Broken Records by Bree Bennett
Chapter 6
There was an elephant on Jack’s chest and a snake in his bed.
Jack hated snakes.
Elephants were hit or miss.
His eyes flew open, and he choked out a gasp of terror, scrabbling halfway up his pillow. Quickened footsteps intermingled with the ominous hissing.
She was there. His Cottontail. His elation at the sight of her battled with panic over his imminent demise.
“Snake!” he warned as her figure slipped through the doorway. Instead of shock, her doe eyes filled with sympathy, and that was the moment Jack knew he was going to die, either poisoned by snake venom or crushed by pachyderm pressure.
She advanced toward him like an angel of death, her wrist dipping to his forehead. He couldn’t die, not when he’d just learned about the wonder that was that wrist. He moaned and pressed against her cool skin shamelessly.
“You’re warmer than this afternoon,” she said. “I’m going to retake your temperature, okay?”
“No, Lucy.” His tongue was thick and clumsy. She tried to work her hand away, but he pinned it in place with sweaty fingers. “The snake will get you.”
“Snake?”
“Yes, snake.” He hissed hoarsely and stuck his tongue out.
“Jack, that’s the humidifier.” She lifted her wrist. “You’re hallucinating.”
“The elephant then. On my chest. Make Dumbo go ‘way.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Your chest feels tight?” He ducked his chin. “Come on, let’s get you sitting up.” She laid a gentle hand between his shoulder blades and coaxed him upward. He felt the scratchy, corded upholstery underneath him, and he remembered he wasn’t in his bed. He was in Lucy’s tiny rental apartment with a thin comforter pulled over his body.
“Snakes, huh?” she asked, handing him a glass of water.
“I hate them.”
“They’re not so bad. I think they’re kinda cute.”
He halted, the glass halfway to his lips. “You ever see a snake blink?”
“No.”
“Exactly.”
She clicked her tongue and left, returning with a pair of white pills and a glass of water. Jack took them without argument and turned to thank her, but she had already disappeared again.
Jumpy as a jackrabbit.
When she reappeared several minutes later, holding a mixing bowl, her eyes were red-rimmed and weepy. Jack was sure he was really sick because, for some reason, the sight made his chest hurt even more.
“What’s wrong?” He jerked up in the chair. “What happened?”
She wrinkled her nose, still sniffling. “Nothing, I’m fine.” She held up the mixing bowl. “I made you an onion poultice to help your chest.”
“Like a chicken dish? I don’t know if I can eat right now.”
“No, that’s poultry. This is a poultice. The onions go on your chest and the vapors help you breathe.”
She retrieved a lumpy, folded dishtowel from the bowl. Even with his congested nose, Jack could smell the pungent onions.
“Don’t you dare.” His paltry threat came out as a raspy croak, dismissed with a single shake of her head. When she came closer, he reached for the cool skin of her wrist again, but she shrugged him away. She eased his T-shirt upward, tucking the hem at his neck like a bib. Her fingers caressed his stomach, and with that single motion, he forgot all about her wrist. He shut his eyes and reveled in her touch, and for the tiniest millisecond, the universe and life itself were amazing and wondrous.
Then she shoved a slimy dish towel onto his sternum and yanked his shirt over it. His nostrils splayed, and he sputtered and coughed, assaulted by onion odor.
“I changed my mind,” Jack yelped. “I don’t need you or your witchcraft.” She raised an eyebrow and tucked the comforter around his arms, jailing him inside the world’s smelliest cocoon.
Lucy backed away from him and sat cross-legged on the sofa on the other side of the room. Her mouth was a slim white line of tension.
“What’s wrong with you?” he sputtered. An onion jostled free inside his shirt like a slippery eel wriggling against his skin. He almost wished he were back to his stand-off with the hallucinatory snake.
She swallowed. “The smell. It’s, um, very strong.”
He stared at her, unable to determine if he was mad that she’d pushed her strong smell struggle off on him or touched that she was fighting her own senses for his health.
“You don’t need to stay in here with me,” he grumbled.
“If you can handle it, so can I.”
“How long do I need to wear this?”
“About twenty minutes.”
He threw his hand around for his phone, and finding it in the folds of the comforter, set a timer for twenty minutes. He refused to wear the poultice for a minute longer.
Lucy’s face twisted up in thought, her hand tapping itself in a nervous staccato. Jack had started to identify it as some sort of motion to soothe anxiety, which frustrated him. He could handle the dumbstruck reactions of fans, but Lucy was reacting to him as a person. The only time she emerged from her emotional fortress was when he challenged her, so he went for it.
“Stop opening and closing your mouth. You look like a goldfish.”
