Page 65 of The Sound Between Us

14

la living

Harrison

The studio air tastes of failure and stale ambition, thick with the metallic tang of overheated equipment and forgotten takeaway containers rotting in some corner. The SSL console blinks its expensive lights at us; each flash reflects off the platinum records on the walls—our past success mocking our current creative bankruptcy.

I’m slumped in the corner of Studio A, watching Jamie finger-fuck a chord progression that sounds exactly like every other song we’ve written since 2019. The air conditioning hums overhead, fighting a losing battle against the body heat and electronics, creating this oppressive atmosphere of slow suffocation by mediocrity.

Dex is sprawled across the Persian rug again, this time with his eyes closed, muttering about “finding the frequency of enlightenment” through his left nostril. There’s a cigarette burn on the expensive carpet near his head—probably his, definitely expensive to replace.

We’re dying in here. Slowly; publicly. With a five-thousand-pound-a-day budget.

“That’s it.” I stand so fast the leather chair squeaks in protest, the sound cutting through the studio’s artificial hush. “I’m done.”

Henry looks up from his phone, where he’s been scrolling through Twitter mentions, the blue light casting shadows under his eyes. “We’ve got three hours left, Harrison.”

“Yeah, well, use them to find us some actual fucking inspiration instead of watching us decompose.”

I stride toward the door, my trainers silent on the carpet, but Henry’s voice stops me cold.

“The fans want to say hello.”

The words hit the air heavy. I turn, jaw already clenching. “What fans?”

He shrugs, all innocent except for the guilt radiating from his pores. “Just some girls. They’ve been waiting outside since dawn; thought it might be good PR.”

“Thought it might get us laid, more like.”

Jamie’s already straightening his hair, checking his reflection in the black screen of his phone. The practised vanity makes my stomach turn.

And there it is—the familiar script. Go out there, smile, flirt, disappear with whichever one looks most impressed by mediocrity. Let her worship Harrison Carter while I disappear entirely.

But I can’t. Not anymore.

Not since I’ve tasted what it’s like to be seen—really seen—by someone who didn’t give a fuck about the platinum discs or the headlines. Someone who looked at me in a basement flat and said my music was shit to my face, then kissed me anyway.

Any girl won’t cut it now. Not when I know what it feels like to matter.

“Where are they?”

“Lounge area. Sophie’s keeping them entertained.”

I watch Jamie practically bounce toward the door, and bile climbs up my throat. These aren’t fans—they’re transactions. Bodies to fill the void where our creativity used to live.

“I need air.”

Outside, the LA sun hits me. Opening an oven door. Too bright; too optimistic. Too fucking California for my current state of spiritual decay. The smog settles on my skin thick enough to taste—all exhaust fumes and broken dreams suspended in the atmosphere.

Palm fronds rustle overhead, a sound that should be peaceful but feels mocking instead.

I fish a cigarette from my jacket pocket—American Spirit, because if I’m going to poison myself, I might as well do it with something that tastes honest.

Lee materialises beside me, his shadow falling across the pavement. “All right, boss?”

“Peachy.” I light up, the flame bright against the harsh daylight, inhaling. The smoke might carry me somewhere else. The nicotine burns my throat in a way that feels more real than anything that’s happened in the studio today.

“How long before Henry sends a search party?”