Broken Records by Bree Bennett

Chapter 4

Lucy paced the sidewalk, her fists clenched as she attempted to psych herself into walking into a New York City bar for the first time in her life.

She had passed the Blue Monster bar on each of her trips to Raymond’s Music Store. The bar was covered in garish blue paint the color of a postal box, but it was well-lit and decently clean on the outside. Her ex had taken her to bars before, but they were the posh, sterile environments that most lawyers took their high-end clients to, lacking the vibrancy of something lower-class. For her first authentic bar experience, the Blue Monster seemed to be just perfect.

Two women walked out of the poster-plastered door, giddy with laughter as they snuggled each other. Lucy peeked through the swinging door behind them. The bar was packed, as it should have been at that time of night. Her heart raced, but she needed to try this, needed to know that she could do this.

No one acknowledged her as she slunk inside. People laughed and talked, the two noises fighting for dominance like springtime stags. The air was thick and heavy as if she were stuck under a cotton sheet, trying to breathe through the fabric weave. She tapped her fingers to her palm and headed to the bar.

The bartender grinned at her as she approached, and she returned a shy smile.

“Can I get you something?” he asked, tossing a damp towel back and forth between his hands with the ease of a circus juggler.

“Can I have a Shirley Temple?” she asked, lowering her voice. “But, you know, make it look like I ordered something more adult.” She didn’t like drinking, primarily because of the loss of control. Every part of her very being was held together with constant concentration. Losing that would be catastrophic.

He winked at Lucy and poured some grenadine into a glass. “You’re a tourist, then?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “Why?”

“Trust me; I can tell who is local and who isn’t.” He flashed another glittering smile. “Where are you from?”

“Indiana.”

“Oh, yeah? I’ve got family in South Bend.”

“I’m—no, I was from Indianapolis. South Bend is nice, though. There’s a bakery there that makes the best olive bread.” She bit her lip. Was olive bread considered an appropriate topic in this situation?

“Was?” he asked, sliding the pink drink to her.

She caught it, letting the cold glass chill her sweaty palm. “I moved here a few weeks ago. I’m still looking for an apartment.”

“New job?”

“New…start.” She smiled weakly, her gaze dropping to the bar. She traced the condensation her drink had left on the bar, swirling the water into figure eights.

“Well, I hope you like it here.” He stuck out a hand. “I’m Tyler.”

“Lucy.” She grimaced at his hand for a beat before placing her fingers in his for a hurried handshake.

“I gotta keep working,” he said. “But I hope you stop by again. We’re nothing fancy, but we’re fun, and we’ve got our regulars.” On that last word, his eyes darted behind Lucy before he shook his head with a disapproving frown. He gave her a final smile and turned to a rambunctious party that had sidled up to the bar.

Lucy squinted through the crowd, people-watching like a pro. She saw a man and a woman stiffly sitting together, both on their respective cell phones. Two men canoodled in a corner, their eyes starry with mutual affection. And behind them, she spotted a figure wearing a familiar ball cap and an even more familiar scowl.

Jack Hunter was here, he was alone, and he didn’t look well.

She wormed her way through the crowd, wincing at every invasive touch and bump until she reached Jack’s table. She waited for him to notice her presence, and when he didn’t, she tapped him on his shoulder.

“What is it?” he drawled, his head lolling up at her like a broken bobblehead. He blinked rapidly, and his brows furrowed. “Cottontail?”

“No…I’m Lucy. Remember?”

Jack tipped his taut, ashy face toward her. Puffy, violet circles outlined his weary eyes, blending down into the yellow and green splotchy remainders of his bruise.

“You’re here.” He whipped his head around as if expecting some sort of magical portal that had transported her there. “Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.” He drained his drink, and his foggy eyes traveled over her red knit dress. “Well, have fun.” He flicked his hand at her in cold dismissal.

Lucy slid into the seat across from Jack. He sipped at his empty drink, his shaking hands drumming against the glass.

“You’re drunk,” she said, neither lauding nor accusatory.

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Because I drank alcohol.” He shot finger guns at her, whispering “Pew, pew!” under his breath before breaking into a hoarse cough.

A sandy-haired waitress stopped by the booth. “Anything else for you?”

“Yes,” Jack said, using his finger gun to stir the melting ice in his cup until it clinked and swirled against the glass like a frozen tornado. “Another one of these.”

