Broken Records by Bree Bennett

Chapter 13

Jack didn’t believe in magic. Sure, he was a closet Harry Potter fan, and he was still convinced that one girl in Croatia had done some sort of voodoo on his junk, but other than that, logic clearly proved that magic didn’t exist.

Until Lucy emerged from her room clad in some sort of fashion sorcery that transmogrified his hands into magnets. He actually had to trap his hands—the magnetic knots of lust that they were—deep in his pockets so he wouldn’t maul her like a bear returning from hibernation.

Instead of her usual braids or messy buns, her hair swirled and cascaded down her back like a waterfall. Her band shirts had been usurped by an emerald green dress that caressed every curve, topped off with a plunging neckline that left little to the imagination. His brain short-circuited, and all focus he had built up for that night’s event disappeared in a poof of desire.

And what an event it would be. After being roped into replacing Patrick Hodelle for the Laser Wolves set at the Harvest Festival tomorrow, Jack was expected to be at the celebratory dinner, an event designed for self-promotion under the pretense of charity. It would be a good practice event for Lucy. Most of the attendees were rich but not famous, and there wouldn’t be any significant media presence other than a stray camera here or there. It was a chance to dip her in hot water before throwing her into the pot completely.

She checked her hair one last time in the hall mirror. Jack knew he should say something suave and gentlemanly like, “You look wonderful tonight,” but all that fell out of his clumsy mouth was a barked, “Aren’t you ready yet?”

She beamed at him, her full lips colored cranberry red. “You’re the one whose bowtie isn’t tied yet.”

He fumbled with the limp fabric at his neck before she plucked his fingers away. She sidled up to him, so close that he could just seize her hips and yank her against the swell in his pants, and they could forego the bowtie and the rest of their clothes altogether.

“How do you know how to tie a bow tie?” Jack asked, steering his gaze skyward, because if he looked down at her bare, elegant neck, he might go full vampire on her.

“Three brothers, two proms each.” She tugged the ends and leaned closer, outlining the fabric to verify every angle was absolutely straight. “Plus, Nico’s wedding, so that’s another four bowties counting my dad.”

“I don’t even know what I’m wearing to our wedding, but if it’s a bow tie, I’ll call in your expertise.” She inclined his chin with her finger for better access. He restrained from nipping the end with his teeth. “Any of your other siblings married?”

“None of them are. Nico and Jenny divorced years ago. Someone else better get married in the next two years, or the Meyer record is going to be oh-for-two.”

“I think my mom is oh-in-four or oh-in-five. There was a remarriage there somewhere.”

“Well, then. We’re just following in our family’s footsteps.” Her smile wavered.

“We still need to come up with a good story on how we met,” Jack said, shifting the subject away from their impending divorce, especially when the impending marriage hadn’t happened yet.

“I was held in a warehouse by kidnappers. You saved me, and we drove off into the sunset just as the warehouse exploded.”

“Whoa there, Michael Bay,” he said. “We don’t want to be boring, but we need something believable.”

She huffed. “Fine. We met at a record store.”

“We did.”

“It was love at first sight.” She flapped her eyelashes like a soap star.

“Classic, but it works.”

“You took me out to dinner.”

“Where?”

“McDonald’s.”

“I am a classy guy.” He folded his arms. “Where, really?”

“I dunno. Some Italian place. I was too enamored to look at the name.” She sighed, and beneath the false drama rang a wistful note. “And then you wooed me passionately.”

“I wooed you.”

“You wooed me.”

“We aren’t using the word ‘woo.’ I don’t woo.”

“You wooed me. Then you took me to Central Park. We looked at the leaves changing. You realized I had been properly wooed, and you proposed under a tree.”

“What kind of a tree?”

“A maple.” She flashed a rare, mischievous smile. “It was simply woo-tiful.”

He groaned. “Woo-nderful.”

“We know it’s a short engagement, but we couldn’t help ourselves; we’re so in love. You even wrote me a poem. Roses are red, violets are woo—”

“Jesus.” He hauled her closer under the guise of assisting her with her coat. “I should send you back to Indiana.”

“Oh, and you were going to sing a song for me when you proposed. Ask me why you didn’t.”

