Broken Records by Bree Bennett
Chapter 3
Two days later, Lucy was back outside Raymond’s. It was not a Thursday. It was not six p.m. And she was not there to buy a record.
The store bell dinged as usual, but this time, it felt like it was heralding her execution, not her approach. She clutched a linen bag to her side and trudged to the counter. Sully watched her with a smug smile.
“Hi,” she said, trying to quell her shaking hands. She focused on the hideous carpet, tracing the pattern as if the activity would ward away any discomfort. “I, um, assaulted a man here two days ago.” She didn’t want to reveal his identity outright if Sully didn’t know who he was. “You were here.”
“I was.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice. “By the way, there are three rings in each eyebrow now.”
She glanced up to validate and offered him the smallest of smiles. “Yes, there are.” She set the tote bag on the counter. “Does he shop here often? I’ve seen him twice now. I have some things for him, and I thought maybe I could drop them off, and you could give them to him the next time he’s here.”
Because once she left that godforsaken store, she was never, ever coming back.
“For Jack?” He peeked in the bag. “Just a sec.” He tapped out a quick text on his cell phone. After a response arrived with an electronic buzz, he shot her an ominous smirk. “He’ll be right down.”
“Wait, what?” Lucy said just as a door in the back of the store swung open with the scream of hinges and slammed shut behind a hulking, sulking figure.
She would have felt better if Jack Hunter had stomped over to her, shouting and screaming, threatening to tear her from limb to limb, cursing her mother’s name. It would have been awful but over quickly.
Instead, he sauntered toward her like a hangman with no hurry to get to the gallows on time. Thinly-carpeted floorboards creaked under his deliberate, torturous footsteps. His nose was still swollen with streaks of yellow and green bruising on the bridge, but it didn’t have the twisted look of being broken. He halted his leisurely ramble just inches away, glaring down at Lucy with bitter brown eyes, his lips set in a condescending sneer.
She swallowed against her instinctive response, but it was too late—she went full speed ahead like the Titanic into the iceberg. “Hi I’m Lucy Meyer and I’m sorry I hit your nose and made you bleed but I thought you were trying to attack me,” she said in a single, expedient exhale.
He blinked. The fury on his face softened to something like confusion.
“I brought you some things,” she continued when he didn’t reply. “I made chocolate chip cookies.” She tossed him the plastic container as if it were the target in a game of hot potato. “But then I thought that would be bad if you were gluten intolerant or allergic. So I got you some root beer too. It’s locally made.” She stacked a four-pack of glass bottles on top of the container of cookies. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then snapped it shut again. He looked bewildered, but most people had that look when talking to Lucy.
“I also got you a reusable ice pack, but you have to put it in the freezer first.” She added it to the pyramid of presents. “And a card. I wasn’t sure what type of card to get, and all the ‘I’m Sorry’ ones didn’t seem to apply to our situation, so I made you an ‘I’m Sorry I Hit You in the Nose’ card.”
Again, no response, so she tucked the card between the root beer bottles and the ice pack.
She handed both Jack and Sully a neatly printed index card. “This is my contact info. I can pay for your deductible if you needed medical care.” She gestured at the shelving as she spoke to Sully. “And let me know what I owe you for the display I ruined. Or I can help out in the store to make up for it. I’m still looking for a place to live in the area, but I’ll be available. And I’m good with music. I have a—” she glanced at Jack, who raised his dark slash of an eyebrow, “—a thing.”
Sully wrinkled his forehead. “Huh?”
“Sully,” Jack murmured, speaking for the first time. “Name a song.” His voice was harsh and growly, but not unpleasant. Lucy balled her fists and forced herself to raise her head and truly meet his gaze.
When she locked onto his velveteen brown eyes, a shot of bizarre awareness smacked her in the chest. Despite the black and blue coloring around his lids and nose, his eyes were handsome, but also weary and unhappy. She had the oddest impulse to comfort him.
“Okay…” Sully’s voice dripped with skepticism. “Um, ‘Livin’ la Vida Loca’?” Jack and Lucy broke eye contact and rotated their heads in unison to Sully. His cheekbones flushed. “I was under pressure; it was the first one that came to mind.”
