Broken Records by Bree Bennett

Chapter 14

The following morning, Jack picked up a complimentary Marriott Hotels pen, leftover from one of his tours, and began to write.

Inebriated indifference had been a lousy muse for the past few years, but after the previous night’s events, he suddenly possessed an entire palette of emotions, raw and ready to be used.

He wrote anger.

He wrote fear.

He wrote frustration and uncertainty and shame, and he wrote a brand new emotion altogether, one that captured the scent of cocoa and lavender.

The incident in the alley solidified his suspicions that Lucy had been hit, and often. But now that he knew, he had no idea what he was supposed to do next. In the movies, the hero always hunted down the abuser and subjected them to some radical torture scene that brought in gazillions of box office dollars and the promise of multiple sequels.

But that wasn’t how it worked in real life.

When Lucy had flinched from him, his pulse had begun galloping like a spooked racehorse. Instinct didn’t spur him to fight. It made him want to take Lucy home where they could lock the door and hide away, and no one would ever, ever cause that look on Lucy’s face again.

Lucy came into the music room with a sheepish smile. Jack snapped his notebook shut as if the crinkled lined paper would betray his thoughts. “You look suspicious,” he said, securing his guitar in its case.

“I, uh, thought I should wear this today.” She tugged on her shirt hem, displaying a silhouetted guitarist and stylized logo. Jack’s face split into a self-satisfied grin.

“Why, Miss Meyer,” he drawled. “Is that a Jack Hunter shirt?”

“I didn’t have a Laser Wolves shirt, so I had to go with this old thing.”

He rolled his eyes and hurled a pillow at her. She caught it and set it back on the couch at a perfectly measured angle.

“Come here.” He rifled through his desk drawer and pulled out a marker, hiding it behind his back. “Close your eyes.”

She grimaced but shut her eyes as he moved behind her. He said, “I’m going to touch your hair,” because he didn’t want to startle her and get whacked in the nose again. He swept her long braid back, exposing the delicate skin of her neck. He autographed the shirt with huge, swooping letters—yet another signature binding his life to hers.

She stiffened. “Did you really just sign my shirt?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s creepy.”

“I’m well aware of your feelings on autographs.” He capped the pen, and she whirled around. “Most people love my autographs. And I’ve signed a lot of things.” He waggled his eyebrows.

“Like?”

“Photos. Guitars. Cars. Breasts.”

She peered downward at her own chest, then back to Jack with a frown. “But then how do they remove it?”

“I’m…sorry?”

“They’d probably have to use something caustic, I’m sure. Rubbing alcohol, maybe. Coconut oil might work, too.” Her nose wrinkled, and she rubbed at her skin.

“Maybe they want it to stay on. We could experiment if you’re really wondering.” He uncapped the pen and winked at her, wielding it like a sword. She hopped out of the marker’s radius and tipped her head toward the notebook.

“What were you working on?”

“The usual,” Jack said, flopping back down on the sofa. “Trying to unstick my stuck brain.”

“Well, maybe you need to talk it out.” She sat down next to him. “What do your songs feel like?”

“Feel like?” he simpered. They feel like failure.

“Yeah, you know.” She rotated her hand in the air, grasping for a description. “The emotional response they evoke. Or physical.” She tapped her nails to her teeth before snapping her fingers. “Like ‘Juke Box Hero.’”

“The Foreigner song?”

“Yes.” She nodded, as if affirming an internal argument. “First, you’ve got that intro beat. BR-ahw, buh-boom buh-boom, buh-boom.”

“Br-ahw? That’s a word?”

“In this case, yes. That single beat makes you feel like you’re all alone, but in a good way. You feel like you’re in the rain like the narrator in the beginning. You feel the excitement and anticipation. And then Hwah-CHA!” She waved her arm like a manic conductor. “You get zapped by lightning, just like the singer, all based on the way it feels. It feels like newness. It feels like possibility.”

“Got it,” Jack nudged her playfully. “‘Juke Box Hero’ feels like Br-ahw. Or Hwah-cha. And whatever other words you have in your sound effect language there.”

Her nostrils flared, and she retrieved her phone, scrolling until her eyes lit up. She lifted the phone to show Jack the album art.

“Neil Diamond?” Jack blinked. The soft rock artist wasn’t exactly Jack’s style.

“Yes.”

“Neil,” he clarified.

“Yes.”

“Of the Diamond family.”