“Oh darling, lovable, not-funny-at-all fiancée of mine, why didn’t I sing for you at our proposal?”

“Because all you could think of were Woo-Tang Clan songs.” She shifted to catch his expression and burst into giggles, her eyes watering with mirth.

Jack touched his forehead to hers. The vibration of her laughter tickled his skin. “Cottontail, I swear…”

Her snickers faded into quickened breaths. Her scent was perfect cocoa and lavender, and inhaling it gave Jack enough courage to be incredibly stupid.

“Luciana,” he said, his lips against the fragile sweep of her temple.

“Yeah?”

“We’re going to have to act in love at this event too.”

“Oh.” Her breath caught. “I suppose I can act really happy to see you.”

“Mmm-hmmm.” He skimmed his mouth over her brow. “Cottontail?”

“Not my name.”

Jack tipped her head, and her lips parted by instinct.

“I’m going to kiss you.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Why would you do that?”

“Practice. We don’t want to be awkward in public together.”

“Right,” she said with a witchy half-smile. Her eyes dropped to his lips, the black velvet edge of her lashes an elegant contrast to her flushed skin. “Because we’re never awkward together.”

“Oh, hush.” He quelled her sarcasm by grazing his lips over hers, intending to be quick and chaste. She squeaked, and for a moment, their lips compressed together, hard and unyielding as competing bumper cars. Then with a surrendering sigh, she slackened against him, and quick and chaste became the most difficult words in the English language. Her lips were so delicate and supple that it took every ounce of Jack’s focus to keep it simple. After one more kiss, he drew back. Her eyes drifted open, lazy and demure.

“How did we do?” he asked.

She frowned. “Needs work.” She grasped the lapels of his tuxedo and yanked him to her. He crushed his lips against hers, and quick and chaste changed status from merely difficult words to “words Jack wanted outlawed from the dictionary.” With a coarse, hungry noise, he tangled his hands in her thick hair, bowing her head to a new angle so he could devour her without grace or mercy. His other hand clawed around her hip, and he jerked her flush to him. Her breasts pressed against his chest in a gasping rhythm, and she moaned against his mouth. He backed her into the wall, and her coat crumpled to the rug, forgotten. She twined her leg around his, hooking him closer, and he shifted a shaking knee between her legs. His hips carelessly rolled against her, a barely perceptible movement that was rewarded when she quivered against him. Then she shoved his chest, and he pitched backward, interrupting the kiss.

“We’re good!” she said. “No more practice needed.” Her lips were delectably swollen, her lipstick as smudged as an impressionist painting.

“Yes, I think we’ve got it down,” Jack said. He turned from her to regain control, but his brain only remembered two instincts: breathing and tossing her over his shoulder like a Neanderthal.

For both their sakes, he focused on breathing.

She grabbed her coat from the floor and stalked to the front door on spindly heels. Jack followed, still reeling from the lust cyclone inside his head.

* * *

When they arrived inside the Manhattan event hall, Jack turned to Lucy for a last-minute pep talk. To his astonishment, she was utterly calm and poised, like a porcelain doll on a collector’s shelf.

He didn’t like it.

“You’re going to be alright with this?” he asked.

She proffered a wholly disconnected smile. “Of course, Jack.” She tucked her arm into the bend of his elbow. The engagement ring winked in the panes of light drifting down from the overpriced chandeliers. Jack liked how it looked on her hand—tangible proof that she was necessary. Maybe even that she was meant to be there and had always been. That somehow, they were just naturally each other’s people.

Once inside the ornate ballroom, Jack escorted her to a nook between tables where they could speak without being overheard.

“Look over there.” He indicated a cluster of guests across the room, huddled together like penguins on the ice. “That older man, that’s Frank Taylor. He founded Derelict Records. He’s the one who will have the final say on whether I get a new contract.”

“Got it.”

“The blond man next to him, that’s his son Keith. Frank is pretty much grooming him to be his successor. Keith has a hand in all decisions for the label, officially or not.”

“Keith Taylor,” Lucy recited it several times under her breath.

“All right, Cottontail. Like it or not, it’s showtime.” He steered her toward the Taylors and their gaggle of acquaintances.