Her hand twitched, her fingers flying mid-air like an impassioned conductor. It was a tic; a tell that she was concentrating, one of the few habits she had been unable to learn to hide. She blinked at Sully and took a breath. “‘Livin’ la Vida Loca’ is the first single from Ricky Martin’s self-titled album released in 1999. Although the album has gone platinum seven times in the United States and was considered the reason for the Latin Pop craze in the late nineties, it didn’t win any Grammys.”
Sully’s eyebrows raised. “‘I Wanna Be Sedated.’”
She scoffed at him. “Track seven on Road to Ruin by the Ramones. 1978. Probably their best-known song.”
His back straightened. “‘Three Little Birds.’”
She mimicked his posture. “Bob Marley and the Wailers. 1977. From the album Exodus.”
“‘Monkey Wrench.’”
“Foo Fighters. The Colour and the Shape. 1997.”
“‘Applejohn Blues.’” Sully’s smile unfolded like a panther stretching after a nap.
Well-played, she thought. Her jaw tightened. “Jack Hunter. Slow Down. 1998.”
“I’m impressed,” Sully said. “I’ll contact you if I ever need some help in the store.”
Lucy’s nod was sharp and blunt. “I’m really sorry,” she said, cringing at the uncertainty in her voice.
Jack’s mouth twisted into an uneasy grimace, and he shared a glance with Sully. “Thank you,” he finally said, but his voice raised at the end as if it were a question.
“Please don’t arrest me.”
His lips twitched, with no indication if he were about to shout or laugh. He stroked his chin, his eyes sweeping over her, and she became hyper-conscious of her appearance. She was built more like a street waif than the buxom beauties he probably entertained, and she gazed up at him like an orphan asking for more gruel from a Dickensian villain.
“I’ll let it go this time,” he said.
Lucy bobbed her head solemnly, but this nightmare situation needed to end. Her brain was frazzled and overburdened. Before anyone could say anything further, she turned and bolted out the door.
She attempted a slow pace down the sidewalk, but she felt crushed by everything loud and bright shrieking around her, like being trapped inside a speeding comet. She collapsed on a nearby bench, gulping in fresh air by the gallon.
The world was fuzzy and clamorous, and if she didn’t get herself under control, she’d be lost to the heady spiral of sensations. The traffic hummed and droned, like furious wasps instead of vehicles, punctuated by the incessant flashing of traffic lights changing. She was drunk and drowning in a pattern that she couldn’t control.
Cars lights noise cars lights noise crowds people lights noise crowds people lights cars—
* * *Jack shrugged at Sully and set the girl’s myriad of offerings on the counter, working two cookies out of the Tupperware box.
“And that’s the end of that,” he said, tossing Sully one of the cookies and biting into his own. It was still warm and gooey, as a good cookie should be.
Jack was a sucker for a good cookie.
“Dude.” Sully gawked at the front door. “She’s like Wikipedia. I should call her and see if she wants to host a trivia night here at the store or something like that.”
“Doubtful. She doesn’t seem like she’d want to be around people. Too quiet.”
“Nice of her to bring you presents, though. Nice of her to consider that some people are gluten intolerant too.” He threw Jack a meaningful look before returning the cookie and cracking open one of the root beers.
“Sorry, I forgot.” Again.
“You’re just annoyed she didn’t say anything about you being you.”
Jack paused and stared at him. “You’re right. She didn’t.” Besides acknowledging that “Slow Down” was a song on an album by someone named Jack Hunter, she hadn’t said a damn thing about him. He had expected at least an autograph request from someone so fascinated by rock music. It was a little ego-bruising but also…intriguing.
“Nope.” Sully took a long sip as Jack fixated back on the front door. An impossible idea—no, a shenanigan—began to form.
“Didn’t she say she was looking for a place to live?” The musician attempted a nonchalant look, but Sully’s eyes narrowed over the neck of his bottle.
“You have your scheming face on. Didn’t you learn anything from the Prince Harry incident?”
“Not one thing.” Jack shoved the rest of the cookie in his mouth and dashed out through the front door.
