The booth smelled like copper and dust. Frosh put on the headphones and adjusted the microphone stand for the fourth time, though it hadn't moved. Through the glass, he could see Blake leaning against the mixing desk, talking to Akin with his back turned. The red recording light above the door was off. Frosh was grateful for small mercies.
"Whenever you're ready," Akin's voice crackled through the talkback.
Frosh closed his eyes. The beat started in his ears. That warm, humid groove he already knew by heart. He came in on cue.
Two bars in, he heard himself. The voice was wrong. Too careful. Every note landed exactly where it should, but nothing stuck. He was singing like someone who had been told a cop was listening. He finished the verse. The chorus. The bridge where Blake's voice was supposed to slot in. He got through it. Then he opened his eyes and waited.
Akin's voice came back flat. "You want to hear it?"
Frosh shook his head. "I know what it sounds like."
"So do I."