Lucy met the waitress’s eyes and dismissed the order with a subtle head shake. The woman nodded and hurried off to the register.

Jack leaned forward, his dark hair falling into his eyes. The timbre of his voice matched the hum of the bar. “Wanna get married?”

“No.” She rubbed her temples, trying to wrest away the misplaced sense of responsibility she had when it came to this ridiculous, broken man. “What happened tonight?”

“Nothing.” He tapped his forehead. “Nothing here.” A pat to his chest, just above his heart. “Nothing here.” He broke into a wheezing spell, and her curiosity turned to worry.

“Are you—are you dying?” she asked.

He snorted and tipped the glass until the remains of an ice cube dropped into his mouth, clinking off his back teeth like a missed golf putt.

“God, I wish.” He slid across the booth’s cracked leather seat. “I’m going to use the facilities,” he said with unnecessary solemnity. “Don’t hop away.”

Lucy laid her head in her hands and gripped at her hair. There was a television on the wall showing the Jets game, and even at a low volume, the announcer’s booming voice and the crowd’s cheers wriggled their way into her subconscious. She should leave now, while he was in the bathroom. She could go back to the apartment, put on her pajamas, and relax with a movie. And yet, she stayed, resigned to playing therapist to a drunken guitarist.

The waitress brought her the check and a cheap ballpoint. Lucy pilfered through the pockets of Jack’s coat for his wallet and handed a random credit card to the waitress.

“He’s always here,” the waitress said in a low voice. “No one has ever come for him before. Women leave with him, but no one comes for him.”

Jack walked, or rather, moseyed back to the booth, his limbs not quite in sync. He snatched up the check, moving it back and forth in front of his face like a trombone slide.

“There are only three drinks on here. I shouldn’t be this drunk after three drinks.” He crumpled the receipt and threw it on the floor before turning to her. “And you’re here too—my twitchy little musical rabbit. Everything’s off tonight. Maybe I’m in Wonderland.” He waggled his eyebrows at Lucy.

She thought he was trying to be coy, but it just looked like two cobras doing a mating dance. An unsuccessful attempt at a wink followed.

“Can you get your jacket on?” she asked. “I’m going to take you home. Either put your jacket on or carry it.” He looked at his jacket and lifted a sleeve as if questioning its existence.

She took Jack’s hand in hers, threading their fingers together. His hand was as warm as a leather car seat on a July afternoon.

Jack pressed their entwined hands to his face. “So good,” he murmured, nuzzling her knuckles. “So nice and cold.”

She snatched her hands back in alarm. “My hands aren’t cold—you’re burning up.” A timid pat to his cheek confirmed her suspicions: not only was he drunk, but he was running a fever. Add to that the bruises on his face, and he was a wholly miserable mess of a man.

“I’m going to take you home,” she repeated, arranging his arm so that he appeared to be embracing her, not leaning on her for support. If there were any sneaky cameras in the bar, they looked like two smitten lovers on their way home instead of a lonely, drunken, former teen idol and his…whatever she was. At the moment, she felt like his parole officer.

She tugged at him to start walking, but he didn’t move. He gazed down at her with such surprise and amazement that a heated blush rose on her cheeks.

“Gotta be Wonderland,” he murmured, caressing the line of her jaw with his shaking index finger. It was sweet and simple, and yet her skin sizzled with electricity.

“And you’re mad as a March Hare,” she said, yanking him through the crowd and out into the bitter autumn evening, where he promptly vomited onto the sidewalk.

* * *

Jack had no idea where he was.

The air was crisp and chilly, yet sweat dripped down his temple. Someone was tugging at his hand. Jack batted at them, swatting as if at a pesky mosquito, but the motion was weak and kitten-like.

“Keep walking, Jack,” a clear voice said.

He flinched, wobbling his head around to find the source. “It’s her,” he whispered to some unknown audience. “It’s my killer porcelain rabbit.”

Lucy posed his arms around her like an articulated action figure, his full weight sinking into her shoulder as she led him down the sidewalk.

“I need your address,” she said. Jack looped his fingers through her messy braid, twisting and playing as he hummed a wordless, off-key tune.

“Jack, where do you live?” she repeated.

“In my house.”