Nearly choking on cookie crumbs, he whipped his head around, hoping to spot Lucy before she got any further. Luck was with him—she was sitting on a bench at the end of the block. He sprinted toward her and skidded to a stop. She flinched and clutched her purse closer as if he were going to mug her.
“You,” he panted, making a mental note to hit the treadmill more often. “Lunch. Now.”
She looked around as if he were talking to someone else. “What?”
Jack swallowed. “Have lunch with me.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m hungry.”
Her face was moonlight pale. Jack held out a hand to her, just as a courtesy to help her stand. Her head tilted, and she stared at it as if he were offering her a dead fish.
“You have a scar on your index finger,” she said.
“Um…yes?” He wiggled his fingers in an impatient gesture.
“Why?”
“Not paying attention while cleaning up a broken glass.” He flicked his fingers more insistently. Take my damn hand.
Her hand trembled as she slipped it into his, and he felt her fingers flutter against his palm in succession as if she were keeping rhythm to her own silent song.
Pinky, ring, middle, index. Repeat.
He pulled her to her feet, and for a moment, they simply stood there, hand in hand. He felt a strange sense of tranquility in her presence, and from her surprised look, she felt it too.
But when Jack pulled her to her feet, she dropped his hand like a hot pan. She stayed silent during the short walk to the Batter Up diner just around the corner. The baseball-themed restaurant was a staple of the area, and the Petrakis family—the owners—had known Jack since he was a teenager.
“Jackie!” crowed Adrian Petrakis when they arrived, straightening his Yankees jersey. He and his wife, Marina, were the only people still alive who were allowed to call him that. “It’s been months!” He shook Jack’s hand, the fierce motion rippling from his fingers to his shoulder like a soundwave.
“It’s only been two weeks, and that’s because I’m still full from last time.”
“Your usual table then?” He didn’t wait for an answer, leading Lucy and Jack to a little table hidden from view at the back of the restaurant. He handed them two menus, slapped Jack on the back with enthusiastic affection, and left to greet a new customer.
“They like you,” said Lucy, looking at a crooked framed photo of Adrian, Marina, and the musician hanging above their table.
“Yes. There are a few people who do.” Her eyes snapped back to him, and he pointed at the menu. “I recommend the Rookie’s Reuben.”
She scowled at him. He scowled at her. They were off to a great start.
“I’m really, really sorry I hit you,” she said, laying the menu on the Formica table, aligning it perfectly perpendicular with the edge. “But why am I here?”
Jack waved away her apology attempt and leaned forward. “Do you know who I am?”
Her dark eyebrows rose. Under that shy rabbit persona, Jack suspected a little spitfire was buried deep down.
“Yes. You’re Jack Hunter.”
“Hmm.” He clucked his tongue. “You didn’t say anything in the store, so I thought maybe you didn’t know.”
Her nostrils flared, and she held up her hand defiantly, ticking off facts on her fingers. “You’re Jack Hunter. Genre: Rock. Instruments: guitar—both acoustic and electric—and piano. First album: Slow Down, 1998. Also, the name of your first single. Four Grammy nominations, two wins. Second album: Wayward, 2002. Two Grammy nominations, one win. Third album: self-titled, 2006. No nominations. Fourth—”
“That’s enough. I don’t need a dissertation on my dwindling success.” His retort came out harsher than intended. “You didn’t say anything. You didn’t freak out.”
She studied him, and her voice softened. “Do you need me to freak out? I mean, I can, if you need it as like, some celebrity mojo thing.”
“No.” He stared at her, blindsided. “My celebrity mojo is fine. It was just…unexpected.”
He sent a precursory glance to her left hand. No ring. “Tell me about yourself, Lucy. What do you do besides stalk record stores and punch celebrities?”
“I’m a freelance technical writer,” she answered in a clipped tone.
“What does that mean?”
“I write technical things.”
He mouthed a curse at the ceiling. “But what does that mean?”
“Companies contract me to write things like training and instructional manuals. I’m finishing up a first aid document for a manufacturer right now. I handle the distribution of the materials too.”
“That sounds awful.”