Her eyes blazed, and her pattering fingers froze mid-tap. “I am not.”
“You are. I’m waiting for air bubbles to float from your mouth at any moment.” He poked a little more to test his theory. “If this is some delayed starstruck reaction, then I don’t want you here.”
The blaze in her eyes turned into a bonfire. “I don’t get starstruck.”
“Then say something. Or ask me for my autograph. Just get on with it.”
“Autographs are creepy.”
He squinted at her and bit his lip to keep from laughing. “Well. That’s a statement we’re going to have to unpack at some point.”
The hand tapping began again, and she gritted her teeth as if he were forcing her to speak at gunpoint. Her focus was trained on the floor, and her words were stilted when she finally spoke. “Sometimes, I just—I need to make sure I’m saying and doing—the right things. I can’t always tell. I don’t want to make mistakes.”
“You always consider what you’re going to say before you say it?”
“Almost always.” Her eyes flicked to his for a millisecond. “For some godawful reason, I have trouble with it around you.” Her words were charged with bleak, drained frustration.
Jack grunted. “I’ve had people sucking up to me my entire life. It would be really refreshing to hear the goddamn truth sometimes.”
Her lips twisted and pursed. “No.”
“No?”
“No.”
Jack sighed. She was back to the one-word answers. He rested his head back on the sofa arm. “You’ve punched me, and I’ve vomited in front of you. We’re beyond filters.”
Her shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry I hit you,” she said. “I really didn’t mean to. You just startled me.”
“I’m sorry too. I won’t sneak up on you again.”
She peered at him with a mixture of grief and awe, and the peculiar pinch in his heart ratcheted tighter.
“I think we’ll be okay,” she said. “You’re not the quietest person around.”
Jack snorted. The medicine was kicking in, and his eyelids were as heavy as ship anchors. He didn’t want to fall asleep, though, because he smelled like a roadside diner. “By the way, my manager, Kim, will probably stop by with an NDA sometime soon about all this.”
“So I can’t publish your sickbed confessions then?” She slipped him a slight grin. The smile lit up her elfin features, transforming her from a shuddering shadow into something wild and wonderful. He had finally drawn a smile out of her, and it was glorious. Between the coughing, the onion torture, and that fucking smile, he wasn’t sure if he would survive the night.
“There’s nothing to write about. I’m a perfect angel.”
“Too bad. I’m sure the National Enquirer would love an article about Jack Hunter’s snake phobia.”
His lips curled in disapproval. His stage name didn’t sound right coming from her. “Vincent. My real last name is Vincent.”
Her smile faltered. “I know.”
“Of course you do. You know everything.” He burrowed into the blankets, trying to recall better scents than the onion burrito he had become. Roses. Fresh-baked cookies. Cocoa and lavender. “What’s with the rock and roll history thing, anyway?”
The twenty-minute alarm shrilled through the room, and Lucy sprang from the sofa without answering. He plucked the poultice from his shirt, shivering at the sliminess.
“What are you thinking right now?” he asked, dropping the poultice into the mixing bowl with a moist plop. “No filter.”
“Honestly?” She blinked at him, and the corners of her mouth slanted up. “You need a shower.”
* * *As soon as Jack stood, Lucy regretted her shower suggestion. He shook like a leaf in a rainstorm, although his skin was a tad cooler and his breathing a little less labored. Regrettably, he also smelled like a fryer, but a hot shower would go far in clearing his lungs.
“You sure you can do this?” she asked once they were in the apartment’s bathroom. He set his jaw and nodded, tugging at his shirt to pull it over his head. During his feeble struggle, a few loose onion slices dropped to the floor with a squelch.
“Lucy,” he said, his head half-buried inside his shirt. “Help.”
“Sit.” He hunkered on the side of the tub, his arms haphazardly tangled in his sleeves. Lucy stood in front of his outstretched legs, arranged his arms, and removed his shirt.
“There you are,” she said when he was rescued. His forlorn, dark eyes gazed up at her. There was an exhausted rawness sick people had, where all their pretenses were torn away by weakness, and their true self shone through. Jack exhibited that look then, and she could barely breathe. It wasn’t his sharp jawline or messy curls, or slightly crooked nose that captivated her. It was the exposed, unabashed emotion reflected in those umber brown eyes—loathing and weariness and utter sadness.
“There you are,” she repeated, and her hand took on a life of its own, reaching out to cup the length of his stubbled jaw. At her touch, he closed his eyes, and his abrupt inhale cracked through her haze.
“You don’t have any tattoos,” she blurted, surveying his lean chest as she dropped her hand. He furrowed his forehead, and she crimsoned. “Sorry, that’s a musician stereotype.”
