Page 67 of The Sound Between Us

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.