Broken Records by Bree Bennett

Chapter 12

The idea of having a social media presence had never bothered Lucy. Some people dreaded comments and negative viral attention, but to her, they were simply words, written by unseen faces masked behind blue-lit screens.

Jack, however, was a veritable mess.

On the day they were to begin their foray into the jungle of social media, he snapped at Lucy for everything from how her eggs were cooked (“How can you eat them when they are that runny?”) to the state of his own blue jeans (“What the hell is the point of this little pocket?”). She ignored his nervous bumbling and focused on her own plans for the day.

She was pouring two tall glasses of water, one for her and one for her guest, when she heard Jack amble down the hallway outside of the kitchen. His footsteps stopped abruptly, the volume increasing as he returned.

“Lucy.” He stood in the doorway, arms folded over his chest. Soggy spots covered his shirt where his freshly-showered hair had dripped. “There’s a man in our living room.”

“There is.” She gathered up the glasses, wondering if she should add lemon to the water or if that was too pretentious.

“Who is he?”

“That’s Parker.”

He leaned his head to one side, more water trickling from his dusky waves. “And who, by chance, is Parker?”

“Your—our—new assistant.”

Jack’s head tilted further. His hair flopped directly onto his shoulder, and Lucy made a mental note to grab him a dry shirt before their meeting. He really should have dried his hair with a towel.

“Kim?” he asked, and she nodded. “I didn’t want a new assistant. They’re annoying and bossy.”

“They’re the annoying and bossy ones, and yet you’re the one who’s had five assistants quit on him.” She arched a challenging brow.

He lifted his fist to his mouth, running his teeth along his knuckle. “He’s rather young. And good-looking.” He spoke the last word with the same derision as a leprosy diagnosis.

“That’s really sweet, Jack. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the compliment.” Jack sighed in exasperation. “He looks young because he is young. He just graduated from NYU this past summer with a degree in Music Technology. He could use some exposure in the industry.”

“And getting our groceries is going to help.”

“You’re cranky today,” she pointed out. “Come meet him.” She seized Jack’s hand and escorted him down the hall. After a moment, he gripped her hand back, threading their fingers together.

“Parker, this is Jack.” Parker stood at attention, and Lucy couldn’t help but agree with Jack’s assessment. Parker was good-looking, with a charismatic disarming grin, brownish hair, and eyes to match. He stood several inches over Jack’s six feet, a long-legged bundle of youthful enthusiasm, like a frolicking newborn giraffe.

Parker held out his hand to Jack. “It’s great to meet you, Mr. Vincent,” he said with a tremor of starstruck excitement.

Jack frowned at the assistant’s outstretched hand. Lucy pinched his fingers until he let out a yowl and returned the handshake. “Call me Jack,” he muttered. “I like my coffee with two cream, five sugars. Don’t get pregnant.” With that, he turned on his heel and went back to his studio, slamming the door.

“That’s not even coffee, that’s syrup,” Parker said, his mouth half-open in disbelief. He flicked a hand at the empty doorway. “Is he always like that?”

“Cantankerous? Usually. Will you be treated like Bob Cratchit? Often. Still want the job?”

He mirrored Lucy’s knowing grin. “Absolutely.”

They sat down at the table to plan out his duties. By the end of it, he had assignments to set up a housekeeping service, help Kim and Martin with any last-minute wedding items, and assist Jack at the recording studio once work on the new album began.

Five minutes before their scheduled video meeting, Jack stalked back to join them. Parker had set up their webcam and laptop to meet with Martin and Kim. Jack thanked him with a tolerating grumble.

“First off, nice work yesterday with the fainting stuff,” said Martin, not bothering with a greeting. “You were trending for a few hours.”

“Fainting stuff?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, whatever Lucy did,” Martin said. “There’s an out-of-focus photo of you helping her up off the ground. The responses were generally positive, portraying you as some kind of hero. Although some people think you pushed her over, but that’s the Internet for you.”

“Fantastic.” Jack folded his hands over his eyes and groaned. “People expect the same behavior from me that they do from an angry goose.”

“Now, you guys ready?” asked Martin through the video feed, dramatically swirling his finger in the air above the keyboard.

“Ready,” Jack and Lucy said, locking apprehensive gazes.

Martin clicked on his laptop just once, and the first Instagram post of their absurd scheme went live. It was a simplistic picture of Jack, taken in front of the baby grand piano at the record label’s office. His face was turned away from the camera, his long fingers splayed on the keys. In calming, classic black and white, the photo was accompanied by inspirational words about change and the future.

As soon as the post went live, the comments flowed in like water from a broken pipe. As expected, a few were nasty and ruthless, with blatant jabs at Jack’s previous escapades and lackluster albums. Lucy dismissed them, but Jack’s forearm flexed and tensed, pressed against her own. Parker tracked the feedback from his own phone, jotting down ideas on a notepad.

“Look.” Lucy tapped on the laptop screen above one of the comments, which was just a screaming emoji accompanied by the words “NEW ALBUM?!?!” and then #jackhunter4ever. Whoever had the username @jhpenguin was going to be thrilled with the campaign. They’d get that new album and a hell of a lot more.