He mumbled something incoherent.
“What was that?”
“The first rule of ass tattoos,” he said. “Don’t talk about ass tattoos.”
“Oh.” Her fingers twitched, and she slid her gaze to the floor. “I have a tattoo too. But it’s on my back, not my ass.”
“Let me see,” he said, a hint of his devilish spark back.
“No.”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” He attempted a half-grin but could barely manage it. Even his lips were trembling from the effort.
“I don’t want to see it,” she said. “I’m going to stay in the bathroom while you shower. My eyes will be closed. If you feel like you are going to faint again, I’ll try and catch you.”
“How are you going to catch me with your eyes closed?”
Lucy ignored him, starting the shower. He goggled at the water as if it were Mount Everest and he had lost his Sherpa.
She shut her eyes. “I’m ready. You can drop your pants.”
She heard the swoosh of fabric falling to the floor. Jack took a breath, hesitating. “This is, without a doubt, the sexiest moment of my life.”
She raised her eyebrows but kept her eyes pinched shut. “Really?”
A scoff. “No.” The glass shower door glided open with a metallic whine. “Pretty sure you’re the first woman ever to close her eyes while I’m standing naked in front of her. I’m going to develop a complex.”
She remained vigilant to the sounds of the shower, listening for a tell-tale stumble or anything else that would indicate a fainting spell. After a few minutes, the rustle of his movements ceased.
“Jack?”
“Yeah, Cottontail?” His voice quavered.
“Are you done?”
“Yeah.” The shower water continued to spray with no other sound indicating movement.
“Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you need me to turn off the shower?”
A long, grateful sigh. “Please.”
She felt her way against the humid tiled wall until she found the shower door. She cracked it open, and after a few tries—and a soaked shirt sleeve—she shut off the water. His hand clamped onto her wrist, warm and wet. She was so startled by the fact that she didn’t startle that she let out a squeaked “Oh!” He released her immediately.
“No,” she said, flapping her arm in his general direction as if aiming for a piñata. “It’s alright. Use me for balance if you need to.” After a moment, he rested his hand on her arm again, and a frisson of awareness shot through her. She fumbled for a towel and thrust it at him.
“Covered?”
“Uh-huh.”
She finally opened her eyes. Fatigue rolled off Jack in waves as he clung to her arm with damp fingers. He zombie-walked to the bedroom, slipping back into his rumpled clothes while Lucy looked away.
“I’m dressed,” he said finally, his shoulders slumped in exhaustion.
“See, that wasn’t so bad. Go on, lay on the bed. You don’t need to go back to the couch.”
He gave her a sleepy-eyed glare. “The couch is fine. I’m feeling better anyway.”
“Oh?” she pushed on his arm, and he fell back onto the bed, dazed. “That’s what I thought.” He grumbled as she tucked the covers around him.
“I’m going to go in the living room,” she said. “I’ll check on you soon.” She headed toward the doorway until his hoarse voice called out.
“Lucy. Stay with me.”
“Why?”
The side of his mouth curved up. “The snake might come back.”
It was a terrible idea, and yet she joined him, slipping under the blankets and making sure that a reasonable amount of distance was between them. His breathing steadied, and Lucy followed him into sleep as the rhythm of early evening rain provided their naptime soundtrack.
* * *When Lucy woke, it was well past nightfall, and she was drenched in sweat. She tried to kick off the cumbersome blankets, but they weren’t blankets at all.
Jack was snuggling her. His arm was flung over her side, cinched tight against her belly, and his knees curled up behind her in a perfect spooning position.
Any other day, she would have frozen in place, her brain racing from zero to sixty with panic. But all she could think was he’s too hot, and not as a measure of his attractiveness.
She tossed back the covers and lay her wrist on his forehead. His face had a ghastly pallor, splashed with flushed red. His shivers were gone, replaced by damp sweat and dry heat. He didn’t even wave away the thermometer when she rolled it over his temple.
“Alright, Jack,” she said. “Let’s get some of these blankets off.” She paused for one of his snarky responses, but he was silent. She peeled back all the blankets except the sheet. Heat radiated from his body like an antique oil heater. Grabbing a wet washcloth from the en suite, she smoothed it over his forehead. He stirred, opening his eyes weakly.
“You’ve got quite a fever there, Mr. Vincent,” Lucy said with false cheer. He blinked, shifting his head and studying her. His hand extended and traced her jaw with one finger. She covered his hand with hers, wishing she could transfer a little of her health into him through touch alone.
The compress slipped from Jack’s forehead. She adjusted it back on his temple and sat next to him on the bed. To her surprise, he slid his hot hand in hers, looping their fingers together.
