Page 70 of The Sounds of Her

“Our music?”

She looks confused. “Well, no, I mean your relationship.”

“Is not up for discussion,” I say, with a smile, but it’s not a happy smile, although I try not to make it too unpleasant. “You were asking about a new album?”

Her eyes narrow, but she realises she is being unprofessional. This isn’t some trashy magazine interview, and she isn’t here to get the gossip, no matter how much she wants to. She flicks through her notes, looking a little flustered.

“Yes, right. During the most recent shows, you’ve performed a couple of new tracks never heard before. Are they coming up on a new album?”

Shit. Adam added the new songs to the set list in Vietnam. He wants to test them out. So far, they’ve had a great reception. People have been talking about them, there’ve been thousands of videos on social media, and talk of releasing Hope She’s Numb for fans to stream.

Part of me thinks about going back to discussing Brooke instead of following this line of questioning, but I can’t pull that shit because I’m uncomfortable.

I do my best to keep my face neutral, light even, pushing down the darkness. I knew this would happen when I put the song out there. I guess with everything else going on, I haven’t prepared myself for the questions.

“We’re not sure what will be on the new album. We have a lot of new material we want to play.”

“They’re both amazing tracks and have had a real impact on the fans. What is the story behind the song Hope She’s Numb?”

“There is no particular story behind it,” I say, keeping my expression open and friendly. “When we sit down to write, we start with a line or word and work around it. I can’t remember why we were thinking about being numb, but it resonated, got our creative juices flowing,” I wink, trying to deflect.

If Kitty had been a guy, I wouldn’t have got away with that move, but she titters a laugh, fixating on the word juices. My body is tense, my foot tapping on the bar between the legs of the stool I’m perched on. Any sign of the erection over Brooke is long gone.

“Many people are wondering if this is a turn your music is going to take, something darker, more dangerous,” she lifts a brow.

“Nah, nothing like that.” I force a laugh, which sounds fake to my ears, but Kitty buys it. “It’s good to be diverse in our music, something BreakNeck has maintained over the years. It’s great to hear the fans enjoying the new tracks.”

From the corner of my eye, I see a flash of pink and look over Kitty’s shoulder. Brooke is there, her eyes pinned to me. I chew the inside of my cheek and look away. I’m working fucking hard to keep this light. When we’re done with the questions, I can’t be around anyone. Especially Brooke. I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep my rage contained, and she is the last person to take that out on.

I’m a fucking idiot for thinking I could play or talk about that song without having any feelings about it. I never should have shown them to Adam. He never would have got excited and he sure as shit wouldn’t have played them on the tour.

Kitty asks a few more questions and when she says we’re done, I ask where the bathrooms are. She points toward a hallway and once she gets up, I’m off the stool and walking away.

My heart is beating too fast, I feel like I’m being choked. I hurry into the bathroom and lock the door. Turning on the faucet, I splash cold water on my face. My brain understands I’m panicking and nothing bad is happening. I’ve never had a full-blown panic attack, but I understand anxiety.

I’ve got extensive knowledge of all kinds of mental health issues. In particular, bipolar disorder. As scary as it may be, I’ve spent my life watching out for signs of it, both in myself and my brothers, terrified one or all of us might develop the illness and turn out like mom. It’s one of my biggest fears, any of us being diagnosed.

Fortunately, none of us have.

I press my fists up to my eye sockets and groan. I fucking hate my mom for making me worry like this. I’ve always had a handle on it in the past but this whole mess with Madison, the song, talking about mom with Brooke, has brought it all to the forefront.

A knock at the door makes me jump. I look at the mirror, water is dripping from my beard and my eyes are pinched. My skin is pale despite the tan. I grab a paper towel and dry off the water, then turn to open the door, wondering who I am going to have to lie to.

I drag the door back to a young guy in glasses. He almost jumps when he sees me, like he didn’t knock for me to open the door.

“Ohmygod, you’re Archer Harris!” he almost stumbles backwards.

Fucking hell. “You alright, man?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I’m… I’m a huge fan. Can I get an autograph or a picture?” He babbles on about his friends being jealous, between deep gulping breaths.

I almost want to thank the kid. This is what I know, this is the life I’ve made for myself, making the fans day is something I’ve come to enjoy over the last decade. So I take pictures, I scribble on a receipt from his pocket and even stand around chatting with him for a little while.

By the time he heads into the bathroom, and I walk back out to where everyone is packing up to leave, I’ve calmed down enough that I won’t bite anyone’s head off.

I walk over to Jordan. “Hey, you seen Brooke?”

Jordan grins as he straightens up from tying his shoelace. “Missing your honey?”

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