She took his haggard face in her slender hands, squishing his cheeks until his lips pouted forward like a fish. “Tell me your address so I can take you home.”

He bit out the address in mumbled fragments. Lucy propped him up between her hip and a street sign while she ordered a ride. He rolled his forehead up and down the metal pole, sighing as his hot skin rubbed against the cool steel. When the car arrived, he whimpered when she dragged him from his snugglefest with the sign.

“You’re still here.” He squinted at her. “Are we getting married after all?”

“No.” She blew a strand of hair from her sweaty face. “Get in the car.” She half-lifted, half-shoved him into the gray sedan. The driver was thankfully quiet, though his eyes narrowed with obvious recognition of the musician. Jack slumped against the seat like a season-end scarecrow and fell into a twitching sleep for the remainder of the ride until he lurched awake when the car stopped outside his townhouse.

“You’re still here, Cottontail?” he panted, clutching at his chest.

“Still haven’t gone anywhere,” she assured, grunting as she hoisted him into a standing position. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

“You’re jumpy. Like a rabbit. Like Peter Cottontail.” His muffled chuckle transformed into an off-the-hinge cackle as he booped the end of her nose. “Hippity, hoppity…” She ducked from his touch and rummaged in his back jeans pocket for his house keys. “Whoa, buy a guy a drink before you do that.”

“You don’t need another one,” she said.

Jack wanted to tell her she was wrong, that he would always need one more drink, but his tongue was impersonating a moldy peach.

She braced him in front of his alarm system until he punched in the security code, then tested a few keys in the door before finding the correct one. She yanked him into the entryway with the gentleness of a mule and couldn’t hold back her gasp when she saw the trashed travesty of his townhouse.

“If the Plaza and the Bates Motel had a baby…” she whispered, tripping over a crumpled Amazon box. Structurally, the townhouse was beautiful, but months of slovenly living gave it a haunted, dingy look.

She led him to the nearest room, his home music studio, and shoved him down on the sofa. He couldn’t figure out where to focus, so his heavy head bobbled back and forth. He felt like he was on a runaway carousel, and the horses were plotting against him.

“Do you have someone you can call to stay with you? An assistant maybe?” She snapped her fingers in front of his face to keep his attention. He went slightly cross-eyed, trying to follow her hand.

“I don’t have a PA anymore. She got pregnant.”

“You got your PA pregnant?”

His head snapped up with indignance. “No. Her husband did. She resigned to stay home with the baby. I’m not always a walking tabloid article.”

A strawberry-colored flush tinged her skin. “Well, what about friends? Or family?”

He stared at the hardwood floor, ignoring her until she tapped her foot insistently. His curls tumbled forward as he shook his head. Humiliation sank deep in his stomach, adding to his nausea.

“Well, then. Do you have a thermometer?” Lucy asked.

His reddened eyes widened, and he shook his head again. She placed her inner wrist on his forehead, and every one of his senses reeled. He let out a pitiful whimper and leaned into her arm. She smelled like cocoa and lavender, two scents he had never imagined together, and in the future, would never imagine one without the other.

“You have a fever,” she said. “You need to rest.”

Equal parts dread and panic niggled at the back of his brain. I can’t go to bed yet, he thought. I’m supposed to be doing something.

“A song!” he gasped. “I have to write a song.” He stumbled to the piano, sliding onto the bench and hitting a few keys with errant fingers. Swaying on the seat, he began playing a few improvised chords.

“Jack. What are you doing? You need to go to bed.”

Through the whiskey fog, he remembered an argument with Kim from this afternoon—another fight about bad reputations and contracts and an aging catalog of songs. About finally setting a date to go into the studio and record songs that hadn’t even been written. He wanted to explain this to Lucy, but his thoughts and sanity were flying around his brain like shingles in a tornado. Instead, he sneered at her and played a raucous, bluesy rendition of “Peter Cottontail.”

“Stop it. You look like you’re going to pass out.” Her fearful, drawn expression was replaced by an annoyed glare, and he was secretly pleased. His rabbit had claws after all.

“Would you like something more your style?” He transitioned into a pounding “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,” his entire body trembling with the effort. After a few measures, he moved into a bone-rattling “Great Balls of Fire.” Sweat dripped down his temple and splashed the ivory keys. He hit one wrong note, then two, the missteps squawking like angry crows surrounded by songbirds. After several more mistakes, he howled and slammed his hands onto as many keys as he could, unleashing a cacophonous roll of musical thunder.

