Page 10 of The Sound Between Us

The guy in the cap glances over.

“My god, I can’t wait till he touches me,” one of them moans, flapping her hands in front of her face, cheeks flaming.

I physically recoil. “You want him to touch you?”

They blink. Finally noticing me.

“You just said—out loud, and in public—that you want a man literally twice your age to touch you.” I shrug. “I’m just saying, those are dangerous words to fling around.”

I shove my hands into the pockets of my cut-offs and raise my shoulders. Simon’s eyes sweep the ceiling.

“That’s gross,” Frizzy Hair Girl stammers. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.” I try not to look threatening. “But people do. This world’s fucked six ways to Sunday, and you’re standing in a record shop romanticising some sleazy brush with fame.”

I pause. Tilt my head. “Also, if we’re being honest? Get better taste. There’s no way Elementary even have vinyls. Their fanbase isn’t old enough to spell ‘turntable’, let alone operate one.”

Simon winces.

I don’t stop.

“So maybe,” I say sweetly, “run home and paint on your mascara, and if you’re very lucky, you’ll get to the front and Jenson—” I make air quotes “—might sweat on you. A personal baptism.”

“His name is Harrison⁠—”

“Get out.” My voice slices. Quiet but final.

They stare at me. Frozen.

“Get out of my shop. Come back when you’ve developed taste and a working conscience.”

They scurry out, skirts fluttering, perfume trailing. Someone’s chewing gum lands near the door—pink, trodden, already forgotten.

Simon stares at me. I stare at the floor.

Behind us, the man in the other aisle coughs—a polite little sound.

“Sorry,” I mutter. Mostly to Simon.

“It’s Harrison Carter. That’s his name. I know you pride yourself on ignoring contemporary pop culture, but please tell me you know that?”

“Yes! Of course I fucking know that.” My voice lashes out. “Unfortunately, it’s impossible to un-know those sorts of stupid, soul-damaging nuggets of information.”

I spin on my heel and storm toward the back, grabbing my coat and purse.

Simon sighs. “Where are you going? We’re closing soon.”

“Coffee.”

“But cocktails are in, like, two hours,” he whines.

I throw him a look. “Do you want something?”

“Hot chocolate.”

Rolling my eyes, I make for the door. At the threshold, I pause.

“Sorry if I interrupted your browsing,” I offer to the man still half-turned in the aisle. “It’s not usually bitch o’clock.”