She shrugged. “I know. But it’s easy for me; it keeps me busy, and I get to work from home.”
“Did you grow up around here?”
“No.” She scrunched up her nose, apparently having judged NYC and found it lacking.
“But you’re looking for a place to live here?”
“Yes.”
He restrained a frustrated growl. It would be easier to get more information from a KGB spy. Luckily, Adrian rounded the corner, ready to take their orders before Jack lost his temper. Jack spouted out his usual order and jutted his chin towards Lucy.
“I will have the Grand Slam Grilled Cheese,” Lucy said, abandoning her gruffness. “And the side fruit cup—does it come directly out of the refrigerator?”
If her odd question threw him, the older man didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, ma’am, it doesn’t sit out at all.”
“I’ll just have a side salad then.” She smiled at him as he returned to the kitchen, and it completely changed her face. Her polite numbness cracked just a little, like a porcelain veneer, revealing something wholesome and genuine.
“Can I ask—?” Jack stopped when her smile vanished like a tendril of smoke. She reached for the bundle of silverware wrapped in a napkin and unrolled it, aligning each utensil in soldier-straight lines.
“I don’t like cold fruit.” A flush crept across her cheekbones.
“That’s cool. I’m like that with apples. I don’t like biting into apples whole. I need them cut up.”
She jerked up her head, and her gaze met his. Like in the record store, Jack got the feeling that this was a rare thing for her to do, but holy hell, he wished she would do it more often. Her eyes were pools of melted milk chocolate, deep and velvety, with a fringe of long, lush lashes.
“Look.” Jack cleared his throat, taking advantage of her wayward attention. “When I saw you this morning, I had an idea.” His collar was suddenly too hot, and he scratched at the scruff of his neck. “As you know, I have a unique reputation. And my manager and PR team had a ‘Come to Jesus’ meeting with me. I’m on probation, essentially. I’m lucky the label hasn’t terminated my contract completely. I’ve got to make the next album solid.”
“Okay.” She shrugged.
“Okay?”
“So do it. Get a good producer, put the time in, and you’ll make a good product.”
Jack shook his head. “It’s not that simple. I’ve got nothing. Literally nothing. I haven’t written anything good in months. Maybe longer. Unless this next album is a hit, the label doesn’t want to re-sign my contract.”
“Really? But you’re very talented.”
He threw his hands into the air. “You literally told me how terrible my last two albums were!”
“They were terrible. But your first one wasn’t.”
“That was a million years ago.” He wished he could jump into a time machine and warn his eighteen-year-old self not to squander all his inspiration in one album. “In addition to all that, I’ve got to fix my reputation. No more of this Mad Jack nonsense.”
She made a noise that could almost be called a laugh. “That’s a stupid nickname. It makes you sound like a pirate. Might as well start singing sea shanties.”
“They’d probably do better than anything I’ve written lately,” he grumbled.
“But I don’t understand their concern—isn’t all press good press?”
“Then they want a little less ‘good press.’” He rapped his knuckles on the table. “I’ve laid low since the Prince Harry incident—”
“That’s true then?” Her face remained impassive as if he was describing the weather and not an international incident.
“Depends on the version you hear. About sixty percent of what you read is true. But unless I manage a hit album without any more bad press—true or otherwise—they won’t even consider renewing my contract.”
Her lips twisted in thought. “But do you want to sign with them again?” She said it with the same ease as choosing between two pairs of socks. “There are other labels. Other ways to keep making records. If that’s what you really want.”
“Of course, it’s what I want. I’m a musician. Music is my life.” It was a canned, rehearsed phrase recycled from years-old interviews. “And no other label is going to want me. I haven’t been a good investment for Derelict Records in a long time.”
“It’s difficult to be yourself when an investment dictates who you ought to be,” she said, her lashes lowered. A cold fist squeezed his heart as her words rang true.
“Basically, I gotta reboot who I am, present a whole new Jack Hunter to the world.” He conjured up his best sheepish grin. “That’s where you come in.”
She stayed expressionless as Adrian brought their meals before she blasted him with another brilliant smile. What exactly did Jack have to do to get one of those on his own?
“Explain,” she said when the manager left.
