Broken Records by Bree Bennett

Chapter 8

The bathroom door opened outward into the apartment, a miracle of forethought in the otherwise badly constructed dump. If Lucy twisted her body just right, she could stand between the yellowed toilet and the door and still have a little room to breathe. She dropped her head back against the wall, coughing when a few plaster shavings shook loose into her hair.

She inhaled deeply—once, twice, three times—trying to will away the tears. She hadn’t had a full-on cry in months, and she would be damned if she cried over a stupid apartment, stupid Jack Vincent, and stupid, stupid New York City. She pressed her lips together until they hurt, balling her fists as her nails drove into her palm.

She turned her head at a scuttling noise from the shower. Blinking back at her was a sleek gray rat the size of a kitten.

The first tear fell.

Her back slid against the wall until she slumped on the floor, squished against the toilet bowl.

And she cried.

She cried because, at last, she was truly on her own, and she was failing miserably. She cried because she missed her home, her real home, not some cookie cutter luxury home in Indianapolis. She cried because she had no idea who or what she was anymore, or even what she was fighting to become. And she cried because she just wanted to push the easy button and go back to Jack’s house.

The rat tilted his head, blinking his shadowed eyes. “Don’t worry,” Lucy hiccupped between stifled sobs. “I’m not going to hurt you. Let’s be miserable together.” His tail flicked in response, and his tiny paws rustled his whiskers.

There was a soft rap at the door. Both the rat and Lucy tensed.

“Lucy?” Jack’s voice was muffled through the particle-board door. When she didn’t answer, Jack peeked his head in, frowning. A crease appeared between his eyebrows as he examined her pretzel-like position. “What are you doing?”

“Looking at the bathroom.” She waved at the near-prison. “It’s state of the art, don’t you think?” She emphatically patted the toilet like a used car salesman. When she drew back her fingers, they were covered in unidentifiable moisture, and she gagged a little.

His brows furrowed further as he leaned against the doorway. “Look, I’m sorry I yelled. I was only try—Jesus Christ!” His voice changed into a horrified yelp. He snatched up his shoe and hoisted it above his head, aiming it like a discus at the animal in the shower.

“No!” she threw herself in front of the rat, skinning her elbow against the chipped tile. Jack stumbled and jerked back his arm mid-throw. His eyes rounded, and he swept her with a terrified look.

“That’s a fucking sewer rat, Lucy.”

“You don’t know that,” she sniffled. “Maybe he’s just visiting from the country or something.”

He tipped his head at her very, very slowly. “It’s a sewer rat,” he repeated, quieter this time. “This isn’t a Disney movie.”

She hummed, unable to speak for the lump in her throat.

“It probably has rabies,” he continued, still in that heavy, cautious voice.

“Maybe not. Maybe you’re just a rat-ist. Maybe he’s got a family back where he came from. Maybe he’s just up here exploring and living some beautiful ratty dream, and tonight he’s going to go home and snuggle up with his family in his giant rat’s nest and dream about the adventure he had today.”

Jack’s cheek twitched. The rat’s nose twitched.

“This isn’t about the rat, is it?”

“I don’t know!” A sob escaped her throat, and she lost her last thread of composure. Jack’s baleful expression melted as he slipped back into his shoe. He took a step toward her, and because every wall, every defense she had was cracked and lost to her tears, she flinched. Her arms shot up, clasped together as a shield for her face. He froze, his eyes widening. His cheeks paled, and his lips pressed together into a firm, white line.

“Luciana,” he said, too softly, too calmly. “May I sit next to you?”

Control yourself, Lucy. Now you’ve made him uncomfortable.

He dropped to a crouch, rocking on his heels. “Can I sit there?” She lifted a limp shoulder, and he wormed his way into the bathroom, squeezing himself between the door, the toilet, and her. He hugged his knees to his chest to fit his long legs, and more plaster tumbled from the wall, falling into his curls like dirty snow. Ever so slightly, he tugged on her sleeve until she leaned into his shoulder. It was tender and strong and safe, something she hadn’t felt in many years. She allowed her head to drop and her tears to flow.

She didn’t know how long they sat there—the rat, the rock star, and Lucy. At one point, Jack entwined his fingers with hers, massaging her knuckles in a soothing rhythm. He removed a handful of single-ply tissue, rough as cardboard, from the toilet roll and offered it to her.

“Alright,” he said. “Out with it.”

“This isn’t how this was supposed to go. This was my chance to make it on my own, to prove I could do things by myself. I can’t even find a place to live without screwing it up. And I couldn’t even do that—I had to bring you.”

He stroked his jaw with his thumb. “Doing things on your own, it’s not dependent on whether you do things right or wrong. It’s about having choices. You could screw up every decision from here on out, but at least you’re the one making the decision. As much of a hissy fit as I had out there, if you really want this apartment, it’s your choice.” He sighed with more than a little dramatic flair. “But, if you live here, providing you with 24/7 security will really do a number on my expenses.”

She huffed out a laugh. “You’re not getting me a bodyguard. You barely know me.”