“Jack!” Frank Taylor’s voice boomed. He was in his early sixties, but time had been benevolent to his appearance. His dark hair had faultlessly spaced streaks of gray, and his mannerisms and attire were more like that of a boisterous sea captain than a businessman nearing retirement. “I’m glad you could make it! I can’t remember the last time I saw you out at an event like this.” His smile was sincere, but a reluctant tautness around his eyes made Jack wary. “And this is the fiancée.” Frank grasped Lucy’s hand, patting the back of it in a fatherly manner. She tensed at his touch but didn’t push him away. “I’ll tell you what, I could hardly believe it when Kim told me. Jack Hunter! Engaged!”

“I can hardly believe it myself.” Jack smiled at Lucy in a way that said, look how much I adore my fiancée! It wasn’t too difficult to manage. “This is Luciana Meyer.”

“Call me Lucy. It’s so lovely to meet you.” Her voice was silky and lithe, and it stunned Jack how comfortable she appeared, as if she had been trained for society events her entire life. His own smile slipped away.

This wasn’t his Lucy. This was someone else entirely.

“Lucy, you must be a saint.” Frank released her hand and slapped Jack’s shoulder so hard he felt it reverberate in his ribcage. “How did you tame this jackass?”

“I didn’t have to tame anyone,” she said, her rosy mouth crooking upward, eyes sparkling with pride, unconditional and pure. “Jack is absolutely wonderful the way he is.”

Jack had fallen once while running onto a stage, years ago. A loose wire had hooked around his shoe, and he had tumbled forward, crashing into the planked stage floor and slamming the air from his lungs. He had laid there, gasping for air, ribs bruised and aching, all the while aware of the hundreds of people staring at him as he was stripped to the core by unadulterated shock. And yet when he had staggered to his feet, he had realized that the whole episode had taken place just inside the curtain’s edge. The audience had been completely unaware of the way he had just fallen completely apart.

He felt the same way as he did sprawled on that long-ago stage, the breath knocked from his chest, shock scorching its way through his veins, and yet the world spun on around him, oblivious to the effect of Lucy’s whole and absolute trust.

He brushed his lips against her temple, lingering against the delicate pulse point. Thank God it was you that walked into that record store.

Frank coughed. “Lucy, this is my son, Keith.” She stretched her hand out to the younger man, and Jack recalled all too late how much of a charmer Keith Taylor actually was.

“Pleasure to meet you,” says Keith, flashing a set of pearly white teeth and flicking oceanic blue eyes toward him. “Jack, she’s absolutely stunning. Well done.”

“Don’t tell me, tell her,” he grumbled. “She’s my fiancée, not some fish I caught.”

“My apologies.” He grinned at her, and Jack saw he had dimples. Dimples, dammit! He clenched his jaw as Keith lowered his voice. “Lucy, you’re absolutely stunning.” Lucy blushed like a debutante and beamed at him, patting him on the shoulder with a sugary laugh.

“And don’t forget me, now.” A heavier-set man with a smug leer bustled forward, his hand out to Lucy. Jack groaned internally upon recognition.

“This is James Thurston,” Frank said. “He owns Cruise Records.” The middle-aged mogul grabbed Lucy’s hand and pumped it. He was saturated with the essence of New England old money, but with an extra sheen of music industry political smarminess.

“Nice to meet you, Lucy.” He dropped her hand and reached for Jack’s with a wink. “Jack, if you ever want to talk when these two knuckleheads aren’t around…” He dipped his chin toward Keith and Frank.

“Thanks, James,” Jack said, dragging his hand away. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He wouldn’t.

A godsend of a waiter appeared with a tray full of champagne flutes, and Jack snagged one each for Lucy and himself. She declined hers with a smile, but it wasn’t the prized, genuine smile he craved. It was false and rehearsed, yet everyone was lapping it up like kittens with saucers of cream.

“So when’s the wedding?” asked Frank.

“Soon,” said Lucy. “We’re finalizing the details now.” She delivered a convincingly contrite pout. “I’m so sorry we won’t be able to have anyone there, but we wanted to keep it just the two of us. Especially with some of the bad press Jack has been getting lately.”

Frank admired her with calculated appreciation. “That’s exactly right. Right now, the best thing for Jack is staying low-key.” He shot Jack a heavy glance. “The best thing for the label too.”