“Yes.” She sighed like an exasperated school teacher. “‘Forever in Blue Jeans’ is a perfect example of ‘feeling’ a song. First, you’ve got a simple picked melody and a rhythmic bass drum beat. It’s clean, fresh; it sounds like summer. He starts with the chorus to get you hooked. The lyrics aren’t deep, and they don’t need to be. He uses easy rhymes like ‘money’ and ‘honey,’ and ‘walk’ and ‘talk,’ but hooks you in with that bass beat, and you just want more. Like engaging in musical foreplay.”

Jack’s spine went rigid, and his belly fluttered. “Neil Diamond is foreplay?”

“No. Yes. Sort of. Hush.” She shook her head and raced onward. “So you’re hooked by this simple chorus, simple beat, and it just feels so promising and exciting. And then he does those quick synth chords like he’s leading up to something so good—bum bum bum bum bum bum bum.” She tapped it out on the side of her thigh. “And you’re just vibrating with the need to hear that chorus again, and do you know what he does?”

“No, Lucy,” he said in a deadpan tone. “Tell me what Neil Diamond does next.”

“It’s all a tease!” She flapped her hands in a tempestuous flourish. “He goes off into this bridge about a fireplace! But that beat keeps going underneath, and it finally emerges into those damned piano and guitar chords again and finally, finally, we get our chorus again, even louder than before, and it’s just this release that makes you feel powerful and fulfilled. Do you get what I’m saying?”

Jack paused. “You’re saying that Neil Diamond is really good at sex.”

“Lord, give me strength.” She inhaled, her eyes raised skyward. “Here. Just listen.”

She started the song on her phone. A guitar intro saturated the room, low and simple. She shut her eyes, and her fingers plucked along near the slight curve of her belly. She reached for Jack’s hand, pausing as if asking for permission.

“Isn’t this the song from that Gap commercial?” Jack asked. Lucy groaned and snatched up his hand, pulling him to a standing position along with her. She set her palm over his before restarting her invisible guitar concert, with his hand along for the ride.

The rational part of Jack’s brain was screaming danger! but since he generally didn’t listen to that part, he shoved the thoughts away. He wrapped his other arm around Lucy as she swayed with the light drum beat, but she went rigid as she backed into his chest. With a flare of disappointment, he began to tug his arm from her, but her beloved synth chords—bum bum bum bum bum bum—echoed through the small room, and her body relaxed. Instead of fleeing, she tiptoed backward to nestle in the hollow of his arms. His chest tightened as if open to the frigid November winds outside, and he found himself coming to terms with the fact that he was half-aroused because of Neil fucking Diamond.

Starving nerve endings tamped down any further logical thoughts, and Jack rested his hands at her ribcage, his thumb sweeping in figure eights to the crescent curve of her waist.

She inhaled sharply, but the tremor in her voice proved she wasn’t immune to his touch. “Focus, Jack. Close your eyes if you need to.”

The chorus returned, rich and pure. Lucy murmured the words to herself, and her face cracked into a mischievous grin. She guided his hands in a strange sort of movement, like playing air guitar and acting as the bandleader all at once. It wasn’t true dancing. It was a messy mix of shoulder shimmies and impish hip sways and air guitar struts, all while punctuating notes with hand waves and gesticulations.

The music tunneled and reverberated from Jack’s fingers to his toes. It surged and encompassed them in the zero-gravity eye of a tornado of magic and solace, if only for the span of a song. It rose in volume and intensity, and Lucy’s face flushed with almost holy devotion, and Jack was pretty sure he would die if he didn’t kiss her soon.

And then it ended. Neil was silent, having said his piece and left Jack torn and very confused. He dropped his hand from Lucy’s waist but laid his head on her shoulder, attempting to recover his breath and a bit of his sanity.

“You okay?” she whispered.

“Yeah, sure.” Not remotely.

“I get it,” she said. “Neil Diamond.”

“Sure.” Jack nodded against her neck. “Neil fucking Diamond.” He stepped away to pack his supplies, wondering how three minutes of seventies folk-rock had flipped him entirely inside out.

“Are you ready for today?” she asked, her words level and cautious.

“I think so. It’s only a half-hour set. Two of my songs, three of theirs.”

“Are you sure—” she stopped, worrying her lip. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay backstage and wait for you?”

“Definitely not,” Jack said. “This is your first real concert experience. Go out and enjoy it.”

There was a lengthy pause. “All right. Just for your set, though.”

“Fine with me. Gets me out of there faster. I’ll see you there.” Jack shouldered his guitar and hurried out of the house, ready to lose himself onstage and forget everything he had just finally realized.

