Page 24 of The Sound Between Us

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.