Page 6 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)

once more with feeling

Harrison

By the time I get back to the Savoy, my hands are shaking. Not visibly—I’ve learnt to control that—but there’s a tremor running through my fingers that makes fumbling for my room key feel like defusing a bomb.

The boutique hotel I’d found after dropping Seren home had been a disaster.

The receptionist stared at my card like it might burst into flames, running it through the machine twice while I stood there like a tit, watching his face cycle through confusion, suspicion, and finally that flicker of recognition that always ruins everything.

Then the whispers started. The phones came out. The careful approach of strangers wearing their best smiles like armour.

“Excuse me, are you?—?”

And I was back in the fishbowl. Smile, hug, pose. Repeat until your cheekbones ache and something vital inside you shrivels up and dies a little more.

But last night—Christ, last night. Seren hadn’t looked at me once like I was anything other than some bloke who’d given her a lift. No flicker of recognition. No breathless “Oh my God, you’re Harrison Carter!” No phone sliding out of her pocket for a sneaky selfie.

Nothing.

Like I was just a person.

My chest had done something strange when I realized it. A loosening I hadn’t felt in years. Like taking off shoes that had been too tight for so long you’d forgotten what comfortable felt like.

I’d lain awake thinking about it. About her. About the way she’d called my music terrible without batting an eyelash, the way she’d handed me that scratchy jumper like I was any other stranger who’d been drenched in milkshake. The way her mouth had twisted when she smiled, like she was fighting it.

“There you are.”

Henry’s voice cuts through my spiral. He’s perched in one of the Savoy’s wing-backed chairs like a disappointed headmaster, foot tapping out a rhythm of pure irritation.

“You waiting to scold me?” I drop into the chair opposite, feeling every muscle in my back protest.

He stands before I’m fully settled. “Soundcheck’s in an hour. Rolling Stone after.”

My stomach drops. “Fuck.”

Rolling Stone. Same tired questions. Same polished lies. They’ll ask about the tour, the next album, whether I’m in rehab again. And I’ll give them the same empty answers while something inside me screams.

“I want a new acoustic.”

Henry’s sigh could power a small wind farm. “You’ve had six delivered this week.”

“I know. I want a new one.”

“Let’s just get to the venue. I’ll have someone bring a selection.”

“It’s not the same as buying one myself.” The words come out sharper than I mean them to, edged with something that sounds dangerously close to desperation.

Henry’s already scrolling through his phone. No doubt checking the damage—tagged photos of me looking like a lost tourist outside some Camden hotel, speculation about my “mystery companion,” the usual vultures circling.

“You always said I should be polite,” I mutter.

“Where are the others?”

As if summoned by the gods of chaos, a shriek echoes through the lobby. A giggle. The unmistakable sound of expensive marble meeting something that definitely shouldn’t be thrown at it.

Henry doesn’t even flinch. “Entertainment.”

“Classy.”

Dex and Jamie stumble through the entrance like they’ve been shot out of a cannon made of pure hedonism.

Each has a girl attached—Jamie’s blonde is practically climbing him like a tree, all desperate hands and throaty laughs.

Dex’s is smaller, Japanese, with glossy black hair and a laugh that cuts through air like honey-dipped glass.

I watch them. My band. My brothers. My beautiful, broken disaster of a family. And that familiar ache settles in my chest—lonely in a room full of people who’d die for me but can’t see past the headlines to find the person drowning underneath.

“Mate, you missed out.” Jamie lifts his sunglasses, revealing eyes like raspberry ripple left in the sun too long. But he still smells like expensive soap and Chanel. Some standards, at least.

“Looks like it.” I glance between the three of them—Dex grinning like a shark, Jamie swaying slightly, Henry checking his watch with the patience of a man counting down to his own execution. “You ready for today?”

We look at each other. Waiting for that spark. That stupid, youthful fire that used to burn through us before we hit the stage. It doesn’t come. Just hollow space where passion used to live.

“Right, boys. Time to move.”

“Wait.”

The word’s out before I know I’m saying it. I walk to the reception desk, pulse picking up like I’m about to do something monumentally stupid.

The concierge doesn’t bat an eyelash. Trained to handle rock star whims with the same calm efficiency they’d reserve for booking a table. “Yes, sir?”

“Can you arrange a Deliveroo?” My voice sounds strange, too bright.

“Of course. What would you like? Although I should mention our chefs can accommodate any request?—”

“Harrison. Come the fuck along.” Dex’s voice booms across the marble, turning every grey head in the lobby. He waves at them all with that politician’s grin because he’s a charming bastard even when he’s being a loud one.

