Page 15 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)

la living

Harrison

The studio air tastes of failure and stale ambition, thick with the metallic tang of overheated equipment and forgotten takeaway containers rotting in some corner.

The SSL console blinks its expensive lights at us; each flash reflects off the platinum records on the walls—our past success mocking our current creative bankruptcy.

Dex is sprawled across the Persian rug again, this time with his eyes closed, muttering about “finding the frequency of enlightenment” through his left nostril. There’s a cigarette burn on the expensive carpet near his head—probably his, definitely expensive to replace.

We’re dying in here. Slowly; publicly. With a five-thousand-pound-a-day budget.

“That’s it.” I stand so fast the leather chair squeaks in protest, the sound cutting through the studio’s artificial hush. “I’m done.”

Henry looks up from his phone, where he’s been scrolling through Twitter mentions, the blue light casting shadows under his eyes. “We’ve got three hours left, Harrison.”

“Yeah, well, use them to find us some actual fucking inspiration instead of watching us decompose.”

I stride toward the door, my trainers silent on the carpet, but Henry’s voice stops me cold.

“The fans want to say hello.”

The words hit the air heavy. I turn, jaw already clenching. “What fans?”

He shrugs, all innocent except for the guilt radiating from his pores. “Just some girls. They’ve been waiting outside since dawn; thought it might be good PR.”

“Thought it might get us laid, more like.”

Jamie’s already straightening his hair, checking his reflection in the black screen of his phone. The practised vanity makes my stomach turn.

And there it is—the familiar script. Go out there, smile, flirt, disappear with whichever one looks most impressed by mediocrity. Let her worship Harrison Carter while I disappear entirely.

But I can’t. Not anymore.

Not since I’ve tasted what it’s like to be seen—really seen—by someone who didn’t give a fuck about the platinum discs or the headlines. Someone who looked at me in a basement flat and said my music was shit to my face, then kissed me anyway.

Any girl won’t cut it now. Not when I know what it feels like to matter.

“Where are they?”

“Lounge area. Sophie’s keeping them entertained.”

I watch Jamie practically bounce toward the door, and bile climbs up my throat. These aren’t fans—they’re transactions. Bodies to fill the void where our creativity used to live.

“I need air.”

Outside, the LA sun hits me. Opening an oven door. Too bright; too optimistic. Too fucking California for my current state of spiritual decay. The smog settles on my skin thick enough to taste—all exhaust fumes and broken dreams suspended in the atmosphere.

Palm fronds rustle overhead, a sound that should be peaceful but feels mocking instead.

I fish a cigarette from my jacket pocket—American Spirit, because if I’m going to poison myself, I might as well do it with something that tastes honest.

Lee materialises beside me, his shadow falling across the pavement. “All right, boss?”

“Peachy.” I light up, the flame bright against the harsh daylight, inhaling. The smoke might carry me somewhere else. The nicotine burns my throat in a way that feels more real than anything that’s happened in the studio today.

“How long before Henry sends a search party?”

“Give it ten minutes.”

The traffic crawls down Sunset below us; all those people with somewhere to be. Car brakes screech occasionally over the distant hum of the city. I lean against the brick wall, feeling the heat seep through my shirt, and watch them.

I used to have somewhere to be.

The door opens behind me, and Sophie steps out, looking frazzled, pulling a vape from her pocket with shaking fingers.

“Escaping too? ”

“Something that way.” I take another drag, feeling my shoulders drop slightly. “How’s the fan situation?”

She pulls a face, her nose wrinkling. “Jamie’s already got one pressed against the mixing desk. Dex is explaining the spiritual significance of the 808 drum machine to a girl who looks about nineteen.”

“Christ.”

“Yeah.” She exhales a cloud of vanilla-scented vapour that mixes oddly with my cigarette smoke. “Sometimes I wonder why I got into this business.”

“Money?”

“Passion, actually. Which feels increasingly stupid.”

I study her—mid-twenties, probably, with that earnest look that hasn’t been beaten out of her yet by years of watching talented people destroy themselves in real time. There’s refreshing honesty about her.

“What got you passionate about it?”

“My mum, actually. She was a session musician in the nineties; played on some beautiful records. Said music was the only language that never lied.”

Heat twists in my chest, sharp and unexpected. “She still playing?”

“Died when I was fifteen. Cancer.” Sophie’s voice goes flat, matter-of-fact, but I catch the way her fingers tighten around her vape. “But she left me all her vinyl. Faith Jones, Joni Mitchell, Carole King. The real stuff.”

I nearly choke on my cigarette, smoke burning up through my sinuses. “Faith Jones?”

“You know her? The Red Session is basically my bible. Mum always said Faith was the most honest songwriter of her generation; shame she gave it all up.”

My heart starts doing complicated things against my ribs, a rhythm Dex would envy. The cigarette tastes different now—sharper, more urgent. “Yeah. Shame.”

“Actually,” Sophie continues, oblivious to the bomb she’s just detonated in my chest, “there’s this awards ceremony next week. The West Coast Music Archive Legacy Awards; they’re honouring Faith posthumously. Mark’s got tickets. We’re both going.”

I drop my cigarette, grinding it under my heel with more force than necessary, the ember hissing against the concrete. “She deserves it.”

“Her ex-husband’s supposed to be attending. Damon Rogers? You know, from The Revelry?”

Seren’s father. The world tilts sideways, and suddenly the LA smog tastes of possibility instead of poison. The heat feels less oppressive; the palm trees less mocking.

“When is it?” I try to keep my voice casual, but it comes out strangled, my throat tight with hope.

“Friday night. Some fancy hotel in Beverly Hills. Why, you know him?”

