her heart bled for him and the professional cool she always had for her patients began to slip.

  “Fuck,” he cursed. He swiped them off with his right.

  His furious tone snapped her back into the moment. “It’s going to take some time to get used to that,” she said. “When you have your prosthetic fitted, though—”

  “You’re assuming I want one.”

  Georgia shrugged out of her coat and pulled up the chair that was next to the bed. “Possibly. It’s an ablest notion. Only people born with two hands are attached to idea they need both. Though I have to imagine it would be difficult to cut a watermelon without a prosthetic.”

  Lennon glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “I fucking hate watermelon.”

  “Then we might never be friends.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched as if he was going to smile, but he looked away. “That’s a pretty shallow decision.”

  “So, refuse the prosthetics.” She let the sentence hang. She didn’t recognize the person she was being right now, definitely not her usual, nurturing bedside manner. But somehow she felt . . . no, she knew she’d be more likely to get through to him this way.

  “Are you expecting me to thank you?” He reached for his phone and played with the screen. The music raging through the headphones that lay on the bed stopped.

  She didn’t bother to ask him what he thought she needed thanks for.

  For saving him.

  But it dawned on her suddenly that she hadn’t.

  All she’d done was keep him alive. “How old are you?” she asked.

  “Isn’t it impolite to ask?”

  Georgia raised her eyebrow.

  “Fine,” he complained. “I’m twenty-eight.”

  “Great. You don’t need to thank me now, you can thank me on your thirtieth birthday.”

  He turned to her, finally, and looked at her so intently that she wanted to look away. “Why my thirtieth?”

  “Because by then, you’ll have had the time to put this into perspective.”

  “Perspective? I lost my fucking arm.”

  “I know. I’ve seen you play drums like your life depended on it. With passion and determination. Now I can’t wait to see you tackle this in the exact same way.”

  * * *

  The toast had him baffled.

  Lennon looked down at the breakfast on the tray in front of him. The toast on his plate was buttered. But how the hell was he supposed to butter it in the future?

  Wouldn’t the bread just spin around on the counter top?

  Fuck.

  Every single fucking thing he thought of seemed to need two hands. Holding his toothbrush while he squeezed toothpaste. Tying his laces.

  He loaded his knork, a weird-ass fork-and-knife thing, with some of the eggs, but they fell off. Without thinking, he reached for a knife with his other hand.

  “Fuck!”

  This time he put a little less on his knork. Scrambled eggs and smoked salmon were not standard hospital food choices, but then again, neither was the large flat screen TV or access to a concierge.

  A fucking concierge.

  What the hell did anybody need one of those for?

  Was he supposed to call and ask for a tailor to come remove part of the sleeve from all his shirts while simultaneously trying to score tickets for the Saturday matinee of Wicked? He wasn’t sure who had taken care of the details, but it was clear to him that he was in the fucking fanciest hospital money could buy.

  He had no idea how he’d ended up there, and hadn’t bothered to ask. He could afford to be there, whatever the cost.

  If you took away the safety railings, the bed was comfortable, the sheets soft. And he was wearing a fucking robe—which made him feel like a dick, though he didn’t really have it in his heart to complain. Especially given that he’d thrown the bathroom stool against the mirror after his shower, shattering it into a million pieces because he gotten frustrated trying to dry his back with one hand while a male nursed had hovered, waiting to assist. He’d been so fucking sympathetic that Lennon, even though it fucking killed him with embarrassment, had let him finish drying him off and dressing him. But even the nurse had seemed uncertain of what to do with the empty sleeve.

  Nik walked into the room smiling. “Morning,” he said with more cheer and optimism than Lennon could deal with this early in the day. Or maybe ever.

  Lennon was so over the forced cheeriness. In day-to-day life prior to the accident, they’d all gotten on each other’s nerves and ripped
on one another—the normal things brothers do. But in the five days since the accident, none of the others had spoken a single negative word. It was an engineered friendliness.

  But it wasn’t that different from the mask he wore. He needed them to believe he was fine. He needed them to leave. And he needed to stay away from them. He’d never measured up to the rest of them before, and now he stood even less of a chance of doing so. If he was to navigate his way through what all of this meant for him, he needed to do it alone.