He gazed down at her with an odd expression that made her feel shaky and fizzy, as if a million soda bubbles were traveling in her bloodstream. “I know you, Luciana Meyer.”

“I guess so.” She leaned her head back against the wall. “Thanks. For this. And for today.”

His hand tightened around hers. “That’s what friends do.”

“We’re friends?” She blinked back another onset of tears. She hadn’t had a friend of her very own in a long time.

His lips curled in a half-smile. “You and I are friends, Cottontail,” he said. He turned his attention to the rat. “But you and I, we’re not.”

Someone pounded on the door. Her rat friend squeaked, and Jack’s nostrils flared.

“The hell is going on in there?” snapped the landlord.

“Just a minute, we’re looking at the shower.” Jack shot a cautionary glance at the rat, who preened himself near the drain.

“Time for one of your on-your-own decisions,” Jack said, nearly toppling over as he climbed back to his feet. He pulled her to a standing position, which squished their bodies together, chest to chest. “Is this the apartment you want?”

She let her head fall, a slightly jerky motion, until it lay against his collarbone. It felt a little like surrender. “No. I don’t want it.”

“Then I agree and support your decision. Now,” he leaned in closer, whispering against her temple. “The rat looks hungry. Can we go?”

* * *

Jack had the driver drop them off at a gourmet pretzel shop near her rental. His wolfish, surly scowl was out of place in the cutesy store, adorably named “Oliver’s Twists.” It smelled of salt and warm bread and comfort.

“I haven’t been here in years,” he said, gazing around before he sauntered to the counter and ordered two regular pretzels.

“Aren’t you Jack Hunter?” asked the cashier as she packaged up the steaming pretzels in parchment paper.

“On occasion, yes,” said Jack, flashing his standard-issue half-smile.

“You were so awesome,” she said. “My sister had the biggest crush on you. Can I get your autograph?”

He smiled as he signed a napkin, but it didn’t reach his eyes. When the cashier disappeared to grab a bag, his smile drooped.

“Were,” he repeated with a sardonic gaze. “You were so awesome. I’m reduced to were instead of are. Had instead of has. Was instead of is.”

“Maybe you just have to work your way back to is,” Lucy said.

He gave her a sullen look, but the tension in his shoulders dissipated.

The cashier returned and handed the bag to Lucy, but Jack intercepted it.

“Not yet,” he said. He went to the shelf of condiments and pulled out one of the pretzels, folding several napkins around the bottom before handing it to Lucy without so much as a glance.

“Oh,” she breathed out as he doctored his own pretzel with an absurd amount of mustard.

He had wrapped her pretzel to keep her hands clean.

They walked the few blocks left to her apartment. It was dusk, and for once, the city didn’t seem so loud to her sensitive ears. Perhaps it was because of the delicious pretzel giving her something to focus on, or maybe it was the grouchy rock star at her side, making her feel more grounded.

“Time for another favor,” he said, sucking a glob of mustard off his thumb. “I’m looking for a roommate.”

“Sure you are,” she said, pressing her tongue against her cheek. “And what does Jack Vincent look for in a roommate?”

“Someone about yea high—” he held his hand to her hairline, “—with dark hair and brown eyes.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m not done.” He took another bite and continued, half-muffled. “Someone about yea high, dark hair, brown eyes, and who likes my music more than Elvis.”

“He’s Elvis.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Fine. I can be flexible with the last part. For now.”

“Fine.” Her resolve was disappearing like early morning fog. “What would being your roommate entail?”

Besides bathrooms that don’t flood or have rats or roommates with suspect hygiene routines.

“Just roommates. You could have the guest room. No strings attached.” He tapped his left-hand ring finger. “I promise.”

She thought about his earlier words. It was an opportunity, and even if she wasn’t living entirely on her own, it didn’t mean that she wasn’t in control of her decisions.

She expelled a long sigh. “Fine. I want to pay rent.”

“Fine.” He shrugged, stuffing more pretzel into his mouth, but his eyes had an excited glint.

“And utilities. And I’ll contribute to groceries.”

“Fine,” he repeated, not bothering to hide his smirk.

“Fine. We’ll put a lease together.”

He paused, searching her expression. “Is this an on-your-own decision?”

“I promise,” she said. “You’re very persuasive and often annoying, but yes, this is an on-my-own decision.”

“Good,” he said, and a ghost of a smile tripped across his lips.

“What about your future wife, though?” Lucy asked. “We could make the lease month to month if that helps.”

His smile dissolved. “Nah, I’ve decided against that.”

“Really? One girl turns you down and you give up?”

“What can I say?” he said, pressing a flippant hand to his heart. “I’m sensitive when it comes to my fake romances. I’ve been looking into different charities instead. Making a list of causes to support.”

“Did you land on anything?”

“No.” His laugh was humorless. “Other than the fact that there are no causes out there that I’m passionate about. I don’t have a ‘thing.’”

“Nothing at all? Saving the whales or childhood literacy or plastic straw bans?”

“I mean, those are all good things, and I support them, but there’s no life-changing passion driving me. I guess I don’t have room to be picky, though. Whoever will let me tie their name to them will have to do.” He threw her a sidelong glance. “Got anything you want me to support?”

