Mind Lies Read online

  HARLOW STONE

  HARLOW STONE

  SPIRITED HEROINES AND THE HEROES WHO LOVE THEM

  The Ugly Roses Trilogy

  Reading Order:

  Frayed Rope

  Concealed Affliction

  Blinded by Fate

  Standalone Novels:

  Copyright

  Mind Lies

  Written by Harlow Stone

  All rights reserved.

  Registered Copyright through the Canadian Intellectual Property Office. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Trademarks:

  This book identifies product names and services known to be trademarks, registered trademarks, or service marks of their respective holders. The author acknowledges the trademarked status in this work of fiction. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  © 2016 Harlow Stone

  ISBN: 978-0-9940376-7-1

  Edited by Gregory Murphy at Gregory J. Editing

  Cover Images purchased from Adobe Stock

  Cover design by Harlow Stone

  Foreword

  When Jerri wakes up from a twenty-two day coma post car accident- her memory is gone.

  Well… most of it.

  She doesn’t remember the friends she wakes up to, her home or the business she owns. The only thing she remembers is him.

  Locklin.

  Her pretty and reckless.

  The passion between the two in her dreams is far too powerful to be a cruel joke of her amnesia filled mind. Portia — Jerri’s best friend of ten years— has no idea who the man is; leaving the doctors to think thirty two year old Jerri’s lost her fucking marbles a few decades too early.

  But Jerri doesn’t give up.

  “Sing to me, Jerri girl.”

  Determined to find the motorcycle riding Irishman who begs her to sing in her dreams, she does just that.

  Sings.

  One woman, and one heartbreaking YouTube video, Jerri finds out exactly why Locklin never comes. She finds out why sometimes memories of the past are best left exactly where they came from.

  The past.

  #LOVELOCKLIN

  Contents

  Copyright

  Foreword

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  Dedication

  To everyone who thinks they can’t.

  Trust me, you can.

  Prologue

  “This is the last time,” I tell them.

  Tears fall freely down my cheeks, but my voice is steady.

  Clear.

  Definitely not strong, though.

  No.

  Because I’m breaking.

  What they see on the outside: The beautiful dress, shiny hair. Shoulders squared and perfect posture where I stand poised like a woman who has her shit together on the small stage....

  It’s a lie.

  A ruse.

  A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

  A gift, the packaging far prettier than what’s to be unwrapped.

  I feel like a fraud, but I don’t tell them that. I feel like I’m dying. All these cracks that have continuously hurt my heart are ready to crumble.

  Ready for it all to fall apart.

  I’m ready to fall apart.

  They don’t know what it’s like to stand up here, calling out to the love of your life, crying to him for months, begging him to find me. To hold me and shelter me and put me back together.

  But he never comes.

  He never crushes me in his strong arms and tells me that I’m not crazy . . . and that he’s here. He never shows up to tell me he loves me, needs me, will never let me go.

  He never comes.

  He never shows up.

  The crowd begins to boo. Not because they don’t want to hear me, but because they don’t want me to give up the fight. They don’t want me to let go.

  I’m not a quitter, but sometimes you need to know when to stop, when to toss in the towel. Because no matter how many times you cry your heart out in front of strangers, the end result is always going to be the same. Always going to end the same.

  With me.

  Crying my heart out.

  Alone.

  Not with the man I’m supposed to share my life with.

  I take a deep breath, reciting pretty much the same thing every time I sing to him. The only difference is that this time the crowd is much larger. This time, it’s not Portia aiming a web cam at me while I search for my soulmate.

  The one nobody knows.

  The one the doctors tell me could very well be a product of my overactive imagination due to my amnesia-filled brain.

  Lies.

  But I know in my heart he’s real.

  I know he’s out there.

  Because I can feel him.

  Giving a light smile, the same one that never reaches my eyes, I tell them again, “This is the last time. I don’t think I’ll be able to speak after I do this, so I’m going say what I need to now. And I hope you’ll listen.”

  I watch them all, those who I can see clearly, as they settle into their front row seats with their eyes trained on the stage. I wait for the hushes and murmurs to die down, all eyes on me, before I continue. “I can’t thank you all enough. What started out as an idea and a YouTube video riding on nothing but hope—you all clicked view or share and turned it into something viral overnight.”

  Applause and cheers echo throughout the theater. I absorb the sound’s positivity, the vibrations filling me before adjusting the mic to continue. “If it weren’t for people like you, and my best friend’s support, we wouldn’t be here; and if we weren’t here, he might not hear me call for him.”

