Page 2 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)

let me out of here

Harrison

We’ve been in the hotel all of five minutes—cases still abandoned by the door—and Jamie’s already skinning up like it’s a matter of survival.

The suite has mirrors everywhere. I catch my reflection as I pass and almost don’t recognise myself.

Jamie’s dealer left a package at reception. Of course he did. Only Jamie Knox would have drugs couriered to the bloody Savoy like it’s a bottle of Perrier.

“Did you see the concierge’s face when they handed over that package?” I drift to the window. The Thames churns below in that rich, brooding brown. “Like they were delivering state secrets.”

“Bet he’s never had to handle Charlie with the afternoon post before.” Jamie grins, focused on his ritual.

“Remember when we used to sneak backstage?” I watch London through the smoked glass. “Now we courier Class A drugs to five-star hotels like it’s room service.”

“Everything’s easier when you’re rich,” he says. “Even the illegal shit.”

“You know what’s messed up? We never actually see the city anymore. Just filtered glimpses through hotel windows. ”

“When’s the last time any of us took the Tube? Or queued for anything?” Jamie snorts.

A knock slices through the conversation. Jamie doesn’t flinch. He’s focused.

“That might be Dex,” I mutter.

Jamie grunts. They haven’t spoken since the Paris gig—Dex riffed too long, Jamie imploded. Said it made him look like “a ten-year-old playing in a garage.” Said it on the group chat and to that dodgy Rolling Stone freelancer, so now it’s in print. Immortalised forever.

“You’re going to have to apologise to him,” I say.

“For what? Being honest?”

“For being a dick in print.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jamie mutters.

“People don’t come to listen. They come to witness. To sing along.” I pull out my notebook, fingers finding it automatically. “Last week in Sydney I didn’t sing a full song—just stood there like a mannequin in a Burberry suit while the crowd did the heavy lifting.”

Jamie notices the notebook. “Feeling something coming, brother?”

And just like that—poof. The flicker dies.

“No.”

“We need a new album,” he says, smoke curling beneath the no-smoking sign.

“You write it then.”

Another knock. I practically sprint to answer it, too relieved for interruption.

Dex—the real Dex—leans against the doorframe, sunglasses still on even indoors. His stubble looks accidental, but it’s not.

“Where’s the fucking bastard?”

I thumb over my shoulder. He breezes past without another word, and I shut the door. Stay outside of it. Let them destroy each other for once.

I tug my baseball cap low and slouch to the lift, thumb pressing the button.

Push G for Granddad.

Mum’s voice. From another life.

My stomach folds in on itself.

I take out my phone and stare at the message I’ve sent a dozen times: Back on home soil. Want to come visit?

Send. Regret. Pocket.

Rosie Carter collects me like an award.

Through the lobby. Straight to the bar.

It’s barely noon and I’m already spiralling. Again.

Not many people around—just two businessmen in matching navy suits, whispering over espresso like they’re plotting a coup.

I slide onto a stool and drag the plate of overpriced nuts toward me like it’s dinner.

The bartender turns, sees me. Eyes widen.

She recovers quickly. “Mr Carter. What can I get you?”

She’s beautiful. Blonde ponytail. Perfect shirt. Tiny waist.

“Bloody Mary,” I say. “And a pint.”

“Would you prefer a booth?” she asks.

“No, thanks. I like it here.” I lean forward slightly. “Means I can talk to you.”

She blushes and turns away.

Christ, Harrison.

Her hands work—vodka, tomato juice, Tabasco, celery stick. She slides the drink over.

The Bloody Mary tastes like sin and Sunday morning.

I pull out the notebook. Spiral bound and fraying at the edges.

“What are you working on?”

Henry drops onto the stool beside me, bumping my shoulder like we’re in on a secret we’ve both forgotten .

“Nothing.” I shove the notebook back.

“You look like shit. Are you ill?”

“Lack of sleep.”

We drink.

“You’re on it early,” he says, using the paper napkin to dab at his mouth.

“It’s always early somewhere.” I crush a peanut between my fingers.

He checks behind him for cameras.

“Charmed life, Carter.”

I laugh. “Escaped the north, now I live in gilded despair. The world at my feet and not a single feeling left in my chest.”

“Very poetic. Still,” he says. “You’ve lasted.”

I flinch. That’s the killer line. You weren’t supposed to.

He sighs, then leans in slightly. “You know, H, when I found you lot, you had nothing. Just bad hair and hormones and a knack for harmonising.”

“Henry,” I cut in. “I’m nearly thirty.”

He pauses.

“I know what you found.” I push more. “But I’m not that kid anymore. You don’t get to talk to me like I still owe you for pulling me out of obscurity.”

“I talk to you like someone who’s trying to keep your name off a coroner’s report,” he says, calm but sharp. “You think I enjoy babysitting rockstars with death wishes?”

“I think you enjoy controlling things that shine,” I say. “And I think you hate when they burn out before you’re ready.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he smiles. The PR smile. “Take the day. Walk the city. Pretend you’re anonymous.”

“I get a day off?”

He grins. “From being a demigod, yeah.”

I wince. I’m not a god. I’m barely a man. “I watched a doc about us last week. Unofficial. My mother was in it.”

“Fuck,” he says.

“Called me a ‘sensitive little boy.’ Past tense. Guess she knows he’s gone.”

Henry looks like he wants to argue. But doesn’t.

Lee’s in the corner, pretending to read The Times .

“I might check into a smaller hotel. Somewhere that doesn’t smell like compromise.”

“When your celibacy phase ends,” Henry says, draining his drink, “it’s going to be biblical.”

I leave a fifty on the bar and head for the stairs.

The suite smells like weed and something more bitter. Dex and Jamie are sprawled across the velvet sofa in just their designer boxers and socks, smoke curling into the air.

“Why the fuck are you in your pants?” I ask, slinging my hoodie onto the bed.

“Comfort, innit?” Dex mumbles, not looking up. “We’ve earned it.”

Jamie snorts. “Speak for yourself. I’m still waiting for my knighthood.”

“You’d show up to Buckingham Palace in Calvin Kleins and a contact high,” I mutter.

“Better than showing up in a hoodie like you’re still trying to be invisible,” Dex says, finally looking at me. “You used to dress like you gave a shit. Like you were part of this.”

I glance down at the hoodie. Frayed sleeve, soft from years of wear. “I used to give a shit.”

There’s a pause.

Jamie leans forward, squinting at me through the haze. “Are you seriously gonna start with the whole I’m over it act again? We’ve got a tour, mate. We’ve got fans. You know, people who still think we matter.”

“Do you think we matter?” I ask, meeting his eyes. “Or are you just too high to care?”

Dex huffs a laugh. “Jesus, Harrison. You sound like you’re about to start a podcast.”

“Maybe I should,” I say. “Call it Post-Fame: The Slow Decline .”

Jamie throws a peanut at me. “You were always the melodramatic one.”

“And you were always the one who made it about you,” I shoot back. “You know that thing you said in Paris? That Dex made you look like a kid on stage? You ever wonder how we look, watching you melt down every other city?”

Dex raises a brow, but says nothing. Jamie stiffens.

“That’s rich, coming from the guy who hasn’t written a single lyric in over a year,” Jamie snaps.

“I’ve written plenty,” I reply. “Just nothing I want you to hear.”

Dex whistles. “Alright, boys. Enough with the dick-measuring. Someone get high or get naked or shut the fuck up.”

The tension breaks, but only barely.

I grab my hoodie, my cap.

“Where you going?” Dex calls.

“Anywhere.”

For once, that’s the truth.

Dex hurls something at the door as I close it behind me.