  “I was doing some research last night,” said Nik, slipping out of his coat.

  Lennon continued to eat his breakfast. If someone didn’t take Nik’s access to the internet away soon, Lennon might just stab him with his fucking knork. A decent use for the implement.

  “I was reading about this pro surfer, Bethany Hamilton, who had her arm bitten off by a shark,” Nik continued.

  “Is this what it’s going to be like?” Lennon mumbled through a mouthful of toast and eggs. “You come in here and tell me amazing stories of courage in the face of adversity so I can have some kind of epiphany about how great the rest of my life is going to be? Because if it is, you can shut the fuck up right now.”

  Nik studied him, compassion etching his features. It was a look Lennon wanted to punch off his face. Anything remotely resembling sympathy made his chest so fucking tight that it felt like his heart might exit through his throat.

  Georgia, at least, hadn’t looked at him like that. She’d stayed . . . neutral. It had felt safe.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Lennon said.

  “Like what?”

  “Never mind,” Lennon said, and spooned up some eggs and salmon with the knork. Finally, success. Some lady had come to his room to teach him about mono-arm tools like this one, but she’d only gotten as far as introducing the knork before he’d kicked her out. His occupational therapist had lasted exactly thirty-three minutes—long enough to force him out of bed and make him walk.

  “Anyway,” Nik continued, “I was wondering if it would be useful for us to see if we can’t intro the two of you. I bet she has a load of good advice. Plus, I ordered you a bunch of shit that’s being delivered to my place. I figured you could move in with us for a while when you get back, so I picked up a kitchen board with spikes so you can put food on them while you cut them. A veggie prep station for peeling and that kind of shit. And a spreader board, which is this really cool thing that sits on the edge of your counter and has these edges so you can place a piece of bread and butter it.”

  Guess that answered his toast question.

  “Um, what else? Yeah, a toothpaste dispenser, something to help button your shirts, and a bunch of other stuff. You should take a look at all the really cool shit you can buy.”

  Lennon pushed his breakfast away, suddenly feeling sick. Eleven days since the accident. Eleven days since he lost one of the most crucial parts of himself. The only parts he liked. The drummer. He’d locked himself away from the media, the internet, and the whole five stages of grief crap. Acceptance could go fuck itself.

  “Can you just go, Nik? I get that you’re trying to be helpful and shit, but I am not ready to deal with this right now.”

  Just as he’d finished his sentence, the door burst open again. Dred walked in holding Petal’s hand. Jordan followed behind.

  “Unky Lennon,” Petal squealed, running over to the side of his bed. God, she was just like Dred with her daddy’s floppy brown curls and chocolate brown eyes. Except cute as a fucking button.

  The way her eyes seemed to see right through him made him think of Georgia and the way she’d talked to him. She’d only mentioned prosthetics one time and had then gone on to talk about random shit. Not once had there been any look of pity or sympathy. In fact, for one crazy moment, he’d allowed himself to imagine that she’d been into him. That if he’d been some version of himself other than the guy currently in the hospital bed, he could have flirted with her. Which was stupid. Not only was she older than him—he’d given Elliott no end of shit about his relationship with Kendalee, after all, because she had ten years on him—but he’d just lost his fucking arm.

  Nobody had wanted him before. They sure as fuck weren’t going to want him after.

  “Hey chickpea,” he said to Petal as she tried to climb up on his bed.

  “How are you feeling today?” Dred asked. The dark circles under the guy’s eyes said he wasn’t getting a lot of sleep. In fact, he looked like shit. Lennon could only imagine the running around Dred was doing every day. Between visiting both Pixie and Lennon in the hospital and taking care of the kids—with Jordan’s help—Dred was trying to be everywhere at once.

  He looked at Nik, who looked just as rough. Jenny had been released a few days before and was resting in a nearby hotel. His friends and only family should be at home resting, though, not hanging out in hospitals so far from home.

  It was his fault they were all still here. Because they love you, a small voice tried to remind him, but he pushed it away. “You guys need to go home,” he said.

