Page 27 of The Sound Between Us

“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.