Broken Records by Bree Bennett
Chapter 2
Jack was confused and bleeding. It wasn’t the first time in his life he had experienced that combo.
He gawked at the door where the girl had vanished, ignoring the blood that dripped from his nose onto his ruined shirt.
Sully jogged toward him with a crushed box of tissues. “What the hell was that?” he asked. “You okay?” He shoved the box into Jack’s hand. Tiny red drops fell onto the exposed tissue, spreading like watercolor paint.
“Son of a bitch.” He blinked rapidly, his eyes watering and stinging. “That hurt.”
Sully scanned him up and down. “What did you do to her?”
“What do you mean, what did I do to her?” he snapped, but Sully simply raised an eyebrow.
The question wasn’t that out of the ordinary. He was, after all, Jack Hunter—Mad Jack, as the media liked to call him, due to his temper and what he called his worldly adventures.
Or, as everyone else called them, his drunken shenanigans.
Some of his well-known antics included punching his drummer mid-concert, setting a hotel bed on fire, storming off The Late Show with Jerry Manning mid-interview, and dozens of other sordid stories guaranteed to find a spot on the latest gossip blog. If you looked Jack Hunter up online, the first story you’d discover involved the Pope, a capuchin monkey, and a graham cracker. They weren’t always true, but too many of them were.
This time, though, he swore it wasn’t his fault. At least he didn’t think it was.
When the raven-haired girl with the head full of rock trivia had returned to the store, Jack ventured out from the storeroom to talk to her. She had amused him during her previous visit, and that was a difficult thing to do. Her frankness was refreshing, even if her critiques of his albums had been depressing—but accurate.
He must have frightened her when he touched her, but he had only wanted to get her attention. Her response wasn’t normal—it was self-defense, plain and simple. Maybe her running act was self-defense too. She had taken off like a jackrabbit pursued by a coyote.
“I didn’t do anything,” Jack assured Sully.
“If she comes back—which I doubt—I’ll let you know,” he said. “You can press charges if you want.”
“Nah.” Jack fondled his nose, prodding the swollen tissue. It was tender but not broken. He would know—it had been broken twice before. “But tell me if she does come back. I want to talk to her.”
“She was so shy when I talked to her earlier. Didn’t seem like the fighting type.” Sully smiled. “She was more concerned about my eyebrows.”
“Your eyebrows?”
“Two rings here,” he pointed. “Three rings here. I think it bothered her.”
Jack squinted at him. “Now it’s bothering me too.” He flicked at Sully’s temple just above the incomplete jewelry. “Fix it.” With that, Jack waved him off and headed back upstairs to his rooms above the store, not bothering to wipe the blood from his face as he drained another glass of whiskey and shot daggers at his dusty guitar. Unable to play, unable to write, he waited for inspiration to invade his worthless mind.
* * *The word impromptu was a terrible word. It sounded like something a crabby woman would yell while criticizing your manners. Also, it ended with “u,” which just pissed Jack off.
Impromptu meetings with his manager were even worse.
Impromptu meetings with his manager and his lawyer while he was hungover and bruised were the worst of all.
When he blundered into the main conference room at Derelict Records, his vision was blurry and his head was pounding. Kim, his manager, had scheduled the meeting at the Manhattan-based label for the ungodly hour of nine in the morning, a fact that he would complain about as soon as the itty-bitty jackhammers in his head went away.
“What the hell, Jack?” Kim’s voice echoed inside his head like a screech owl in an empty barn. “Your face!”
Trent, his lawyer, just shook his head and returned to typing away on his laptop.
“What happened?” Kim asked.
Jack shrugged at her. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He barely believed it himself.
“I usually don’t, but somehow, your stories always end up true anyway.” She blew out an exasperated breath. “Which, to be honest, is why we’re here.”
The musician slumped into an office chair and glanced over at Trent, hoping for some sort of hint, but the lawyer’s face remained grave and impassive. Next to him, an unfamiliar man with shaggy dark hair tapped away at his smartphone.
“To get to the point,” Kim continued, “Derelict Records isn’t happy with you.”
“That’s not news,” Jack said, picking at one of his calluses. “They never are.”