Jack swallowed, grasping the executive’s meaning. All work and no play make Jack a lucrative asset to Derelict Records.

James launched into one of his blustering stories about his sordid past, an activity that usually commanded most of the social gatherings he attended. That night’s long-winded saga was from his younger days as a trust-fund bachelor, something about a Clinton election night party, Freddie Mercury, and a few has-been 90s movie stars. Jack shifted from foot to foot, looking enviously over at a round table and chairs. If they had to listen to James’s self-absorbed stories, they should at least be allowed to sit while doing it.

He glanced at Lucy, expecting to find that “Grace Kelly at the Oscars” high society composure. Instead, she glowered as if James were declaring to a room full of children that Santa wasn’t real.

Jack draped a hand around her waist and pulled her close enough to murmur in her ear, “Everything okay?”

Her hand flexed and thrashed, like a wolf pawing the ground before pouncing. “No, you didn’t,” she blurted out, bringing James’s story to a screeching halt. James blinked at her with eyelids puffy from a life of unencumbered inebriation. Lucy’s cheekbones were dusted with pink indignance, and her sculpted persona vanished.

There you are. There’s my real Lucy.

Jack sipped his champagne nonchalantly and stepped back to watch the show.

“I’m sorry, what was that, dear?” James accentuated the “dear” like a patronizing uncle.

Her eye twitched, and Jack almost felt sorry for James. Almost.

“Why would Freddie Mercury be there?”

“Why wouldn’t he be?” He glanced around at the rest of them with a can you believe this girl? look.

“He wasn’t known for mixing in American politics,” she said.

“That doesn’t matter. It was a hell of a party, and he was invited.”

“Sure. It’s just that Bill Clinton was elected in 1992.”

“So?”

“Well, it would be hard for Freddie Mercury to attend, considering he passed away in 1991.”

The group was stricken speechless. Jack drained the rest of his champagne flute while satisfaction rippled through his chest.

Well done, Cottontail.

Keith erupted into laughter, clapping the astonished man on the back. “She’s got you there, Jim.”

“Must have been some other British singer, then.” He mumbled something excusatory, waving at another party guest and weaving their way to bore them instead.

“We’ve all wanted to call him out,” Keith said, wiping his eyes. “But you actually did it. Please come with Jack to all events from now on. Hell, come without Jack if you want. You’re a treasure.”

Jack grinned at Lucy, but her expression was blank as a slate.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I’m going to find the restroom.” Keith jumped at the chance to steer her in the right direction. She thanked him with that icy smile and walked away.

Keith stood next to Jack, rocking on the balls of his feet as he watched Lucy disappear down a hallway.

“How did you, of all people, manage to win that?” he asked. His tone held subtle notes of both admiration and degradation that turned Jack’s blood volcanic.

“I wooed her,” he said and dashed after his fiancée.

* * *

Lucy did not go toward the restroom, opting instead for a hallway clouded with savory kitchen odors and tempered by a chilly blast of air from the back entrance. The door yawned open into a cramped alley stuffed with greasy cardboard boxes, used metal drums, and a rusty dumpster.

You messed up, Lucy.

Brock’s velvet and cashmere voice droned in her head, over and over like a wobbly record. Ten minutes into the event, and she had ruined everything. She knew she could be polite and quiet and charming. Brock had made her rehearse enough before any social event. She knew the right way to smile, to stand, to touch another person, or shake that person’s hand.

She didn’t like it, but she knew how to do it.

The back door swung open with a squeal of rusty hinges, and Jack stepped outside, scowling at the sunlight like a grouchy fruit bat.

“Lucy? You out here?”

“I’m here,” she said, resignation coloring her voice.

“They’re starting to serve the food.”

She didn’t answer, preferring to examine a discarded glass bottle with half of the label missing. If she positioned the ball of her foot on it just right, she could roll it back and forth in a peaceful rhythm without toppling over on her heels.

“Hey.” He softened his tone. “What’s wrong?”

“I messed up.” She shrugged, but the cadence of her breathing was abrupt and jagged.

“What did you do?” He started to pat her down like an injured child, his hands running up and down her arms until she twisted away.

