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  Let Me Be Your Truth

  Music & Letters Series: Book 3

  Lynsey M. Stewart

  Edited by

  Duckman Proofreading

  ‘Let Me Be Your Truth’

  Music and Letters Series – Book 3

  By: Lynsey M. Stewart.

  Let Me Be Your Truth

  Copyright© 2018 by Lynsey M. Stewart.

  All Rights Reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without prior written permission of the author of this book. The only exception is brief quotations to be used in book reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, brands, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales is purely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editing: Duckman Proofreading

  Proofreading: Duckman Proofreading

  Cover design: Taylor Sullivan

  About the Book

  From the outside, Kate Roper has life all figured out—a career as social worker, friends who love her, and a perfectly sensible relationship with a loyal but boring man. She has her life sorted neatly into boxes…until she meets Danny, a tortured artist with a troubled past. They say opposites attract, and Danny’s sexual confidence intrigues Kate. His tattoos enthrall her. He is everything she doesn’t think she needs, yet she craves what he has to offer.

  Art therapy sessions at a local therapy centre have saved Danny from his tormented past. But when Kate shows up with her positivity, paint brushes and flirty skirts, Danny can’t seem to escape the grim reminders she triggers of when he needed help the most and was left to bury the past under his addictions.

  Danny doesn’t do romance. He does sex. Amazing sex. He can teach Kate the art of orgasms so that his Miss Goody Two Shoes learns the difference between monotonous and mind-blowing…

  As their relationship intensifies, their pasts collide. They soon find that they have more in common than they ever would have thought, but can Kate and Danny find their truths in the unlikeliest of relationships?

  This novel contains strong language and graphic descriptions of sex; therefore this novel is only suitable for 18+

  This is the third book in the Music and Letters series but can be read as a standalone.

  To Mum,

  It’s likely that you will never read this because I won’t let you read my books. Knowing you, you’ve probably already read them after asking the local library to stock the paperback because you’re so proud.

  We once joked that I could make you a special version without the sex scenes. You were horrified and said: ‘Where’s the fun in that?’

  Maybe I will let you read them…

  I love you.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other books by the author

  Chapter One

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ Steve said, squirming. Yes, squirming was the perfect word to describe his body language.

  ‘It’s fine. Don’t worry.’ I sat up, completely naked apart from my earrings, and looming over a man I could barely muster a ‘meh’ for. I had more feelings for the literary book boyfriend I had read about the other night. In fact, the more I studied his face, the more I wondered how we had got together in the first place.

  ‘I’ve just been so stressed with work and preparing everything for the open day at the allotment. Marrows don’t tend to themselves, you know…’

  Girlfriends of his had to…

  ‘I understand. You’ve been under a lot of stress. Don’t worry.’ I was trying desperately hard to salvage a bit of his ego. We were way beyond massaging it. Despite my more than tepid feelings for Steve, I always had this inbuilt capacity to please people and make them like me, even if I didn’t like them much myself. ‘Your body must be tired, that’s all,’ I said, nodding in agreement with myself.

  I met Steve over a year ago at an evening art class. He was one of those people that you just know has a soft, gentle soul. He was every parent’s dream for their daughter. Sensible. Reliable. Boring. Oh God, he was boring. I really tried to see his good points. I could admire his ability to push the versatility of the vegetable. He was very active in the community. He leaned towards supporting the Conservatives like his parents, but I decided to overlook that. Did I mention his love of vegetables? He was extremely concerned about the state of the ozone layer and obviously read up on the subject because he would talk to me endlessly about it. I was interested to begin with, but he took obsession about wind farms to the point of irritation. He liked the arts, which was a plus point for me. He had set up a book club in the local church hall for every Wednesday evening, and as reading is a necessity for me, alongside breathing, I found this completely attractive. Not for long, though. The book choices were not always my cup of tea, but how could I suggest reading Take Me Against The Wall – The Sexy Billionaire Tycoon Chronicles – Book Nine to Glenda, head of the allotment committee? Instead, my bedtime reading started to consist of ancient crime thrillers and How to Get the Most Out of Your Top Soil.

  ‘I think I’m going to call it a night,’ Steve said as he got up from the bed and started dressing. He had come straight from the allotment and was now grappling with a padded waistcoat and cords. He’d left his wellies at the door, where I’d left my sexual satisfaction.