Jack’s jaw went as rigid as a steel rail as more and more comments filtered in regarding the new album. “Are we done here?”

Martin didn’t seem fazed by Jack’s hostile tone. “We’re good. I’ll keep an eye on the comments and reactions. In two days, we’ll post something hinting again at the new album, and then we’ll come in from left field with the engagement photos.” He grinned like he was planning a worldwide takeover, not an engagement announcement, and hung up without a goodbye, leaving only Kim still connected.

“Parker, great to have you on board,” she said. Jack emitted a very audible, very displeased grunt but said nothing. “I’ll email over all the details for the concert on Saturday.” Parker scribbled copious notes while still maintaining animated eye contact with Kim.

“And Jack,” she continued, switching from warmth to wariness. “Next week, the studio is assigned to you to start laying down tracks. You can get in a couple days before you leave for Thanksgiving.” Jack’s lips curled into the slightest sneer. “Good,” she said, her tone anything but good as she began disconnecting. “See you soon.”

“Parker?” asked Jack. “You’ve got your tasks then?”

“Of course,” said Parker, his eyes bright. “Plenty to prepare for—”

“Good,” Lucy’s oh-so-cheerful fiancé interrupted. “Go home and do it.”

Parker looked at Lucy, who granted him an assured smile. “Text me with your questions and updates any time. I know we’ll work great together.” Once Parker was out of the house, she whirled on Jack. “What’s wrong with you?”

His dark brows drew together in consternation, and he flexed his fingers like raptor talons before blurting out, “You know I don’t have any songs.”

Lucy searched his somber expression. Beneath that sullen attitude was a layer of pure panic, teetering on a foundation of years of self-doubt.

He doesn’t need coddling,she thought. He needs courage. Or a swift kick in the rear.

She grasped his shoulders firmly and spun him in the direction of his studio. “Then go write.”

* * *

Jack stomped off to the studio and slumped into his chair, snatching up his guitar. He tuned his guitar angrily—yes, it was possible to angrily tune a guitar—until a string snapped and stung his fingers. He hurled the string into the trash with no less than a dozen curses.

“Do you need me to do anything?” Lucy asked, appearing in the doorway. “I can talk, not talk, play music, whatever you need.”

Jack gave her a glare infused with every ounce of sarcasm he could muster. “Whale songs.”

“Really?” Her luminous brown eyes sparked, and she retrieved her phone from her pocket. Before he could stop her, the crooning wail of a whale echoed through the room.

“I was kidding.” He scratched at the back of his neck as the sounds of a colossal sea mammal bellowed in the background. “Maybe if you come in, work on your laptop, it’ll put some imagined pressure on me.”

She vanished through the door and reappeared with her computer, flopping down in the armchair and losing herself in concentration.

Jack plucked a few chords to warm up, and then worked through a few of his older songs, looking to the past to grant him some hint of future inspiration. Every once in a while, he glanced over at Lucy for a reaction, but she was oblivious. Even when he threw a Bruce Springsteen song into the mix, she had the focus of a Buckingham Palace guard.

Too jittery to work on a melody, Jack laid his guitar down and reached for his notebook.

“Play ‘Freebird.’” Lucy flicked her eyes up from her screen, and the edge of her mouth lifted.

“Really?”

“Nah. I just always wanted to be the one to say that.” She mimicked an invisible lighter in her hand, waving it in the air in tribute to concertgoers from decades past. “Although, I’m not likely to see Lynyrd Skynyrd in concert any time soon, so you’ll have to do.”

Jack twiddled his ballpoint in his hand like a drumstick. “What concerts have you been to?”

Her gaze slid back to her screen. “None.”

“None?” He scoffed. “Are you serious? You, of all people? I thought you’d have a pallet full of ticket stubs back at home.”

Her lips compressed. “Not a lot of tours go through Sparrow Hill.”

“Oh, come on. You’re not far from Indianapolis or even Chicago. All the good tours hit those. I’ve played them both at least ten times.”

She tapped at a key with unnecessary force and didn’t answer.

“Well, at least you’ll be at the Harvest Festival,” he added.

“You don’t need me there. There won’t be time for pictures.”

“No, I don’t need you there,” he said, although, now that the idea was there, the thought of seeing her out in the audience as he performed sent a glow of contentment through his body. What would it be like to play for a crowd, knowing that someone was out there in the audience not because they were a fan, but because they were there for you and you alone? That they were, God forbid, proud of you? “Seriously, you would have fun. Come to the concert. Please.”

She bit the side of her thumb. “Fine. I’ll go.”

“It’s not a death sentence. I’ll even let you come backstage. You can get my autograph.”

She rolled her eyes. “Autographs are creepy.”

“You keep saying that.”

She thrust a slender index finger upward, like a lawyer on a mission. “Someone admires you, so they give you a piece of paper. You write your name on it and give them back the paper. Not a letter, not instructions, just your signature. And then they treasure it forever and ever for some reason.” She dropped her voice to a gruff rasp. “Hi, my name is Jack. See? I can write my name. Take it and show your great-grandchildren.”

