In Your Dreams (Falling #4) (15 page)

She folds her hands around her body and nods, her eyes bright. I pull out the Ratatat song she was listening to with her brother and let it start rolling, setting the intro to loop. Then I break up the beat with some new layers, so the song is recognizable, but unique.

“That’s so unbelievably cool,” she says, her body moving to the rhythm.

I’m about to blow her mind. I’ve had this planned since late last night, and the effect is better than I could have dreamed. I want to see her dance. I wait just long enough, smiling at her and moving my head along with the vibe until I feel it in my gut. There’s always a moment—it’s what makes me good. I’ve had it since the first time I touched a soundboard. I can sense when the craving is at it’s peak, when the room wants more. It’s like a slow-building orgasm, and I bring everyone to the brink, feeling their bodies fall in line with the count, giving their minds over to the melody. This is the high I was talking about, and Murphy—she’s there. Her eyes are shut and her body is moving more than I think she realizes, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

I’m about to be her undoing without even laying a hand on her.

My finger poised over the button, I wait until it’s just right to let the first drop go. I picked Nina Simone, because she’s jazzy—just like Murphy. She’s full of fire; there’s a swagger in her song—the moment her voice breaks through the beat, Murphy knows. Her eyes drag open and her body keeps swaying. Baby grays are looking at me and smiling. Her chest is rising and falling off rhythm even though her body keeps tempo. It’s because I’m in her head now—my song is in her head, and she’s feeling something different, something more.

The break I built is coming up, and I know it—she’ll shiver. I step toward her, letting my headphones slip around my neck. I come closer and watch her for a sign that I shouldn’t move more. She doesn’t stray—she’s drunk in seconds, and she wants me near. The break happens, and her head tilts back as she closes her eyes, and that goddamned perfect neck is exposed and my lips beg to touch it. I don’t, but I linger, letting her feel my breath on her skin, small bumps rising in reaction. Chemistry and biology—beautiful. My nose grazes just below her ear as my hands carefully slide on her body, touching in just the right place above her waist. She doesn’t flinch, because she’s given over to the feeling—the performance of it all. That’s all this ever is. I fill rooms with pheromones and bodies become mine.

Right now, Murphy is completely in my control. My hands urge her to turn, and her body spins slowly, every curve brushing against me until her back is flush with my chest. I drag one hand around her waist and up her spine, my palm flat as it follows the line of her zipper, my thumb feeling the jagged metal and my mind imagining dragging it the opposite way. I shut my own eyes as my hand pushes against her neck and my fingers find her hair, sweeping it up in my hold so my mouth can play against her ear. I bring my fingers down gently, both of us moving together to the sexy beat I built just for her, and I hold my breath as my hand opens wide and splays under her breasts, holding her tight against me.

My thumb close to god, I feel her lungs grow inside her, her breathing deep and desperate. I could take her now, but that…that would be a mistake. I only wanted to get this close—to feel this much. I wanted to see if my powers worked on her as well. They do, but hers have the equal effect on me. My mouth watering and my cock growing hard, my eyelids grow heavy as my self-made rules fight against my desire.

Leaning into her, my lips press against the inside of her neck, marking her with a cool kiss as my tongue takes one, tiny taste of her skin before my mouth finds her ear.

“This is what I do, Murphy. I…can make people…do…whatever…I…want,” I whisper, and her breath falls away entirely, her head dropping back against me, her hands moving to my wrists and holding me with a tight desperation that begs for more.

My eyes close, and I indulge for a few seconds, dragging my hand up her body again, careful not to touch her too intimately, despite how badly my hand wants to go there. I trace her bare shoulder and move to her neck, my thumb running over the zipper that it now considers the enemy. I push her slowly in front of me, giving us just enough space for me to let my head fall against the back of hers so my eyes can rake over the perfect line of her neck one last time. My mouth moves forward, wanting to taste more, but I puff out a breath instead, and let go of her completely, knowing a second longer is the difference between being able to stop.