“It seems you and I have a connection. That connection being, well, your fist, but other than that, I thought maybe we could enter a mutually beneficial agreement.” Jack paused, Reuben inches from his mouth as she cut her grilled cheese into perfect squares. “You’re eating your sandwich with a fork?”
Her inhale was brusque. “This agreement?”
He peeked around the cafe as if initiating a drug deal. “I need a wife.”
“A wife.”
“My PR team thinks a new, wholesome romance would do wonders for my image.”
She stroked her bottom lip. “It might.”
“Do you still need a place to live?”
He held his breath as she put two and two together. Her face fell, her nostrils flared, and she raised her eyes to the heavens in a “why me, Lord?” expression.
“New York real estate is expensive,” he added. “Much more than—where is it you’re from again?”
“Indiana,” she answered through clenched teeth.
He pulled up a real estate site on his phone. “Looks like the cost of an apartment in Indianapolis is—”
“I’ve lived in Indianapolis. I know the prices.”
“And I’ve lived in New York. I know the prices.” Jack swirled a French fry in ketchup. “How much does a technical writer make again?”
She gazed off in the distance, but her eyes flickered back and forth like she was solving a complex calculus equation. She pursed her lips and drummed her thin fingers on the table. “You want to marry me to change the public’s perception of you from insane drunken buffoon to romantic musician with a heart of gold. And you’ll give me a place to live in return.”
“Yes!” He clapped and pointed finger guns at her. “You’ve nailed it.”
“No.” She speared another piece of grilled cheese and put it in her mouth.
“Great! Wait—what?”
“No.” She took a napkin and wiped her hands with light, meticulous movements.
“Come on, hear me out.”
She raised her eyebrows like a parent who was about to ground their kid, but was at least listening to their excuse first.
“You need a place to live. I have a place to live. You like music. I make music.” She shook her head, and Jack began blurting out words faster. “You didn’t fawn all over me because of who I am.”
“You barely know me.”
“I already know you more than any of the actresses my manager is going to line up to play my wife. It’d be business only. We can negotiate a contract. It’d be essentially an acting gig with room and board.” She stayed silent, and he continued. “I obviously have money. You’d be set for life. And if this really works, and the next album is decent, I’ll get a tour agreement out of it too. We’d never have to see each other.”
She reached for a fresh napkin and wiped her hands again. “No.”
“But why not?” Jack knew he was whining, but he was used to getting his way. Sure, it was an unorthodox request, but no one had ever turned him down. He was Jack Hunter. Former teen idol, smoldering heartthrob, and worldwide rock star. Jack motherfucking Hunter.
“Oh.” She looked surprised at his question. “Because I don’t want to. What else do you have?”
“To offer you?” An exasperated noise escaped him as he shoved his plate away.
“No,” she waved her hand dismissively. “What other options for your reputation? Surely your PR team has some ideas.”
He kicked his chair back from the table, glowering at her. “This is our best one. Other than that, not much. Bringing peace to the Middle East. Joining a monastery. Saving the rainforest.” He leaned forward. “Come on. You’re perfect. We’re nothing alike. I’m cocky and flashy, and you’re—” He gestured at her old AC/DC T-shirt and loose pigtail braids. “Um…charmingly rural? The press would eat it up. Opposites attract and all that.”
Her jaw ticked, and she swiped at her hands with another napkin, adding it to a growing pile. Jack stared at the stack, his wounded ego entirely to blame when he growled, “How many times are you going to wipe your damn hands?”
Her back stiffened, and the framework of her defensive walls snapped back into place one by one as her eyes dulled.
“And that’s why I won’t do it,” she said. She pushed her chair away from the table, wincing as it squeaked against the linoleum. She stood, her eyes darting toward the unused napkins.
“Thanks for lunch, Jack,” she said with a neutral smile that just made him angrier. He had finally gotten her to smile, but it was in no way genuine. “And good luck with your…venture.”
And with that, his rabbit ran off once again.
Jack glared at the remainder of her diced sandwich, the untouched salad, and the pile of used napkins before raking his fingers through his hair in disbelief.
What the hell just happened?