“How do you feel about homeless pigs?” She scrolled through her phone and brought up a picture of Larry on his first day home from a pig rescue organization.

“I dunno. It depends on how homeless pigs feel about me.” He sighed, a sound drenched in disappointment and self-pity.

“I really am sorry your fake marriage idea didn’t work out,” she said with all honesty, taking in his slumped shoulders and harrowed face. “But it wouldn’t have been a good idea with us. I like you.”

His toe caught a crack in the sidewalk, and he stumbled mid-step. “You like me?”

“Yes. You said we were friends.” She paused, suddenly nervous that it had been just comforting words to stop her tears. “In the creepy bathroom.”

“It was a creepy bathroom.” His tone was cautious as he started walking again. “We are friends.”

“Why would I want to lose a friend, then? Marriage leads to all sorts of uncomfortable situations, and next thing you know, poof! Friendship gone.”

“You don’t want to marry me,” he repeated, “because we’re friends?”

“Exactly.” Surely, it wasn’t that hard of a concept to understand.

He halted at the sidewalk corner, and she tumbled into his back, dropping the last bits of her pretzel and nearly pushing him into the street. A lazy pigeon snatched the ruined pretzel in his beak. Jack whirled and caught her by the waist with the span of his hands. It wasn’t a casual embrace between friends. It was a claiming, a plea spoken through touch that seared her skin despite the layers of clothing.

“You made me drop my pretzel,” she whispered, because what else could she say? All her previous thoughts were lost in an abyss bordered by gripping hands and dangerous looks.

“You do understand that—” He let go with an annoyed growl, scraping his hands through his hair. “Lucy, I have a lot of money. If you marry me, I will give you a lot of money.”

“To…buy another pretzel?” She examined the way his mouth was set, the way his brows were knitted together. There was some sort of social cue she was missing, and her throat tightened because she just didn’t understand.

Jack made a strangled noise and stepped away, his hands clasped around the back of his head as he mumbled a few curses. She winced at the metallic echo when he kicked a nearby lamppost, and again when he returned with a pronounced limp.

“Luciana.” Jack’s voice sounded strange, far away. “Please marry me. Be my fake wife. This is the last time I’ll ask, I swear. It’s an on-your-own decision.” His usual bravado was nowhere to be found.

“And we’ll stay friends?”

“Pinky promise.” His apprehension disappeared, replaced with his arrogant grin once more. He searched her face and pumped his fist. “You’re going to say yes, aren’t you?”

Another deep breath, and then Lucy made an on-her-own decision based on nothing more than napkins wrapped around a pretzel, the slide of a hand in her own, and a whispered Weird is okay. “I think so.”

Jack squeezed both of her hands, and then they just stood there in silence, surrounded by the deafening non-silence of the city around them.

“This feels anti-climactic.” He rubbed his whiskered jaw. “Let me do it better. You deserve a real Jack Hunter proposal.”

He looked both ways, stalked across the crosswalk, and stopped, mid-street. Brakes screamed, and a cab halted inches from his body. The honking and squealing tires were immediate, from cars trying to maneuver around the crazy man in the middle of traffic.

“The hell, Jack?” she yelled, covering her ears. The cab driver leaned out of their window and spouted fiery, colorful language, backed by a dozen car horns. Jack raised a lackadaisical middle finger, his eyes solely on her.

“Lucy!” he shouted above the horns. “Marry me!”

This was the circus she was joining, and the ringmaster was right there, prancing in the middle of Brooklyn traffic.

“You idiot! You’re going to get yourself killed!”

The traffic jam thickened around him, a bustling, angry Red Sea around a very cocky Moses. The taxi nudged forward until their front plate tapped the back of Jack’s knees.

Lucy bolted across the street, yanking him to the other side. A chorus of horns and shouts assaulted them as traffic reverted to normal.

“You bastard,” she panted, smacking him on the chest.

“Sorry. Grand gesture and all that,” he said with a triumphant smirk.

“You scared me half to death.” She cupped her ears again and fought the urge to rock in place.

He leaned closer, peering at her. His smile froze, then fell like shattered ice. “I did scare you. I’m sorry.”

She finger-combed her wind-blown hair. “Your shenanigans have consequences. You could’ve gotten hurt.”

His eyes widened, and he swallowed. “But I didn’t.”

“This time.” Their eyes met, and though instinct begged her to look away, she stood firm.

He took a tentative step closer and caressed her jaw, stroking the side with his thumb. “Marry me?” he asked.

“Yeah, fine,” Lucy said. “Somebody’s got to keep you alive.”

His phone rang. He glanced at the screen, then placed the call on speaker.

“Jack.” Kim’s robust voice was eerily serene. “Why are there pictures of you standing in the middle of traffic on Twitter?”

“I got lost,” he said with bored calmness.

“Uh-huh.”

“By the way,” he said, his wolf-like grin growing, “set up a meeting tomorrow with Martin. I’ve got a solution to our PR issues. Trent needs to be there too.”

“What?”

“I’ll explain tomorrow.” Jack disconnected the call. “Come on, Cottontail. We’ve got a marriage to plan.”