“I didn’t fall; I said I messed up.”

“How?” He tossed his head from side to side as if the proof of her mistake was something tactile lounging out in the alley with her.

She rolled at the glass bottle again until Jack stepped on it, blocking it with his dress shoe.

“No editing, Luciana. What’s going on in there?” He tapped her furrowed forehead.

“I’m working on it,” she bit out, because she honestly didn’t know what to say, what the right words would be, and most importantly, what not to give away.

“Okay, then. When you’re ready.” He released the bottle from his foot and stepped back.

She took a knife-sharp breath. “I let me out.”

“You?”

“I couldn’t let him be wrong,” she bit out. “He was saying the wrong things. And now I’ve ruined everything.”

Look what you did, Lucy. You fucked up.

Jack rubbed at his mouth, but his shoulders were twitching with stifled laughs.

“It isn’t funny,” she said, suppressing an indignant foot stamp. “I messed up. I should have kept my mouth shut and stood there and smiled and—”

“Oh, Lucy,” he said with a headshake. “You’re doing just fine. They loved you in there. What do you want me to do? Punish you for being charming?”

Like that of a chained dog, a terrified, inhuman whine escaped her throat, and Jack’s mirthful look plummeted. He reached for her, but she shied away, stumbling backward. The bottle under her foot betrayed her, switching reassurance for imbalance. His hand shot out to steady her, but when his fingers coiled around her wrist, she released another unearthly wail.

“Lucy. Look at me.”

She jerked her head, her eyes screwed up tight, waiting for the hot surge of pain and salty ooze of blood. His hand grazed her jaw, and she clamped her teeth together.

Just take it, Lucy. I’m just trying to help you. You just need to learn.

“Luciana. Honey, look at me.”

The Honey snapped her from the flashback, leading her through the murky fog of memory like a lighthouse on the rocks. She blinked several times and forced her eyes to travel to Jack’s face. His expression was desolate, and his fists hung rigid at his side.

“What did you think I was going to do?” he asked.

“I messed up.”

“No, you didn’t,” he ground out, a definitive pause between each word. “What did you think I was going to do?”

She whipped her head back and forth, looking at everything in the alley except Jack. The man just wanted his life to stay the same, and there she was, mucking it up with her inability to hide anything true about herself.

“I thought you were going to punish me,” she finally whispered, and his neutral countenance melted into a torrent of distress and anger.

“I would never—” His throat bobbed, but she shook her head, waves of dark hair swishing back and forth against stiffened shoulders.

“I don’t want to have this conversation,” she said, enunciating the words as if each syllable were a protective shield.

“We will,” he said. “And soon. But not tonight.” He tucked a wayward tendril of hair behind her ear. “Lucy, just be you. For the love of God. I don’t want anyone else. If I wanted the stereotypical perfect woman, I would’ve picked one of the actresses that Kim wanted. Someone we could mold into what we needed.”

“I can be perfect. I can try harder.”

A slight tremor in his thumb syncopated his touch as he stroked the cuff of her ear, the hollow of flesh behind the lobe, the ridge of her jawline. “This whole PR stunt is a shitshow. Let’s at least have a little fun. Besides, you’re a success already. You calling out James has gained you instant adoration from Frank and Keith.”

She flushed. “I just want this to go well for you.”

His hand drifted down to hers. “You know, I’ve done ten tours in twenty-some years, and those each lasted nearly two years. There’s no time to be lonely. There’s no time to be anything. It’s go-go-go, twenty-four hours a day, every day. And…sometimes I hate it.”

“What?! Then why are we doing this?” She flapped her hand between their chests.

“I don’t know how to do anything else. So here we are.” He hesitated for a beat. “Look. I’m an asshole, and you’re a weirdo, and we get along just fine. I’m not pretending to be anything I’m not, and you don’t need to either. If they don’t understand either of us, they can screw right off. Let’s just have fun for the next two years and raise a little hell along the way.” He extended his hand for a mock handshake.

“Thanks, asshole,” she said with a skeptical chuckle, her palm meeting his.

“You’re welcome, weirdo.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, and for a brief moment, she thought she might kiss him again.

“Come on,” he said instead with an auspicious wink. “Let’s go raise some hell.”