  I wish he tended to me as he tended to his vegetables. Was it normal that he wasn't able to maintain an erection for more than five thrusts? Was it worth worrying about if it was only the second time it had happened? His parsnip wasn't worth tending to if I was completely honest. It was certainly nothing to shout about, and I wasn't doing any shouting, particularly not the moaning, gasping shouts as you're on the cusp of an amazing orgasm. In fact, I'm not sure I’d ever let that kind of sexual desperation escape my lips on a groan, not just with Steve, but ever.

  ‘Will you be going to the still life class on Tuesday?’ I asked. Painting, alongside reading, was the beat to my heart, and I was desperate to start the life drawing element to our weeknight classes.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,’ he said as he combed his fingers through his hair. ‘I’m not sure how I feel about it.’<
br />
  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked as I covered myself with my dressing gown, suddenly feeling vulnerable.

  ‘I just think it’s a bit controversial; don’t you agree?’ He shrugged his shoulders and kissed me on the top of my head as he breezed through to the hallway.

  ‘Controversial?’

  He stopped mid-welly. ‘I’m just thinking about all the…nakedness on show. What would they think at the book club or the allotment committee if they found out we were moonlighting at a life drawing art class?’

  My people pleasing mode started to kick in. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ I said, unsure I believed my own words, but as always, I was too quick to agree with everyone else’s opinion but mine.

  ‘You know I am, sweetheart.’

  After first meeting Steve, it took him a while to summon up the courage to ask me out on a date, and by the time he did, we had got to know each other quite well in class. He had a good eye for colour, and although his tastes were rather more traditional than mine, we seemed to have a mutual appreciation for expressing ourselves through our paint strokes. Romance novels, eat your heart out. I quickly started to daydream about how our relationship was going to be, imagining us running in slow motion across the hills of Norfolk, Jane Austin style, or painting deer and shagging on a bale of hay. He would have to push up my taffeta dress and manoeuvre my bodice out of the way, and I would have to take his manhood out of his jodhpurs for easy access to a quick and dirty romp. Then we'd draw the whole debauchery on our bodies with quills.

  The reality was somewhat different.

  Steve arrived for our first official date on a mountain bike and was dressed head to toe in Lycra bearing the Union Jack. After that, I didn't imagine anything other than how restricted his manhood must have been. No romance novel started with a male protagonist wrapped in a red, white and blue condom, drinking an energy drink from a hip flask.

  When he said he was taking me to a vegan restaurant so he could educate me on the art of preparing vegetables to their best, I responded with a weak, ‘Yay! Great. I love vegetables.’ Especially when they were cut up into chip-like shapes and deep-fried. Give me a potato in various fried or mashed forms and I could possibly get on board. I changed my mind when he asked if I wanted to try the pumpkin seed coffee completely devoid of caffeine and sugar and was essentially fat-free. I should have known we were incompatible as he frowned when I asked, ‘Does it come with cream and sprinkles?’

  During our relationship, there were times when I felt like I was having an out of body experience, looking in on this weirdly together woman from the outside who couldn't seem to let go of the pressure of expectations and was keeping up appearances on the inside. I'd invested in this relationship. We were already over a year down the line. More importantly, he had invested in me, and somehow I felt like I didn't have the right to end it when a connection had been made. I hated hurting people, even if it meant that, ultimately, I would hurt myself. I was also highly conscious that my friends were stumbling into an age when their ‘togetherness' was now being pulled together like a drawstring bag. Relationships for them were strong and passionate. Soulmate is a word I wouldn't use lightly, but my friends had hit the jackpot when it came to love.

  Elle, my good friend who I met on our first day as newly qualified social workers, was irresistibly loved up and newly engaged to Ben. They were even nurturing their first child, who happened to be named Mortgage.

  Abi, who I also met at work and couldn’t live without, was rediscovering lost love, and Gem, Elle’s long-term best friend who I loved like a sister, was experimenting with Loveisintheair.com, the dating website where Elle and Ben met. She was a fabulous mum to her two boys, Theo and Brandon. She was also freshly divorced after her husband cheated but ready to find her dating feet again. Cut to me. I was working my way through a small line of unfulfilled relationships. Don't get me wrong; I certainly wasn't a virgin, but neither was I the one-night stand enthusiast. I was somewhere in between on the scale of sexual prowess, never fully awakening my sexual desires but partaking in several tepid at best relationships. I didn’t see stars or lose the ability to speak after a soul splitting bonk. Sometimes I wondered what all the fuss was about.