I turn back to the desk, heart doing something acrobatic in my chest. “A McDonald’s vanilla milkshake. Delivered to Vespa Records in Camden Market.”

The words hang in the air like a confession.

“Henry.” I don’t look away from the concierge. “Do you have any VIP passes?”

A pause. Then Henry’s laugh, low and knowing. “You dirty bastard. Knew you wouldn’t hold out much longer.”

He pulls passes from his bag—leather and immaculate folds, everything Henry touches—and I slide them across the marble counter.

“With these. Please.” My pulse hammers against my throat. “It’s really important they get there with the milkshake. Still cold.”

“Absolutely, sir. ”

I nod, turn, feel the weight of Henry’s knowing look and Dex’s impatient energy and Jamie’s glassy confusion.

Wembley next. Same show. Different night.

Except maybe—just maybe—tonight won’t be the same at all.

The bass thuds through the floor and up into my bones. Dex works the pedal like it owes him money. The only sounds now are rhythm and the roar of eighty thousand people clapping on cue.

Boom. Boom.

He keeps going. Draws it out; long past comfortable. The crowd still has their arms in the air. Mine start to ache just watching. Even I want to sit down.

Eventually, Henry gives the call. Finger across the throat. Time to wrap. I collapse onto one of the speakers and start tapping my toe.

Christ, who said life was shit?

The sky’s gone deep indigo. Sweat sticks my shirt to my back; my eyeliner runs down my hand, smudged like bruises. I laugh, breathless and dizzy.

Dex keeps going.

The bass rattles through me. Into the hollowed out place where my ego meets my fear. I shoot a glance at Henry. He holds up ten fingers.

Ten minutes left. The agreement. Never overrun; Londoners need to catch the Tube. Not very rock and roll. But fine.

I watch the crowd. Faces blur. Mostly women; too many young girls. Something twists in my chest. I get to my feet and walk toward the edge of the stage .

Normally, I’d leap down. Make a moment of it. But she flashes into my head. The girl from the record shop.

He always touches the crowd.

Yeah. Well. I like to surprise people.

I throw my fist into the air. A wordless cry ripped straight from somewhere messy and real.

Dex slams to a stop. On the beat.

One. Two. Three.

Everyone knows what’s coming. The song.

The hit. The one that changed it all.

The first words come easy. Muscle memory; exhilaration laced with rote repetition. But tonight feels different.

New words spark in my mind. They crash against the old ones. Fight them.

It’s chaos up there. In my skull; in my chest.

New words.

I want to leap out of my own skin.

New words.

I scan the VIP area. Is she there? The thought of her slips into my bloodstream like electricity and fire.

I run the length of the stage. My body is molten; I feel alive. Every part of me desperate to be seen. Really seen. Maybe by her.

I sing harder. Push further. Sweat pouring, lungs burning, throat raw and radiant.

The last note hangs. One long thread of sound. Then the fireworks go off. Wembley explodes into glittering light and smoke.

And for the first time in years, I don’t feel hollow. I feel awake.

“Fucking hell.” Jamie tosses his guitar at a stagehand, stumbling forward with a pint clutched like a lifeline. “Dex, you knobhead, that was ridiculous.”

“Had them though, didn’t I?” Dex has his head buried under a towel. Thank God. Sweaty bastard.

“My boys.” Henry greets us with a string of high-fives as we make our way down the corridor backstage. “That was legendary.”

“Legendary?” I lift a brow, chugging warm water from a bottle as I watch Dex slap a dancer on the arse like he’s still in sixth form. Sooner or later, he’ll realise that shit isn’t cool. Hopefully before he ends up answering to a judge.

“Hands off.” I flick water at him, and he barrels into my space laughing.

“Mate, I’m helping you.”

Henry hands Jamie a spliff. “Well done, Jamie.”

Jamie nods, already dragging hard. “I’m fucking exhausted.”

I roll my head on my shoulders, muscles aching with that post-gig throb. The lyrics from earlier bounce round my head—words I didn’t expect, ones that actually mattered. They crash against the noise of crew and chaos backstage.

The tech boys are already tearing down the stage, all quiet precision and tired energy. The crowd’s still out front, still chanting.

“I need a shower. I stink.”

Jamie looks at me. “Where are we getting on it?”

“Oh no.” Henry intercepts like a bouncer on a mission. “You’re all straight to Manchester. Hotel’s booked. There’s a plane waiting at City.”