He was falling hard for his fiancée.

* * *

The arena was too loud.

In the lobby, free of wailing guitars and screaming fans, the concertgoers hummed and buzzed like a wasp’s nest. Big Apple Harvest Festival banners hung everywhere, garish orange and brown monstrosities covered in painted leaves and vomiting cornucopias. The Big Apple Harvest food bank had donation stands set up throughout the lobby, ready to reel in donors between sets. Lucy found a covert corner behind a booth and hugged her back to the wall, boxes of canned goods at her feet. There, she could at least breathe without being jostled by another person.

She should have told Jack the truth, but she hadn’t wanted to pile anything else on him after the previous night. But there she was, cowering behind a charity booth and trying not to panic.

The arena doors swung open, and a handful of attendees swarmed out, using the intermissions between sets to snag merchandise, gorge on overpriced snacks, and stand in mile-long bathroom lines. Lucy waited until a doorway cleared enough to enter without bumping shoulders with too many people. She showed her pass to an usher, who guided her to her seat, for which Lucy was extremely grateful.

On stage, stagehands in dusty black clothes switched out instruments and adjusted microphones for Jack and the Laser Wolves. Her seat was close enough that she could glance into the wings if she stretched forward, but Jack wasn’t in sight. Would he be able to see her once he was on stage, or would the bright lighting make it too difficult?

A low rumble of applause turned into a freight train of screams and cheers. Lucy’s skin ached, nearly feverish, but she stood with the rest of the audience as Jack and the band stormed the stage. He pumped his fists high in the air, and the crowd whooped and hollered. She clapped for him with shaking hands, but her throat was too tight to call out.

He raised his hand to shade his eyes, scanning the audience. His eyes lit up, and his mouth widened into an unbridled grin as he pointed at Lucy, wriggling his fingers in the shape of rabbit ears. It was a surreptitious motion, unnoticed by anyone else, but the gesture warmed her, numbing her for the briefest moment against the tidal wave of sensations barreling at her.

She was his friend.

She was his fiancée.

She was his Cottontail.

She could do this.

He slid the embroidered guitar strap over his neck, beckoning for the crowd to quiet down. He glanced around to the rest of the Laser Wolves, nodding to each before addressing the crowd.

“Hello, New York!” he yelled, milking the audience’s reaction. “I know you were expecting Patrick, but you’ll have to put up with me instead.”

There were a few errant cheers, but one man heckled, “Go set a hotel bed on fire!” as if it were the cleverest thing he could come up with.

Jack’s consequent expression oozed arrogant charm. “Let’s get two things straight,” he said, his face crinkling in a lewd grin. “I was drunk. And there were bedbugs. Now,” he punctuated with a riff on the guitar, “who’s ready to slow things down?”

Laser Wolves’s guitarist struck an opening chord, and the arena was flooded with the raucous tones of Jack’s first hit, “Slow Down.”

Lucy closed her eyes and grasped at the familiar notes for comfort, but panic coiled itself around her ribcage, squeezing like a boa constrictor. She took deep breaths through her nose but couldn’t exhale without gasping. The harder she tried, the shallower her breathing became.

Her teeth rattled from the sound system’s vibrations, and her knuckles strained and cracked against her tight fists. The lights swirled and stirred like an overflowed cauldron. All around her, people touched and crowded and squeezed her in their nightmare dance.

Lights music loud crowd noise lights music pushing squeezing loud crowd lights screeching screaming stop stop stop

Bang.

A stage light popped, the bulb shattering with a sound like an errant firework. The overall lighting effect is unchanged, and Jack even worked the incident into his performance, laughing and gesturing while he strummed out the refrain.

But there in the audience, Lucy tipped over into an abyss.

Tremors shook her from head to toe. Her chest rose and fell like bellows in a fireplace, but she couldn’t catch enough air.

She was present, and she was not present.

She was inside of her head and outside of her body.

She had to get out. She had to leave.

The song ended with a surge of applause like the roar of a stormy ocean. Jack peered out into the crowd, and their eyes locked. He froze, still as a statue in front of an audience of hundreds.

Lucy shook her head adamantly, mouthing, “I’m fine.” His head tilted, but his body was still suspended in place.

The drummer began a count-off to the next song. Jack shook his head as if dazed and spun to face him, making a stretching gesture. He jogged to the wings, disappearing off stage. Lucy bit down on her fist to stop a low whine, unable to impart to Jack that she would be fine, that this night wasn’t about her.