I kill the sound. An abrupt edge. And Murphy takes a step forward, as if I’ve just released her from a trance. I have. But I can put her back under it any time I want. And I intend to.

I
’m stunned
.

That’s the only word that works for this state I’m in. Stunned.

Casey. Has. Stunned me.

When he let go of my body, it was like a hold on me dropped me back to earth. I could hardly look at him, because I knew if I did, I’d want him to go back to
that.
His hand was so hot on my ribs. His breath…
ahhhh
. There were tingles—definitely tingles. But it was also this sexy song, and I’ve never really been held quite like that, so it might be that it was just the circumstances. It might not have anything to do with Casey at all.

The music stopped and so did the fantasy. He went right back to showing me things, and always no less than three feet apart from me. And my head went into blender mode. It got worse as the night went on.

“Watch me make them all fall in love,” he said at one point. And I watched—I watched as Casey manipulated the hundreds of beautiful people all pressed together on a dance floor. He filled their ears with lust, and their bodies followed. Just like mine had.

That’s all it was. It was a lesson.

Lesson learned.

I woke up this morning and had to write. It was early, even though I didn’t get back to my house until two in the morning, I woke up at seven. There was something nagging me, something calling. I haven’t felt the itch in so long, I had to do something about it. I can’t quite get it right, but it’s these words:

I’ve been hunched in my car with my legs slung over the center console for three hours while I try every combination with every melody my fingers can find on my guitar. Nothing feels right—it’s all jumbled and lost. Like my head. Because of Casey.

Just when I think I might have something, it disappears.

“Murphy! Murphy! What are you doing?”

Lane is knocking on the opposite window, pressing his face against the glass and blowing. My brother is light and air, and there isn’t a single thing about him that isn’t golden and happy. I lay my guitar against my chest, the neck between my knees, and I watch him make goofy faces for a moment before pressing the lock button so he can crawl inside.

“Move your legs,” he says the second I let him in.

“Bossy,” I tease, moving for him.

“I want to go to the mall. I need new pants. I grew…an inch,” he says, lifting his leg awkwardly and showing me his sock.

My brother hasn’t grown. He’s twenty. He just wants new pants. But I love that he wants to get new pants with me. Being near him slows down the churn in my head. Lane is good for me—he’s medicine.

I rub my face and smile before nodding.

“Pants it is. Let me put my guitar away and tell Mom,” I say.

“She knows. She told me to come get you. She gave me money,” Lane smiles, holding up what looks like sixty bucks.

I give him a thumbs up as I carry my guitar back inside. My mom’s waiting at the door, and takes it from me.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Some boys at summer school were making fun of him,” she says quickly before I can get away. I slump and lean against the wall. Lane’s been lucky, for the most part, and hasn’t had to deal with a lot of bullying. He’s sensitive and understands more than people think. And every now and then, some asshole preys on him.

“Because he likes khakis? They made fun of khakis?” I sigh, my forehead pinched in disappointment.

“Honey, teenage boys are idiots,” my mom adds with a laugh. “Just help him pick out some jeans.”

I nod and turn back to the door for my mission, my feet stumbling when I see the maroon-rusted Volkswagen pulled up next to me. Casey is in my driver’s seat with the engine on, and he and Lane are leaning forward, patting their hands on the dashboard. Casey doesn’t judge khakis, though I bet he used to.

I don’t interrupt them until Casey’s head swings forward and his mouth curves up on one side. He holds up a finger as I approach the door, signaling for me to hold on for a second. I can kind of hear the music playing inside—it’s “Wipe Out,” a classic, and my brother loves that song. The second it’s over, Casey rolls down the window.

“Hey,” he says.
Cool-boy word.
It makes me smirk as I bend my head down to talk to them.

“Hey, yourself,” I say. “You’re in my seat.”

He looks forward at the steering wheel, running his hands along the curve of it and stretching out his fingers, slowly letting them wrap back around the width.

“It’s a nice seat,” he grins, giving me a sideways glance that I feel in my knees. I cross my legs to forget it.