  “No—”

  “We aren’t going anywhere, even—”

  “Not until you can come—”

  They all spoke at once, talking over one another. “Stop,” he said as he strained to boost Petal up onto his bed. Her little cheeks were all red with determination. “Listen. It makes sense. You guys need to be home. Kendalee is itching to get home to her son, to Daniel, no matter how much Maisey and Ellen tell her they’ve got it covered. Dred, your kids need to be home in their own beds. And Jordan, we all know you should have been in London with Lexi a week ago while she finished her tour there . . . and your face looks like a baboon’s ass hanging around here.”

  “Well, Jenny and I will stay then,” Nik said, a soft smile passing over his face as he noticed the way Petal had snuggled against Lennon.

  Lennon put his arm around her and pulled her close. He didn’t normally let her, but today he needed the comfort. His words were about to get stuck again. Swallowing hard, he thought carefully about what to say next. “Nik, Jenny needs bed rest for four weeks. It should be in your own home, where you have everything you need. Where you can find a nurse to help.”

  Nik nodded. “Okay, then. Your doctor said you’d be discharged soon. We’ll wait and find a medi-flight to get everyone injured home safely. You can come stay with Jenny and me and—”

  “No.” Lennon shook his head. “I’m staying here. I can’t . . . I can’t do this with all of you looking on.” Words itched the back of his throat.

  I don’t want to fail in front of you.

  I’m drowning in all your attention. I need air.

  I can’t be reminded of what I never was and now definitely won’t ever be.

  You need time without me to figure out how to replace me.

  “I’m going to stay in New York for a little while.” But telling them why would just keep them here. He needed a better reason, one they would buy. “Look, the hospital arranged for me to meet some kick-ass prosthetics guy, but he’s only back in the hospital next week. It would be stupid of me to leave before then. Let me see him, and then I’ll come home.” Maybe.

  “I don’t like it,” Nik said. “You have nobody here for you.”

  He looked toward his phone, where Georgia had added her cell-phone number and taken down his.

  In case you need anything.

  “Hug me, Unc-y Lennon,” Petal said as she squirmed against his side.

  “That’s all I got right now, chickpea.”

  “No,” she said, and reached over his stomach. He winced as she pressed against his bruised ribs. “It’s all gone. Unky Lennon. Where’d it go?”

  She crawled over his legs to the left side of his body, and suddenly he knew exactly what she meant. Before he could stop her, she placed her hand on the end of his stump. “You got a boo-boo,” she said, big fat tears rolling down her cheeks.

  Lennon swallowed hard and took a deep breath that was more like a
gasp.

  When Petal gingerly leaned forward, and pressed her lips to his bandage, he couldn’t stop his own tears.

  With one good arm and what he had left of the other, he held her to him while he grieved everything he’d lost.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Starrs of New York had lived there when it had served as the nation’s capital, and they’d never left. Georgia’s father acted panic-stricken any time his children mentioned jobs out of state—the idea of him dying with his kids out of town permanently, leaving New York Starr-less for the first time in over two hundred years was unfathomable to him. When Randall had left for Atlanta, it had taken her father eighteen months to get over it, despite publically dining out on the fact his son was now Head of Neurology at a respected hospital.

  But he needn’t have worried about Georgia. As the sun finally peeked over the horizon, revealing a sunrise full of purples and oranges so vivid it almost seemed unreal, she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. There was no spot in the universe more perfect than her thirty-third-story penthouse on the Upper West Side as the sun hit the trees and the park came to life. When the air was still fresh, at least as fresh as it got in Manhattan.

  “I think that sounds like a fantastic plan, Dr. Kimura,” she said to the lead surgeon sitting in the hospital conference room in Tokyo. “Please let me know if I can be of any further assistance in your preparations.”

  “Doumo arigatou gozaimasu, Dr. Starr,” he said with a bow before the web conference disconnected.

  Georgia smiled and then hugged her cup of coffee as she sat in her greenhouse, grateful that her family had invested heavily in the early eighteen hundreds building boom. Building and redeveloping property that ran along what was now Seventh Avenue had made her family wealthy.

  Large black containers of bamboo lined one wall, ready to be pushed out onto the large balcony in the spring. Two tall palms stood proudly on either side of an old stone-wall fountain that no longer pumped water, something she intended to fix in between chasing surgical dreams.