Jack strutted back on stage with a lazy smile and picked up his guitar, hitting the first chord with a crush of electric notes. He didn’t look back at Lucy.

Coppery blood hit her tongue as her teeth cut into her finger. A warm, gentle hand pressed between her shoulder blades.

“Come on, Lucy,” Parker said, his voice soft as he leaned into her ear. “Let’s go.”

Parker escorted her out of the arena and down a back hallway to Jack’s dressing room. He led her to a well-worn couch and then shut off the sound monitor to the stage.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, teeth chattering. “You can go back to Jack.”

“I can stay with you; it’s not a problem.” His eyes were filled with concern, but it wasn’t pitying or pretentious. It was the austere countenance of one person wanting to comfort another, and Lucy hated that she couldn’t accept that comfort in the way that everyone else could.

“It’s just a panic attack,” she said, wiping at her tearless face over and over. “A meltdown. It’ll stop if I’m alone. I’m sorry. It’s not you, I swear.”

Parker gave her a heavy, assessing gaze, then nodded. “The set is almost over. We’ll be back soon.”

As soon as he was gone, Lucy laid down on the couch, squishing herself tight against the back and arms, like a baby opossum against its mother. The pilled upholstery, the tension of her body against the cushions, and the dressing room’s beautiful silence brought her back down to earth.

The tremors became shivers.

The shivers became nothing.

Footsteps echoed in the hall, and Lucy flipped the sound monitor back on. She heard the sounds of an audience shuffling around. Jack’s set was done.

She peered into the hallway, where Parker was making his way back.

“You okay now?” he asked, blocking her from the roadies lumbering down the hall, arms full of electrical equipment.

“Yes.” She found a fishhook-shaped nick on the wall and traced the curve of it with her fingers.

Parker’s eyes narrowed, and he led her back to the sofa. “Want some tea?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I’m your assistant. Let me assist.” He filled a mug with an herbal tea bag and steaming water from a thermos. Stealing a water bottle for himself, he pulled up a folding chair next to her on the sofa.

“Jack will be along soon. He had to do a soundbite backstage for the charity.” Parker wrinkled his forehead. “Really, are you okay?”

She wanted to lie, to tell him that everything was terrific, that it was a one-time fluke and she couldn’t wait to see the next concert.

But she was so very, very tired, so all she said was, “I don’t like crowds.”

He took a swig of water, wiping his mouth. Instead of offering mundane advice or the usual platitudes, he said, “Does Jack know?”

She shook her head. “Not fully. I’m sure we’ll hash that out tonight.”

“Don’t worry. The guy is crazy about you.”

She managed a chuckle but didn’t respond, too exhausted to analyze the tangled web of her relationship—fake or otherwise—with Jack.

The door swung open, slamming into the wall, the brass doorknob thudding like a broken cymbal. Jack glowered in the doorway, his eyes erratic and wild.

Parker rose from his folding chair, nearly knocking it over in his haste. “Hey, Jack.” He glanced at Jack’s animalistic expression, then back at Lucy with an I told you so look. “Aaaaaaaand I’ll see you two later.”

He tiptoed out of the room, and Jack smacked the door shut behind him with the flat of his hand. He stared at Lucy, his chest heaving and his forehead slicked with sweat like a prize marathon runner. His hands were balled at his sides, the knuckles white and taut.

She managed a strangled squeak, but no words came.

Jack said nothing, his eyes as stormy as a hurricane.

She swallowed. “Jack. I’m sorry.”

A distressed growl rumbled in his chest. He stepped forward, stiff as a rusty tin soldier. “Don’t apologize.”

“I know, but—”

“I said, don’t apologize.” His voice quivered. Another halting step forward, then he knelt on the floor in front of her, as if in prayer. He didn’t touch her.

“Did someone hurt you?” he asked, rocking back on his heels. “Did someone touch you?”

Her mouth fell open. “Oh, no, not that. Nothing like that.” She tucked an escaped curl behind his ear.

He pushed her away gently, his brows slanted in angry slashes. “Tell me who it was. They might still be out there. I’ll find them. There are cameras everywhere. Just tell me.”

“Jack, please calm down.” She lifted a hand when he pulled back, affronted. “Nobody touched me. I had a panic attack, nothing more.”

Jack’s expression was a stunned slurry of wrath and confusion, and he rose to his feet again. “You what?”