  I pause to swallow past the lump in my throat. “That video-gone-viral gave me hope.” My voice breaks on the word “hope,” but I power through. “It gave me hope that the man in my memories would come back to me. It gave me hope that after so many of you shared that video—I wouldn’t be without him. Millions of people have watched that video, and I was sure that he’d be one of them.”

  I blink, lettin
g tears roll freely before giving my audience another empty, watery smile. “But he’s not here,” I softly say.

  Shaking my head, I sigh. “I can’t keep doing this. Singing to the man I remember, the last song we sang together. I can’t. Not because I’m giving up, but because it hurts too bad.”

  Wiping my cheeks, I lift my head, prepared to give them my signature line: “Maybe I imagined him. Maybe my amnesia is fierce and playing cruel tricks on me. Or maybe, just maybe,”—I pause waiting for them to say it with me—“I’ve lost my fucking marbles.”

  My hollow laugh joins more boisterous ones. I watch as a few tissues are drawn from purses, people discreetly wiping their eyes. They’ve followed this love story as I have lived it. They’ve watched me cry my heart out for the man I used to know.

  The man in my memories.

  The one who never comes.

  “So this is it, ladies and gents. This is the last time. Not because I don’t love him. Not because I don’t think of him often, but because it just hurts too damn bad.”

  Squaring my shoulders, I face my cheering squad with little determination and a lot less hope. “So, to the man with dark hair and beautiful, bright blue eyes whom I remember, . . .” I pause, letting that term hang loosely because I’m a woman with amnesia who remembers nothing aside from him. After they chuckle, I finish, “who goes by the name of Locklin. This is from me, to desperately missing you.”

  The lights in the theater dim, the spotlight above remaining lit while I sing to the man I love.

  Whether or not my mind lies, I give it all I have—my heart, my soul, my love—and sing to the man from my memories, begging him to come to me.

  One.

  Last.

  Time.

  Chapter One

  Not knowing who you are is probably the most terrifying thing you could ever experience in your lifetime.

  Of course, losing a child, a loved one, or finding out you’re dying would be equally or more painful. But I’m not there yet. Or, at least, I don’t think I am.

  I know nothing.

  I don’t know my name. I don’t know my hair color, or if I have any family.

  I don’t know how old I am or where I came from, and I don’t know who the woman holding my hand is. I can hear her, though.

  A man called her Portia.

  And she called me her best friend.

  The sister she never had.

  So why can’t I remember her? Why do I know nothing of this room, or the people in it?

  Why can I only remember him?

  More importantly, why isn’t he here?

  The man from my dreams never comes when I’m awake, which makes me want to stay asleep more often because it’s the only time my heart feels full.

  I want answers to the million questions I have; but if he’s not here, who will give them to me? Or more importantly, why hasn’t Portia mentioned him?

  The only person I remember.

  A beautiful man named Locklin.

  * * *

  “How long?” a groggy female voice asks.

  I still don’t recognize it, but I know she is Portia and it sounds as though she’s in pain.

  Not physical.

  No.

  It’s the kind that tears you apart inside and shatters your soul.

  Emotional pain.

  “As you were told over the phone, it’s been ten days since she was brought in,” an emotionless voice replies.

  A quick bang follows before Portia continues. “I damn well know how long she’s been in here! I want to know when she’ll wake up!” She ends on a sob.

  The man sighs. “The force of impact caused a great deal of trauma to her brain. Not to mention the blood loss and fractures. We have no choice but to keep Ms. Sloane in a coma until the swelling on her brain has reduced.”

  Sniffles can be heard before her small voice asks, “Back to my original question, Doctor. How long?”

  “Could be a few days, could be a few weeks. Everyone heals differently.”

  The woman cries, the sound soothed by a caring masculine voice “She’ll pull through, Portia.”

  I feel terrible for the couple. No doubt this news is heartbreaking, and I wish I could take away her pain. Wish I could wake up, give some answers, and ease minds.

  “I should also inform you that it’s not clear what to expect when she wakes,” the doctor says. “When we pull Ms. Sloane out of the coma, you need to be prepared.”

  “For what exactly?” A male voice asks.

  “Anything,” the Doctor says. “She may have little voice. The damage to her neck and vocal cords is not something we can predict the outcome of. We also have to be prepared that although she seems strong, and has fought this far, we don’t know what kind of memory she will have, if any at all. These circumstances aren’t easy to predict. And unfortunately we’ll know nothing until she wakes up.”

  “But she will wake up?” Portia asks.