“Finished with your tantrum?” Lucy folded her arms and frowned at the feverish, piratical lunatic. Jack snarled, his sweat-dampened curls falling over into his eyes. He clawed at his hair before returning to the keyboard to play “Chopsticks” in a mocking, singsong rhythm. His head bobbed closer and closer to the keyboard until it fell onto the keys with a dissonant crash.

“Key of C-sharp major,” he said, pointing to his forehead before collapsing to the floor, unconscious.

* * *

Lucy left Jack sprawled on the floor next to the piano bench. It had been enough of a struggle to support his weight earlier; dead-lifting his unconscious body was simply not going to happen. She placed a dusty couch cushion under his head as her stomach twisted with worry. He was extremely drunk, with a fever on top of that, so dehydration was her first concern. She checked his breathing once more—steady but raspy—and went to find some water.

His kitchen was both a dream and a nightmare, with marble countertops, an inset cutting board, and a wide island perfect for laying out an expansive meal. The walls were farmhouse white, with an accent wall the color of a sea storm.

That kitchen was beautiful. That kitchen wanted to be loved.

It clearly was not.

The island had a blanket of dust, uninterrupted except for the warped imprints of glasses and bottles. The cutting board had a burgundy stain that Lucy really hoped was just wine. There were no pots, pans, or utensils on the counters. Even a potholder would add warmth to the stark room, but there was nothing but a crumpled roll of paper towels.

When she opened the refrigerator, she found a gallon of expired milk and a Styrofoam box of moldy mashed potatoes. She threw out the food and searched through his cupboards, but found nothing there. The man apparently lived solely on takeout and booze.

She pulled out her phone and ordered some basic groceries, adding some basic adult necessities—like a thermometer—and arranging for it to be delivered.

Jack was stirring when she returned to the studio with a cup of water. His face had a verdigris pallor, and when she touched his shoulder, he jerked away.

“How come you can touch me, but I can’t touch you?” he demanded.

She blinked, surprised at his perceptiveness and unable to think of a proper response. The complicated answer was so much more than his simple question.

“I don’t like being surprised,” she said at last. “I don’t like being startled. But you can touch me.”

She offered a quivering hand. He stared at it for a moment before poking her palm like a wasp’s nest.

“Can you sit up?” she asked. “I want to take you to the bedroom.”

“That’s what they all say.” He squished his face into the cushion, unabashedly nuzzling the upholstery.

“I think you’d be more comfortable there. And I can’t carry you.”

Eyes closed, he swiveled his body, and she placed a firm hand on his shoulder blade. She yanked him to his feet with an “Alley-oop!”, ignoring his protesting groan. Taking the brunt of his weight, she shuffled him down the hall and upstairs in a cumbersome two-step. He gave her a self-satisfied grin when they entered his giant loft bedroom.

“Aww, you’re carrying me across the threshold. It’s a real marriage!” He chucked her under the chin, and she resisted the urge to drop him like a bag of rocks.

Like the rest of his townhouse, his bedroom was stark and cluttered. The sheets on his king-sized bed seemed clean, despite being balled at the foot of his bed. Lucy guided him to the mattress, uncrumpled the sheets, and pulled them over his shivering shoulders. Finding a spare blanket on the floor, she rolled it into a firm tube, placing it against his back and bracing it with extra pillows.

“What are you doing?” he mumbled.

“Putting a blanket behind you, so you don’t roll over onto your back. I don’t want you to throw up and choke.”

“Why not? It’s a family tradition,” he said with feeble mockery, and she froze at her thoughtless words. Most people were familiar with the story of rising star actor Connor Vincent, who had overdone it on pills and liquor and died in that same way. His legacy, other than a handful of cult movies, was leaving behind his pop star girlfriend and their unborn son, Jack Vincent—better known by his stage name, Jack Hunter.

“I’m sorry,” she said, but his fluttering lashes were the only indication he had heard her at all. She bit her lip, glancing between his sleeping body and his bedroom door. Propriety would have her wait downstairs until he woke up, but as he shifted and moaned a little in his sleep, she couldn’t leave him alone. With a sigh, she removed her shoes and crawled onto the bed, laying as far from him as possible, and began her vigilant watch.