  My friends kept me going. They fed my soul. That's such a cliché, I know, but at the same time, it was absolutely true. As a child, I always had strange way of handling my friendships. I would squeeze the life out of them until they couldn't take me anymore, smothering them before they would move on. I needed constant reassurance that I was liked, and if that involved bringing in shiny necklaces or offering a twenty pence piece if they agreed to invite me to their birthday parties, then so be it.

  I also had a rumbling fear that my parents would forget to pick me up from school. After story time, I would cling to the teacher, looking out of the large windows until I saw my mum, dad or grandma standing outside holding a bag of sweets and wearing a big smile as they spotted me arching and straining my neck to see them. Every afternoon, they would be there; not once was I left alone at the end of the day because of a family emergency or traffic problems, but every day, I would have the same fear.

  Looking back, I could see that the fear was absolutely understandable.

  I was adopted just before my first birthday.

  The only part of my identity that I really owned was my name. Kathryn. Kate.

  I often heard the word rejection when reading or talking about adoption. I battled with it; of course I did. But I also always knew that I had been taken away from my birth family for an exceptionally rational reason. It was simple. I wasn't safe in their care. I did have a reasonable amount of anger when wondering why I wasn't enough to keep them away from a lifestyle I shied away from as an adult. Drugs had always scared me. As a teenager, I hated going to parties where drugs or alcohol were the main guests. I rarely enjoyed getting drunk because it was an instant way to lose your inhibitions, and I was a master at keeping control in all areas of my life. My girls, Abi, Gem and Elle, could party, but I didn't feel unsafe around them when the dance of alcohol entered their system. I just didn't always want to join them in the dance.

  Society often views adoption at a skewed angle. People lose their filters when discussing a topic they don’t understand or have no experience of. I was told many times by friends of the family that I should be thankful that my parents chose me—grateful even, like I could have been sent away at any time if they changed their minds. In reality, my parents adored me. They had tried for years to become pregnant, suffering the agony of repeated miscarriages. I knew when I entered their life that I became a light in a world that was previously dim. They loved me from the start of our journey together, and still do.

  ‘Don't forget book club on Wednesday.' I turned to find Steve ready to leave, his hand already on the door handle. ‘Have you read this week's book?'

  ‘I’m halfway through,’ I replied.

  ‘What do you think so far?’

  ‘Erm…what can I say? Very…informative. I was wondering, though, perhaps we could mix it up a bit. Maybe read a different type of book.'

  ‘Well, the group likes to blend their love of the allotment with the titles we read. What was wrong with the last one?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not saying The Guide to Polytunnels wasn’t interesting, but I would like to branch out a little, perhaps into romance.’

  ‘You and your romanticisms,’ he said, kissing my head chastely for the second time this evening. ‘We’ll see, poppet.’

  Ick.

  Poppet, polytunnels and limp dicks summed up my life perfectly.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Hey, Kate, take a seat,' Jamie said as I sat down on the chair beside his desk. ‘How's things?' he asked as he finished typing.

  ‘Busy.’ The world of social work never stopped. Four years into the job and I still felt I was learning the ropes. ‘I have a case conference to prepare for next week, and quite a few duty calls have come in today, but apart from that, everything's
being handled.'

  Jamie had been my manager for the last year. He was also Abi’s boyfriend. No, scratch that. He was Abi’s soul. They had reconnected and were establishing second chance love. I had never seen her happier.

  ‘Abi was talking about going out at the weekend. Are you and what’s his face up for it?’ he asked.

  ‘What’s his face has a name; it’s Steve. I’ll ask him.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t know why I forgot. Maybe he hypnotised me into sleep with his talk of vegetable growing depending on the weather,’ he replied, smirking slightly.

  ‘I happen to find his passion for his allotment fascinating, so keep your comments to yourself.’

  Although Steve and I had been seeing each other for a year, we had only been out a few times with my friends. I guess that it was nerves on my part. I had daydreams of Steve getting on well with Jamie and Ben, but they were all dashed when Steve told me he wasn't sure they were ‘his kind of people’. I briefly wondered if that meant he didn't like men who were insanely better looking than him and had more charisma, charm and humour in their little finger than he did in his whole body, but that would make me a bad person, wouldn't it? I thought it best not to delve too far into the reasons and just accept that they were never going to be best mates.