“You don’t need any more body heat,” she said, but he shook his head.
“I’m sick. You have to do what I say.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works.” She yielded and let him cling to her hand. “Do you want to go to urgent care?”
“No. I don’t need a doctor. I have you and your hillbilly witchcraft.” He rubbed his chest where the onion poultice had been.
“I’m not a hillbilly. I’m just from Indiana.” He lifted a judgmental eyebrow. “Well, I did grow up on a farm. A non-working one.”
He groaned as he rocked into his pillow. She lifted his head and flipped it to the elusive “cool side,” and he nodded his gratitude.
“Tell me about the farm,” he said with all the ardor of a Steinbeck character. He patted at the mattress next to him, and she sat, overlooking the way her heart stuttered at his proximity.
“The farm’s outside of a town called Sparrow Hill. My great-grandparents used it as an actual farm, so there are still some old buildings left.” She scrolled through her phone, showing him a picture of her parents she had taken during a fleeting visit last summer. “This is the backyard, but you can see the granary and the barn in the background.”
“Are those your parents?”
“Yes,” she said with proud affection. “My dad’s a general contractor. My mom is a stay-at-home mom. I’m one of eight kids.”
“Holy shit. Which one are you?”
“Number four.” She held up fingers to count off. “It goes Nico, Violetta, Matteo, me, Ariana, Dante, and then Elena and Sophia are the twins. And Gianna is the only grandchild so far. She’s Violetta’s—Lettie’s. Ma is second-generation Italian and insisted we all have good Italian names if you can’t tell.”
“Lucy is Italian?”
“My full name is Luciana,” She drew out the pronunciation as loo-chee-ah-nah. “Everyone uses Lucy with the soft ‘c’ though. It’s easier than correcting them and having to explain how it really is said.”
“Hmmm.” His heavy-lidded eyes skimmed over her face. “I like Luciana, though.” Her lips tugged to the side, and she tentatively smoothed an errant curl away from his forehead. “Is there anyone else?”
“No.” She hesitated. “Well, except for Lincoln and Larry.”
“Who are they?
“Lincoln is the cat. Larry is the pig.”
“You have a pig.”
“He’s just a little guy. He won’t hurt anyone.”
“I’m not scared of the pig, Luciana.” Her belly fluttered as he said her full name.
“That’s good. He’ll probably cuddle you at some point, and it startles people.” She frowned at the awkward statement. Larry wouldn’t ever cuddle Jack because he wouldn’t ever meet Jack.
Jack’s eyes drifted to her mouth, but the movement was sluggish and labored. “The pig is in the house?”
“I said he was little. And litter-trained. Such a good boy.”
She flipped through different photos from the past few years, narrating through each one. Jack’s stillness was only broken by coughing fits and hoarse rasping. After a particularly racking cough, he laid his head on her shoulder. She froze, her heart trip-trapping like a billy goat over a troll’s bridge. She couldn’t remember the last time her heart raced for any reason other than fear, and yet it was happening, simply because a man who was probably infecting her with influenza at that very moment was snuggling her shoulder.
She shook her head to clear it before pulling up more photos: Lettie, beaming in front of her farm, her greatest source of pride other than her infant daughter. Nico, Matteo, and Dante fixing up the old barn. Elena and Sophia moving into their first college apartment together. Ariana and her mother hugging, most likely taken before another argument about Ari’s bright purple pixie haircut. And finally, a picture of Lucy and Gianna, the first day she came home from the hospital.
The day everything had changed.
“Hold up.” He stabbed a finger at the picture. “How come she gets such a big smile from you?”
“Because she’s a baby!”
“Psshhh. I’ve gotten one smile like that, and I can walk and talk.”
A delicate warmth blossomed inside her chest. “You’re keeping track?”
“You never smile,” he said. “Except for babies and men who run diners.”
The blossom of warmth wilted. “I don’t smile a lot. It doesn’t mean that I’m not happy. I just don’t always think to do it.”
He responded with a neutral humming noise. Lucy switched to a picture of Larry sprawled and napping in front of a brick fireplace. “There you go,” she said. “Proof of the pig.”
“You really have a pig.” He shook his head but didn’t lift it from her shoulder. It almost felt like an affectionate nuzzle. “Your family is weird.”
“I know.”
“You’re weird.”
“I know.” It was only the millionth time she’d been told that, but there was no malice in his words.
His eyes fluttered shut, and he shifted, rubbing at his chest with a grimace. His body crooked closer and a surge of protectiveness crashed over Lucy, unexplained and unyielding.
“Hey, Lucy?” he whispered after a moment. “Weird is okay.”