“True. But after the Prince Harry incident—”
He groaned and leaned back as far as his chair would go, pinching the bridge of his nose and wincing at the garish fluorescent lights above him. “It’s all blown out of proportion. He’s fine. I’m fine. The moose is fine.”
“Jack.” Trent’s deep rumble commanded attention without the need for extra volume. “There’s a moral turpitude clause in your contract.”
“What? Like paint thinner?”
Kim moaned. “No, Jack. That’s turpentine. The moral turpitude clause holds someone to a certain behavioral standard. You, on the other hand, have no standards.”
“Frank wanted to cut you completely,” Trent said, “but we talked him into a probationary period.”
Jack shot up straight in the chair. “What?” Frank Taylor was the founder of Derelict Records and more indulgent of his antics than the rest of management. Losing Frank’s support would be the quickest way to kill his already-struggling career.
“They don’t want you anymore, even with one more album left on your contract. You’re too much trouble.” The lawyer’s eyes met Jack’s with a touch of pity. “Too much trouble with no return on their investment.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“No, bozo,” the unknown man piped up, looking up from his phone for the first time. “It’s a fact.”
“Bozo?” Jack stared at him. “Who are you?”
“This is Martin Tan,” Kim said. “He’s in public relations. From an outside firm.”
“Where’s Rashida?” He peered around the room as if expecting his usual PR representative to magically appear.
“She’s been assigned to other clients. Martin’s specialty is…” She touched her tongue to her teeth. “People like you.”
“People like me?”
“Problem children.” Martin smirked. “Look. You’re still a big name, but it’s not because of your ‘music.’”
Jack wanted to slap his air quotes out of the air.
“You haven’t had a hit in years. When people think of you, they think of the Vitamix incident. Or the Thai lingerie shop. Or the bar fight with that guy from Baywatch. They don’t think rock star.” The PR expert tented his fingers solemnly like he was delivering a terminal illness diagnosis. “You’ve already turned the corner onto Has-Been Street, Jack, headed toward Whatever-Happened-to-That-Guy Lane. Possibly with a pit stop at Obscure-Jeopardy-Answer Avenue.”
Jack fumed, and it took all his willpower not to lunge across the table, grab Martin’s phone, and smack him with it upside the head.
“You’re wrong,” the rock star said.
“No, he’s not,” Kim said. “I don’t think you understand how serious this is. Derelict didn’t even want an album you’re obligated to give to them. They aren’t going to want to re-sign a contract.”
“So I’ll sign with someone else.”
“Who, Jack?” Her voice had that same pitying note that Trent’s had. “Who is going to want to deal with Jack Hunter?”
“I asked Frank if anything would change his mind,” Trent said. “Basically, if this album is a success, and you’re a perfect gentleman from this day forward, they’ll consider renewing your contract.”
“Well, how the hell is that supposed to happen?” Jack snapped. “I’m me.”
“That’s where I come in.” Martin proffered that damn smirk again, and Jack wanted to wipe it from his face and possibly the planet. “It’s too late to do damage control. At this point, we’ve got to reinvent you completely. A whole new strategy. Some sort of life event that shows you’re ready to do a 180, to go on the straight and narrow.”
“Like what? Save someone from a burning building?”
“Nah.” Martin waved dismissively. “Too hard to plan.” He leaned forward. “You could adopt a kid.”
Was he serious?Jack looked to Trent and Kim for assistance, but there was nothing but concern in their expressions.
“I’m not Daddy Warbucks. And I don’t like kids.”
“Volunteer for a charity? We could get you a dog, and you could do an animal rights campaign. Sad commercials with Sarah McLachlan crying in the background, that sort of thing.”
“I don’t have time for a dog.” It was a flat-out lie. All Jack did was lay around and try to write songs that refused to be written. A dog would probably be a step up in productivity—at least he would get some exercise.
“What about something with your mother?” asked Martin. “A baking show, or a 60 Minutes special?”
“No,” Trent and Jack replied in unison. Neither had a favorable opinion of Jack’s mother. Both had been in the middle of enough legal tangles with her to last a lifetime.
“If only you were in a relationship,” mused Kim. “The true love angle always works. And if we could get a wedding out of it…” She tapped her fingers to her lips in a chef’s kiss gesture.