I’m already moving toward the door, my pulse hammering, my fingers drumming against my thigh. “I might.”

Back inside, the studio’s artificial cool hits my overheated skin. The lounge area looks exactly what it is when I pass it—Jamie’s got his tongue down some blonde’s throat while she grips his shirt, and the sound of their breathing mingles with the low hum of equipment.

Dex is holding court with two girls who are hanging on every word of his dissertation on the cosmic significance of reverb. The scent of cheap perfume and poor decisions lingers in the air.

I find Henry in the control room, scrolling through his contacts, the blue light from his phone reflecting off his reading glasses.

“I need tickets to the West Coast Music Archive Legacy Awards.”

He looks up, eyebrows raised, his finger pausing mid-scroll. “Since when do you care about industry circle-jerks?”

“Since now. Can you get them or not? ”

“Probably. Why?” He sets his phone down, giving me his full attention in a way that feels dangerous.

I lean against the console, trying to look casual instead of desperate, the smooth surface cool under my palms. “Faith Jones is being honoured. Thought it might be good to pay respects; you know, show we’re serious about the craft.”

Henry’s eyes narrow, studying my face. He’s not buying it, but he’s also not arguing.

“I’ll make some calls.”

“Make them fast.”

I turn to leave, but he catches my arm, his grip firm. “Harrison. What’s this really about?”

For a moment, I consider telling him. About the song that’s been eating me alive; about the girl who made me feel human for one night. About how I’ve been dying slowly in this fucking studio while she’s probably three thousand miles away, hating me.

Instead, I shrug, pulling free of his grip. “Just tired of making garbage. Maybe it’s time to remember what real music sounds.”

He studies my face for a long moment, then nods slowly. “I’ll get you the tickets.”

Back in Studio A, Jamie’s returned, looking dishevelled and satisfied, his hair messed up and lipstick smeared on his collar. The girls are gone, leaving behind only the lingering scent of cheap perfume and poor decisions, mixing unpleasantly with the stale air.

“Feel better?”

He grins, adjusting his belt with the smugness of someone who thinks he’s won something. “Always do.”

Dex opens one eye from his position on the floor, squinting up at us. “We should write a song about it.”

“We should write a song about anything. We should write a fucking grocery list at this point.”

But for the first time in weeks, I’m not thinking about our creative drought. I’m thinking about Friday night; about Beverly Hills. About the possibility of seeing her again.

About whether Serendipity Rogers will be there to watch her mother get the recognition she deserved while she was alive.

And about whether I’m brave enough to face the music—literally and figuratively—if she is.

The cigarette taste lingers in my mouth. Three more days.

The Chateau Marmont’s terrace feels like performing even when you’re not on stage. Every conversation floats in the particular dialect of pretentious LA that sounds like money being counted out loud.

I’m sitting across from Marcus—my agent, a man who treats my career like a particularly volatile stock portfolio—watching him dissect a thirty-dollar salad with surgical precision.

“So the Calvin Klein people are very interested.” He’s stabbing a cherry tomato with unnecessary violence. “The campaign would be global. Eight figures, Harrison.”

“Eight figures for me in my underwear on a billboard in Times Square.”

“Tasteful underwear.”

“Still underwear.”

He sighs like I’ve personally disappointed his mother. “You’re thirty. You’ve got maybe five years before the industry decides you’re too old to be selling sex appeal to teenagers. This is smart business.”

I’m about to tell him exactly where he can shove his smart business when I spot her across the terrace.

Ruby.

Strutting in a white slip dress, followed by what looks suspiciously like a photographer trying to appear casual.

Fuck .

She slides into the seat next to me—not across, next to—the move so calculated it should come with a choreographer’s credit. Plants a kiss on my cheek that lingers just long enough for the camera.

“Darling.” Like we’re still together; like she didn’t try to sell stories about my alleged drug habits to The Sun six months ago.

“Ruby.” My voice could freeze champagne.

Marcus flees, leaving me trapped with Ruby and her audience.

“Henry called about the awards ceremony.” She signals the waiter. “How lovely that he thought to include me. I was thinking Valentino—pale pink, very demure.”

I lean back, studying her. The performative concern, the calculated vulnerability, the way she’s angled herself so the photographer gets her best side.

“I think you could wear banana yellow and I still wouldn’t give a shit.”

Her smile falters. “You’re being mean.”

“I’m being honest. There’s a difference.”

The photographer shifts closer. Ruby’s performance ratchets up another notch.

“We were so good together.” She reaches for my hand.

I pull it away. “We were a publicity stunt with better cocaine.”

“Harrison—”

“No.” I stand abruptly. “Whatever this is, whatever game you and Henry are playing, I’m not interested.”

But I can’t storm off. Not with the cameras watching; not with tomorrow’s headlines already writing themselves.

So I stay. I smile; I play the part while she performs the role of the hopeful reunion candidate, our little drama playing out for an audience.

Twenty minutes of pure fucking torture.

When we finally stand to leave, there’s a small crowd gathering near the exit. Fans with phones, the usual LA vultures drawn to the scent of celebrity.

I sign autographs, take selfies, smile until my face aches. Ruby stays close, posing like we’re still a unit.

But in the chaos, I manage to slip away. Down the stairs, through the lobby, out into the blazing afternoon sun while she’s still explaining her skincare routine to a teenage girl with a TikTok account.

The heat hits me, but it feels like freedom.

I’m already pulling out my phone, dialling Henry.

“The tickets,” I say when he picks up. “Did you get them?”

“Harrison? Where are you?—”

“The fucking tickets, Henry. Did you get them?”