“I, uh, have sensory issues. Crowds. Loud noises. Lights. Dirty hands, as you already know. It causes panic attacks. Meltdowns.”

“And I made you go to a concert.” He flopped down on the couch next to her, his head thrown back against the cushions. “Fuck.”

“You didn’t make me do anything.”

He gave her a frustrated look. “You okay now?”

“I’m okay now. See?” She feigned the cheesiest grin she could, but he just muttered under his breath, digging the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

“What else?” he asked, rubbing his hand over his face, causing his eyebrow hair to stick up a little.

“I don’t understand.”

“What else do I need to know to keep this from happening again?”

“You don’t need to keep anything from happening,” Lucy said, slightly alarmed. “I can handle it myself.”

“Lucy.” He sent her an exhausted look. “I know you can handle things by yourself. I’ve known that since you tried to move in with a rat rather than live with me.”

“He was a cute rat,” she whispered.

“We’ll discuss your rodent bias at another time,” Jack said. “Now tell me. How can I help?”

“Well—” She stopped. The words were there, but to admit them was a struggle. She’d been punished so many times for these traits, she wasn’t sure how to vocalize them anymore.

“I don’t like crowds.” Four words to start. She could do this.

“All crowds?”

She tipped her head. “Actually, no. Just chaotic crowds. Where I’ll get touched. But something organized like the park, or a movie theater, that’s okay.”

“So no concerts.” He held up a finger, counting. “What else?”

“Lots of lights and sounds. It’s too much.”

“Got it. No raves in the back of a police car.” He raised a second finger. “What else?”

“I talk too much.”

Jack dropped his hand and looked at her, astounded. “I can barely get you to talk half the time.”

“Well, like with music, I have to be careful because I’ll go on and on, like a broken record. I can’t always tell when I’m talking too much or at the wrong time.”

His hand slid next to hers, just enough that their pinkies touched. He brushed his back and forth, a rhythmic, soothing cadence. “What else?”

She looked down at their fingers. “I usually don’t like being touched.”

He froze, and she skimmed her own pinky against his. “I said ‘usually.’ I—I don’t mind so much when it’s you. I don’t know why.”

She did know why. She suspected it had something to do with the new skittering rhythm of her heartbeat.

There was a long, empty silence, with only the tinny speaker of the stage monitor for noise. Then, his hand lifted from hers and skimmed across her back, pausing to caress between her shoulder blades. Every movement was part of a meticulously plotted course that ended with his arm around her. She sighed, a bare whisper of a noise, and her head sunk into the niche between his neck and shoulder.

“What else?” He rested his cheek on the top of her head with perfect, calming pressure.

“Well, I’m good at hiding it for the most part. I’ve practiced—a lot. But sometimes I slip. With you, even more so.”

“So that’s why you edit yourself, making sure you say the right or expected thing.”

“Exactly.”

He pulled back, tipping her head with calloused fingers until they met each other’s gazes. “But not with me, right? Never with me, promise?”

She studied his brown irises, mahogany bleeding into rusty velveteen up against a black fringe of eyelashes. There was a moment of calming brown black brown black brown, and then clarity swept in. Lucy pried his fingers from her chin. “If you need to change the terms of our arrangement, I’ll step down; I won’t fight it.”

“What are you talking about?” His nose crinkled.

“It doesn’t look good if you have a wife who can’t even attend your concerts.”

“Oh, come on, Lucy.”

She shrugged his arm off. “Your life is loud and bright and crowded. It’s not for me. I should’ve told you from the beginning.”

“Luciana.” His voice lowered. “I don’t need someone else.”

“Don’t be silly. I have all sorts of anxiety issues.”

“And I’m double-jointed in my right elbow.” He lifted his shoulders.

She blinked. “What?”

“Oh, sorry. I thought we were just saying random facts about ourselves.”

She summoned her most serious of glares. “I have meltdowns in crowds.”

He glared right back. “I’m really useful when the remote falls down behind the couch.”

“I talk too much, or not at all. I say the wrong things. I’m awkward as fuck.”

“And this isn’t?” He folded his elbow back on itself like a disfigured paper clip, readjusting his arm back to normal when she choked in horror. “Look, I really don’t care. It’s part of what makes you Lucy, and that makes it good.”

Her legs grew shaky, and she felt a little drunk.

That makes it good.

He continued. “I don’t need anyone else. We work well together. We’re partners.”

“Partners.” She nodded. “And still friends, right?”

An odd, pained look flickered across his tired face. “Yeah. Still friends.”