“It is,” I smile back, lowering my lashes in a challenge. I’m not in his league when it comes to this…whatever this is. And I know it. My relationships have all been with nerdy librarian types, researchers, the occasional fellow singer-songwriter kind of guy who wants to hug trees and play free music for the masses. Maybe that’s why none of them ever made me feel the pinprick or the burn. I know that’s what those words mean. I know that’s why they flew from my pen onto the notebook that is…oh my god,
right fucking there!

Casey’s eyes flinch, and I know he saw me tick. With one glance at me, his eyes narrowed, he then looks to what I saw and sees it. He looks at me again, this time with a devil’s chuckle as his hand reaches to the dashboard against the window and slides out my beat-up, bent and very-well-used spiral notebook.

“We’re going to the mall,” I say, changing the subject, my brain remembering everything in the book. There are words in there that he will turn into something—he’ll make them about him.

Maybe they are.

I scratch at my ear and plaster a smile on my face and ignore the drums in my chest.

“That’s what Lane says,” he smirks, his eyes wide and moving from me to the book, looking for confirmation. I give away nothing.

“I’m gonna kind of need my seat though. So…” I say, my body motioning for him to vacate the car—
and hand over my book.

He drops the paper in his lap, and my eyes follow, noting the way his thumb flirts with opening a page. A songbook is so much like a diary. Things are written in code, but my code—it probably isn’t very hard to decipher. In fact, it’s probably blatant and obvious. Oh god!

I reach in desperately, hoping this one shot will catch him off guard, but it doesn’t, and his grip comes fast around my wrist, his laughter deep and brewing inside his chest just for me. He knows there’s something good in there.

“Get in the back. I’ll drive. Lane and me are having fun up front,” he says, getting immediate approval from my brother. I feel betrayed, and kind of pissed that he’s using Lane as a ploy to get his way, but more pissed that it’s working.

“You don’t need to spend your day shopping for pants,” I say, my voice completely not bluffing at all. I
am
a shitty liar!

Casey laughs louder and picks up my book, tucking it under his leg—
damn it!
He pulls the seatbelt over his body and points with his thumb to the back seat.

“Get in, woman,” he says through a snicker.

I let out a fast and heavy sigh in defeat, but reach in to grab the beanie from his head before backing away fast and climbing into the back seat. His hair is still damp and floppy, probably from the shower he took this morning, and I realize all I’ve done is give myself something to want to touch for the entire ride to the mall. I haven’t phased him at all. He runs his fingers through the tousled mess once and glances at me in the mirror just to let me know that he’s in control. Those words—all of them—I’m feeling them again.

After about the fifth time, I quit looking up to catch his eyes in the mirror. They’re always on me, always smiling, often laughing. I’m a caught mouse, and I don’t like feeling trapped. When we pull into the parking spot at the mall, I get out first; when Casey steps out of the car, my notebook clutched to his side, I smack him in the arm with his own beanie.

“Give me my notebook,” I plead.

He smirks and shakes his head
no
, mouthing the word slowly just to taunt me. I fold my arms over my chest, his hat clutched in my fist, and start walking toward the entrance. He laughs at my fit.

“So, what are we shopping for today, Lane?” I hear him ask behind me. I look over my shoulder to see his arm around my brother.

“I need jeans. Khakis are for losers,” my brother says, and my mouth grows rigid while I want to spit. I hate those boys.

“Who told you that?” Casey chuckles.

“The guys at school,” my brother answers quickly. He doesn’t have the same kind of walls the rest of us do—the ones that make people hold feelings inside and pretend they’re okay when they’re really not. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt any less, though.

It’s quiet behind me for a few seconds, until we get to the door and I hold it open watching my brother and
that
boy walk inside, still connected.

“Those guys are dumb-asses,” Casey says, his eyes meeting mine for a flash, showing me he’s just as angry about it as I am. “I wear khakis sometimes. They’re comfortable, and they look very professional.”

I fall in step behind them and smile, knowing full well that Casey wouldn’t be caught dead in a pair of khakis. He’s a better liar than he thinks, though.