“That’s a possibility.” Martin rubbed his hands together like a cartoon villain. If he had possessed a mustache, he would have been twirling it. “Ruby Li did that after her DUI, and now she and her husband are America’s favorite couple.”
Jack snorted. “She married the CEO of that toothbrush company. A toothbrush company! So boring. He’s her exact opposite.”
“But that’s why it works!” Kim scrolled through her phone and showed him a picture from Instagram. “And he’s a decent guy. Or at least he seems to be, which is all that matters. And look at the squishy face on that baby! I just want to eat her up.” Her eyes twinkled, and she added another “like” to the thousands already there. She shoved the phone into Jack’s face and scrolled through more pictures of Ruby Li and her husband performing boring domestic activities—painting a nursery, sitting in front of a fireplace, making cookies and dabbing dough on each other’s noses. Between the sickly sweet images and the remains of his hangover, Jack wanted to hurl.
But from a PR standpoint, none of these posts brought to mind the three-year-old video of Ruby Li screeching expletives like a banshee while being arrested half-naked on the shoulder of I-5.
“Are you seeing anyone?” Martin swiped through his phone. “There aren’t any women on your Instagram account.”
“I don’t date.” Jack shuddered at the notion of any commitment longer than twenty-four hours. Although, a few months previously, he had had a fantastic weekend with a Swiss heiress that had lasted two whole days, so maybe he was getting better at this whole commitment thing.
If only he remembered her name.
“A fake relationship, then.” Martin chewed on his lip, lost in thought. “At that point, might as well go all the way. Fake marriage. Plenty of celebrities do it.”
“Sure they do.” The musician’s smile was anything but pleasant. “I’m pretty sure my mom’s second marriage was one. Maybe her fourth too.”
“So you’re familiar with how they work, then,” said Martin. Jack was pretty sure he was going to slug him before this meeting was over.
“You have to admit, it’s got merit,” said Kim. She showed a photo of Ruby Li, her husband, and their baby, all in matching flannel pajamas.
Jack laid his aching head on the table and banged his forehead on the polished wood. “Even if I went the fake marriage route—and I’m not saying I would ever do such a stupid thing—who would we even get to play my w– my wi—” He couldn’t even say the damn word.
“We could find an actress or a model,” said Kim. “Set up a marriage contract, NDAs out the wazoo.”
He lifted his head enough to waggle a suggestive eyebrow at her. “Or you could do it.”
Kim looked as if she’d swallowed her tongue. “Um, no. We’d kill each other in two hours. How we haven’t already is a miracle.”
“Come on, babe.” He winked. “I’d treat you right.”
“Well, you’re not known for your celibacy,” interrupted Martin. “Was there anyone you could handle more than a night or two?”
Jack’s feet involuntarily started scrambling under the table. “No. A hundred times no. A thousand times no.”
“What about that blonde you took to the People’s Choice Awards last year?” asked Kim.
“No. She stole my soap dispensers afterward.”
“Oh yeah.” Her face fell. “Those were really nice soap dispensers.”
“The model from New Year’s?” suggested Trent. “The one with the—” He swallowed. “Unusual laugh.”
Jack imagined his townhouse, chilly and gloomy except for the constant echo of that godawful guffaw, every day for years to come, like a Stephen King novel come to life. He gulped and shook his head.
“Is there anyone out there that would benefit from hooking up with Jack?” Trent asked with plaintive despair.
No one spoke. Jack resumed thumping his head against the table.
“What about that lady from the toilet paper commercial?” asked Kim feebly. “The one that got caught shoplifting.”
“Stop.” Jack shoved his chair back from the table and stood. “I’m not adopting anyone—human or animal—and I’m not marrying minor criminals just to make some jerks in suits happy. It should be all about the music. All about the album.”
“And how’s that album coming, Jack?”
Kim might as well have thrown a javelin through his chest for as much as it hurt. She was the only one who knew he hadn’t written anything in months.
“Just fine,” he said with mock cheer. “I should be able to lay down some tracks soon.”
“Uh-huh.” She clicked her pen as if she were cocking a pistol. “One week, Jack. Have a plan to fix your reputation in one week, or we’re doing it for you.” She smiled a little too sweetly. “I’m still rooting for the Daddy Warbucks angle.”