  “There is always a small chance that sometimes people don’t pull out of these things; however, I feel strongly that she’ll pull through. She’s a healthy woman. Her MRI shows that she’s healing well. And following each scan, her brain activity increases.”

  “That’s good news, Portia.” I can hear the smile in the man’s voice and the subsequent happy sob, followed by, “I’ll take it.”

  The Doctor, whose voice is not nearly as interesting to listen to, cuts off my eavesdropping. “Talk to her. Talk about things present and past. It always seems to help.”

  He’s incredibly stoic and clearly needs some help in the bedside manner department, but I’m happy that they have good news. And when I wake up, I plan to tell them so.

  The voices begin to drift off, and I welcome the sleep that starts to pull me under.

  Strangely, it’s the only time I feel lucid.

  It’s the only time I get to see him.

  Chapter Two

  “Eggs?” he asks. Most likely the thirtieth question of the day, and I can’t help but smile at his handsome face before I answer. Full, dark hair flips out a little at the base of his neck. His beautiful bone structure is covered in two days’ worth of stubble, which makes you uncertain whether you would call him pretty or reckless.

  The only thing I call him is mine. Because at this moment, that’s exactly what he is.

  Mine.

  I smile as I answer his question: “Smothered in hollandaise sauce.”

  He chuckles. “Benny then.”

  “Always,” I tell him as he reaches out and brushes my hair away from my eyes. I’m sure my hair’s a mess after the many hours spent rolling in this bed last night. But I don’t care. The way he looks at me is nothing if not precious. His features are relaxed, save for the small tip of his full lips. His eyes are soft and filled with so much adoration it makes me certain my bedhead is the last thing on his mind.

  It’s the last on mine too.

  To say my hair isn’t important would be an understatement. It’s just that he is so much more important that everything else falls to the wayside. I wish I could hold onto this moment forever, hold onto the way he’s looking at me, hold onto his warm body as he holds onto mine, hold onto the feeling . . . and never let go.

  A tender hand moves down the side of my face, over my neck, and down my back. I sigh as he rubs my lower back before resting on my hips. “Open your eyes, Jerri girl.”

  I shudder. From his voice, his touch, and the energy that hums between us. I absorb the sensation, having never felt anything like it, hoping—praying—that I never have to let it go. His lips touch each of my eyelids. And when they leave, the second I open them, he pulls my leg up over his hip and enters me with one swift thrust.

  “Eyes on me, Lass. Keep them open,” he rasps. I do exactly as he says, continuing to hold on, taking everything he gives me and still wanting more.

  Gently rolling me onto my back, he settles himself between my legs, his strong arms creating a cage I never wish to be released from.
<
br />   “Stay,” I tell him.

  Or ask?

  I don’t know because I can’t figure out why he would leave.

  Why he might want to leave when I, lying here, would never want to be anywhere else.

  Be with anyone else.

  I try to focus on his eyes, hoping they can tell me the answer I desperately seek. But, unlike last time and all the other times when I focus too hard on them, his face starts to blur.

  Features unable to be discerned.

  Striking eyes, too dark to see clearly.

  I don’t get his answer.

  Because then I wake up.

  * * *

  “Alright, woman, now that everyone’s gone, we’re going to dive into Jerri and Portia’s box of shit that’s never said aloud, but I’ll never let you forget,” Portia says.

  The first day I heard her, she was all distraught and somber. These past few days, she’s been nothing but fierce. She’s a fighter this one, and I’ve come to realize she likes to talk to me.

  Her best friend.

  Whose name is Jerri.

  I don’t know why I can hear but can’t wake up, but I love the stories she tells me. Even though I strain to keep my mind awake, I try to consume everything she chooses to share.

  “First in the box of shit would be home waxing kits. We didn’t know each other then, but we each have our horror stories,” she snorts. “It’s no doubt the reason your asshole is still a virgin, and I saved for years just to get laser hair removal. Moral of the story: if you forget a lot when you wake up, always remember home waxing is a big fat no!”

  I laugh but there’s no sound.

  She sighs. “Second in the box is the time I thought it would be cool to try out a D/s relationship, not you and I together, and it was long before those books came out. Any who, in case you don’t remember, I’ll remind you now: do not let a man spank your ass unless he knows what he’s doing. I lived off Ben and Jerry for a week and didn’t leave your couch for days. Oh, and we called in sick to work due to a death in the family so you could stay home and look after me,” she pauses to take a breath. “I know, I know. We shouldn’t have pulled the death card. But seriously, there was no other way we could get away with both of us being off work at the same time. I was young, stupid, and thought that because I was twenty-two I had all the answers in the world.”