We both help Lane pick out about a dozen different types of jeans to try out in the first store we come to. Casey helps my brother carry them into a fitting room, then tells him we’ll be waiting nearby if he wants to show us any of them. I pull my legs up, glad to be wearing jeans myself, so I can sit on the giant ottoman in the corner of the store; a second later, Casey joins me. My eyes glare at my book, but he tucks it under his thigh on the opposite side, leaving his hand on it for protection.

“Is Lane being bullied?” he asks, looking over at the dressing room where we can see my brother’s socked feet shuffling and struggling to work on jeans under the door.

“I think it was just this once. People usually leave him alone, and he has a lot of friends at his school. It’s just hard for him to fit in, because he’s older, but then he’s also…not,” I say, meeting Casey’s gaze between breaths. I turn back to Lane’s feet. “They were just being stupid boys,” I sigh.

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Casey responds, and I laugh lightly, my nostrils flexing at how amusing his statement is.

“No…” I say, shaking my head. “No, it doesn’t.”

It’s quiet for a few minutes as we both keep our eyes forward, my mind trying to match up the immature asshat I avoided in high school with this older, oddly-sensitive guy sitting next to me, and eventually, I notice that he’s brought my notebook into his lap. My chest squeezes, and I close my eyes, considering having what I know would be a childish tug of war over it. Instead, I stand and move to the dressing room door.

“I’m going to see if he needs help,” I say, not looking back.

I get to Lane’s door, which is across the store, and lean against the mirrored front, gently knocking.

“How’s it going in there?” I ask.

“I don’t like these. They’re not soft like my other pants,” he says. I can hear the frustration—trying to fit in is like that. We don’t all go in the same box.

“Do you want me to see if I can find some softer ones? They have those skate pants that bunch at the bottom,” I say.

“No, those are stupid, too,” he protests.

“I like them,” I say, my finger tracing a tic-tac-toe sticker pressed on the mirror.

“Okay, I guess,” Lane says, as I hear a pair of pants get tossed on the ground.

I grin and catch my own reflection, not liking how sad my eyes are. I look on for a few seconds, and soon, my attention moves to Casey’s reflection, to the fact that my book is open on his lap, and he’s reading with both hands on either side of the page. His head is slung forward.

He’s reading.

He’s not laughing.

I close my eyes and turn, opening up intent not to look at him again. I gather four or five other styles of pants and bring them to my brother, then take a seat on the wooden bench across from him. Every few minutes, I look over to see if he’s still reading. Every time—he is.

After nearly twenty minutes, Lane finally comes out of the room in one of the last pairs I give him to try. He looks unsure, but as he spins slowly, I
ooooh
and
ahhhh.

“Do they look okay?” he asks, pushing his hands in the pockets and pulling out the inside lining. “There’s a lot of room in here for my wallet and my phone. I think I like these.”

Lane looks up at me and smiles, his empty pockets inside out and his white socks glowing against the dark blue denim on his legs.

“They’re no khakis, but they’re pretty swag,” Casey says behind me. I suck in air and keep my eyes on my brother.

“I think I’d like these, then, Murph,” he says.

I nod and tell him to pass them to me under the door so I can pay.

As I wait at the register, Casey taps me on my arm with the weight of my notebook. My eyes flick up to his face, but he’s looking at the notebook instead of me.

“I like this one,” he says, his face sort of serious.

I take it in my hand, relieved to have it back while also nervous at which one he’s opened it to. I swallow and say, “Okay.”

I pay and hand Lane his bag, then fall behind him and Casey as we walk through the mall back out to my car. I’m expecting to find the page opened to the sexy lyrics I was scribbling this morning—about wanting to be touched and feeling excited…about boys with stubble on their face and music at their fingertips. But that’s not the page he has opened. It’s on one of the first things I wrote.

I don’t even ask, getting into the backseat and leaving Casey with no choice but to drive us home. I haven’t looked at this song in years. I wrote it as an exercise when people were pushing me to sing. I was fifteen, and angry and depressed. He doesn’t even know what these words mean; they mean so much.