Page 66 of The Sound Between Us

“Give it ten minutes.”

The traffic crawls down Sunset below us; all those people with somewhere to be. Car brakes screech occasionally over the distant hum of the city. I lean against the brick wall, feeling the heat seep through my shirt, and watch them.

I used to have somewhere to be.

The door opens behind me, and Sophie steps out, looking frazzled, pulling a vape from her pocket with shaking fingers.

“Escaping too?”

“Something that way.” I take another drag, feeling my shoulders drop slightly. “How’s the fan situation?”

She pulls a face, her nose wrinkling. “Jamie’s already got one pressed against the mixing desk. Dex is explaining the spiritual significance of the 808 drum machine to a girl who looks about nineteen.”

“Christ.”

“Yeah.” She exhales a cloud of vanilla-scented vapour that mixes oddly with my cigarette smoke. “Sometimes I wonder why I got into this business.”

“Money?”

“Passion, actually. Which feels increasingly stupid.”

I study her—mid-twenties, probably, with that earnest look that hasn’t been beaten out of her yet by years of watching talented people destroy themselves in real time. There’s refreshing honesty about her.

“What got you passionate about it?”

“My mum, actually. She was a session musician in the nineties; played on some beautiful records. Said music was the only language that never lied.”

Heat twists in my chest, sharp and unexpected. “She still playing?”

“Died when I was fifteen. Cancer.” Sophie’s voice goes flat, matter-of-fact, but I catch the way her fingers tighten around her vape. “But she left me all her vinyl. Faith Jones, Joni Mitchell, Carole King. The real stuff.”

I nearly choke on my cigarette, smoke burning up through my sinuses. “Faith Jones?”

“You know her? The Red Session is basically my bible. Mum always said Faith was the most honest songwriter of her generation; shame she gave it all up.”

My heart starts doing complicated things against my ribs, a rhythm Dex would envy. The cigarette tastes different now—sharper, more urgent. “Yeah. Shame.”

“Actually,” Sophie continues, oblivious to the bomb she’s just detonated in my chest, “there’s this awards ceremony next week. The West Coast Music Archive Legacy Awards; they’re honouring Faith posthumously. Mark’s got tickets. We’re both going.”

I drop my cigarette, grinding it under my heel with more force than necessary, the ember hissing against the concrete. “She deserves it.”

“Her ex-husband’s supposed to be attending. Damon Rogers? You know, from The Revelry?”

Seren’s father. The world tilts sideways, and suddenly the LA smog tastes of possibility instead of poison. The heat feels less oppressive; the palm trees less mocking.

“When is it?” I try to keep my voice casual, but it comes out strangled, my throat tight with hope.

“Friday night. Some fancy hotel in Beverly Hills. Why, you know him?”

I’m already moving toward the door, my pulse hammering, my fingers drumming against my thigh. “I might.”

Back inside, the studio’s artificial cool hits my overheated skin. The lounge area looks exactly what it is when I pass it—Jamie’s got his tongue down some blonde’s throat while she grips his shirt, and the sound of their breathing mingles with the low hum of equipment.

Dex is holding court with two girls who are hanging on every word of his dissertation on the cosmic significance of reverb. The scent of cheap perfume and poor decisions lingers in the air.

I find Henry in the control room, scrolling through his contacts, the blue light from his phone reflecting off his reading glasses.

“I need tickets to the West Coast Music Archive Legacy Awards.”