“I don’t sound like that at all,” he corrected before elevating his voice an octave, adding a nasal Midwestern twang to his vowels. “Howdy, I’m Lucy. I secretly want Jack to sign everything I own because he’s my favorite singer ever.”

Her eyes spoke of intended murder, but her lips struggled to hold back her amusement. “It’s weird.”

“It’s a time-honored tradition. I think.”

She side-eyed Jack. “It’s a creepy-ass tradition. Just give them a sample vial of blood while you’re at it.”

“I really am going to sign everything I give you from now on,” he said, waggling the pen threateningly in her direction. Lucy sniffed and motioned to his dog-eared notebook.

“You start with the lyrics first, then?”

“Sometimes. Elton John style. Except, in this case, I’m both Bernie Taupin and Elton, but neither side is feeling inspired.” He glanced at her. “Do you have a favorite song of mine? Maybe I can try and mimic the style a bit.”

“‘Applejohn Blues,’” she said immediately. “Your bluesy songs are always stronger than your standard ones.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “The structure is solid, the tempo is upbeat without being obnoxious, and you use bent notes to accentuate the lyrics rather than overpower them. And your voice. Mmm.” She clapped a distressed hand over her mouth, her eyes as round as dinner plates.

“Lucy.” He lifted a roguish eyebrow.

“Yes?”

“Cottontail.”

“Not my name.”

“Did you just make a…” He paused for dramatic effect, flourishing his hand out like a Shakespearean actor. “A yummy noise about my voice?”

Her face was the color of a raspberry. “You sing very effectively.”

“Effectively?”

“Effectively.”

“Lucy.” He diminished his voice to a near-purr. “What does effectively mean?”

“Well, you have a growly, howling sort of quality that is…” she gulped, “pleasant.”

When she met his gaze head-on, he gave her a smile as sweet and feral as honey dripping from a bear’s claws.

“Effectively, indeed,” He threw her a first-rate smoldering look and returned to his notebook.

She cleared her throat. “Do you want me to look at what you’ve written so far?”

“There’s nothing here.” He held up a page with a few lines of schlock and a sketched stick figure of a guitarist with a speech bubble that read “KILL ME.”

She tapped her lips, her eyes shooting back and forth like she was reading a line of invisible code. “Hand me the notebook.” She whipped her palm out.

“No.”

She shut her laptop with a snap and came closer, her hand out. “The notebook?”

“Make another yummy noise.”

Her eyes blazed. “No.” She snatched the notebook and sat down on the couch next to him. “I learned this trick in a creative writing class in college.” She scrawled on the top of the page. “You need to stop trying to write a Jack Hunter song and just write. Even if it’s dumb.”

She held the notebook up to his face so he could read her prim handwriting.

It was a dark and stormy night

“You’re kidding.” He pushed the notebook away.

“Nope.” She shoved the notebook back at him. “There’s the first line to a song. You’re just trying to get your creativity flowing in another direction.”

“No.”

She wrote another line.

And your hair looked such a fright

“This is ridiculous.”

She stole his hand and attempted to pry his fingers open. He stiffened them just to be contrary. Once she lifted the last finger, her tongue jutting out of the side of her mouth with the effort, she forced the pen into his grip and fastened his hand around it. She covered his hands as if he held something priceless instead of a cheap ballpoint, and a zap of electricity tripped over his skin. Her breath snagged, and she jerked her hands away, narrowing her eyes as if the tangible heat between them was all Jack’s doing.

“Fine. Are we going with four-line rhymes or just couplets?”

She shrugged. “I’m not the writer here.”

“No, apparently just my tormenter.” In more ways than this ridiculous exercise. He jotted something down and flipped the pen at her. She caught it, read the notebook, and began chortling.

My socks are too damn tight

“You’re not even wearing socks.” She laughed and checked her shoulder into his.

“You didn’t say it had to be factual.”

“True. You never wear socks.”

“Neither do you!” he scoffed, snagging her bare foot. Her toes had been supplanted by ice cubes. He took her other foot and cupped his hands around her digits, rubbing them back to room temperature.

A brief moment of realization passed, and their mutual gazes fastened on his long fingers.

“Huh,” he said, because nowhere in their contract did it say they were responsible for warming each other’s toes. Yet, there he was, massaging Lucy’s feet to the tune of dramatic whales warbling wordlessly about something like krill or kelp or talking wooden puppets. He patted her feet once and lifted his hands away as if to say, all done! Her copper-colored eyes traversed up his body before settling on his mouth. He nearly made a yummy noise of his own.

“You’ve got the basic idea,” she said, sliding off the couch. “I’ll leave you to it.” She was gone from the room—jackrabbit fast as always—before he could even conjure up a reply.

Jack recovered the pen and tried to list all the words he knew that rhymed with night, but without Lucy in the room, the exercise once again felt pointless and, well, difficult. Too difficult for his washed-up brain.

He closed the notebook with a level of indifference several decades in the making, crossing the room to his bar. Overfilling a shot glass with whiskey, he toasted the unknown whale still pouring her marine soul out, and focused on getting very, very drunk.