He steers us toward the rest area.

“Wait a minute. Don’t we get to see the VIPs?”

Dex and Jamie both snort.

“Did you slip in sweat and hit your head?”

“It would be rude not to. I need to shower first. ”

“Someone’s hoping for pussy.”

My punch lands on Dex’s right pec. Aimed for effect, not injury. I’ve broken his nose before; don’t need to repeat the drama.

“Fuck off, Dex.”

I flip them the finger and peel off toward the bathroom. The cold water’s a relief, sluicing away sweat and the residue of performing. I lean into it, grin despite myself. That last set—we might’ve actually tipped toward epic.

Anticipation sparks under my skin. She might be here. She might have come.

“What the fuck?” Henry makes me jump, leaning against the doorframe like he hasn’t just scared a year off my life.

“You all right, Harrison?”

His voice is too calm, too smooth. The buzz dies inside me; cools off before it can catch flame.

“Yeah, mate. Why?”

“Just checking in. Day off did you good?”

“Yep.” I towel off, wringing out my hair. “And?”

He’s dragging this out. I’m going to die of old age.

“You know we’re booked in at Eastlight Studios in LA in three days, right?”

“Yep.”

“Just making sure you’re on the right page.”

“I’m always on the right page, Henry. What other page would you let me be on?”

We lock eyes.

He draws breath through his teeth. “Thing is, Harry...”

My blood stops. He never calls me Harry. Not once since taking over. Made it clear from the beginning we stick to our roles. Always.

“I had a chat with the Rolling Stone journo before the gig.”

“Yeah?”

“Everyone’s watching this one. You can’t get away with another album full of collabs. We need real songs. Otherwise these stadiums won’t stay full.”

My mouth opens. Nothing lands. My tongue goes dead.

“You going to stand there and watch me get dressed, or what?”

He laughs, claps me on the back. “Seen it all before, Harrison. Need me to hook you up?”

His stare cuts deeper than I’d like.

“Nope. Just want to get to Manchester and get on with it. Grammy award-winning albums don’t write themselves.”

The joke dies before it even has a chance.

“Sod off, otherwise I’m flashing you.”

He ducks out. I drop the towel, pull on clothes over damp skin, scrub at my hair with one hand, grab my water with the other.

Time to see if she came. Time to see how stupid I really am.

The VIP area is hushed. Always is. Whispers and filtered lighting and the clink of too-expensive drinks. Makes me feel like a twat every time. Can’t remember the last time I bothered walking in.

“Hey, Harrison.” A man with a checked shirt and Superman glasses steps forward. “Great show. Brett Lawson, Evening Standard.”

“Hiya, mate. You having a good time?”

I barely glance at him. I’m scanning; my stomach clenches. That dull, pulling ache starts again in my legs.

I hate this part. Hate that I’m looking for her; hate it more that I can’t stop .

A flicker of dark hair catches the corner of my eye. I zero in. The bloke from Vespa Records. Simon, was it?

“Sorry, mate.”

I push past the journalist. Barely register his offended noise.

Hands grab at me. My name echoes in that breathy, urgent way fans say it. Someone presses a beer into my palm, and I take a sip on reflex.

“Hi.”

I land in front of them. Tucked in a corner, half out of the noise.

The guy’s eyes go wide. Looks like he’s watching a dream come to life.

I turn to the woman. Do a double take. Pink hair. Not mahogany curls.

My chest crunches. Nausea floods up my throat.

“Did you enjoy the show?”

I run a hand through my hair, take another long sip of beer. Try to slow my pulse.

“That was phenomenal.”

The woman bounces on her toes. She could be anyone. That’s the problem. She means nothing.

“Thanks.”

I’m such a dick. I know it. My veins burn, my head throbs with the urge to disappear; to find Jamie, to turn myself off.

“Thanks for the tickets.”

I focus. Finally. Her lips are scarlet. She grins.

“You’re welcome.”

I can’t bring myself to be friendly. Smiling feels like lying. And I’m not in the mood.

“This was for you. In case we saw you.”

She hands me a folded piece of paper. My heart slams once, hard enough to echo; like Dex has stomped the bass straight into my chest.

I take it. Keep my face neutral .

It’s notebook paper. Torn. The edge is jagged, all curls and roughness.

Thanks. But I’d rather stick pins in my eyes.

I laugh. Can’t help it. It bursts out like air after drowning.

Because fuck me if Seren hasn’t just thrown down a gauntlet.

And for the first time in years, I actually want to win.