Page 7 of The Sound Between Us

“Charmed life, Carter.”

I laugh. “Escaped the north, now I live in gilded despair. The world at my feet and not a single feeling left in my chest.”

“Very poetic. Still,” he says. “You’ve lasted.”

I flinch. That’s the killer line. You weren’t supposed to.

He sighs, then leans in slightly. “You know, H, when I found you lot, you had nothing. Just bad hair and hormones and a knack for harmonising.”

“Henry,” I cut in. “I’m nearly thirty.”

He pauses.

“I know what you found.” I push more. “But I’m not that kid anymore. You don’t get to talk to me like I still owe you for pulling me out of obscurity.”

“I talk to you like someone who’s trying to keep your name off a coroner’s report,” he says, calm but sharp. “You think I enjoy babysitting rockstars with death wishes?”

“I think you enjoy controlling things that shine,” I say. “And I think you hate when they burn out before you’re ready.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he smiles. The PR smile. “Take the day. Walk the city. Pretend you’re anonymous.”

“I get a day off?”

He grins. “From being a demigod, yeah.”

I wince. I’m not a god. I’m barely a man. “I watched a doc about us last week. Unofficial. My mother was in it.”

“Fuck,” he says.

“Called me a ‘sensitive little boy.’ Past tense. Guess she knows he’s gone.”

Henry looks like he wants to argue. But doesn’t.

Lee’s in the corner, pretending to read The Times.

“I might check into a smaller hotel. Somewhere that doesn’t smell like compromise.”

“When your celibacy phase ends,” Henry says, draining his drink, “it’s going to be biblical.”

I leave a fifty on the bar and head for the stairs.

The suite smells like weed and something more bitter. Dex and Jamie are sprawled across the velvet sofa in just their designer boxers and socks, smoke curling into the air.

“Why the fuck are you in your pants?” I ask, slinging my hoodie onto the bed.

“Comfort, innit?” Dex mumbles, not looking up. “We’ve earned it.”

Jamie snorts. “Speak for yourself. I’m still waiting for my knighthood.”

“You’d show up to Buckingham Palace in Calvin Kleins and a contact high,” I mutter.

“Better than showing up in a hoodie like you’re still trying to be invisible,” Dex says, finally looking at me. “You used to dress like you gave a shit. Like you were part of this.”

I glance down at the hoodie. Frayed sleeve, soft from years of wear. “I used to give a shit.”

There’s a pause.