In Your Dreams (Falling #4) (18 page)

“Murphy,” he says it again.

Casey. He’s standing at the edge of the stage, holding my guitar pick. I tilt my head up, hiding from most of the world behind my hair. He’s smiling. Not laughing. He’s smiling, barely and his eyes are looking for me, to pull me back.

“You dropped it,” he says, the silver pick nothing compared to the size of his hand. He holds it up between two fingers, and I take it, whispering “Thank you.”

“You’re all right,” he says before I can look away. “Just jump. You’re all right.”

My heart is pounding, so I hold onto his gaze for a few extra seconds, my hands searching for the right hold on my guitar, the muttering of people in the audience growing louder.

“Jump,” he says.

I never stop looking at him. I convince myself we’re in the studio—and he’s just played Van Halen for me, poorly. It’s a joke that happens only in my head, but it makes me smile. I find the mic and tilt it into place, and I talk to him…and nobody else.

“Sorry about that,” I chuckle. “I uh…I…”

No.

My eyes close and open for a reset. I smile, the outline of Casey’s face all I see under the hot lights above.

“I dropped my pick,” I laugh.

I will myself to charm the crowd I’ve lost, and I block out the catcalls from my friend and her friends. I focus on Casey’s smile—and the fact that he is somehow here. Even though he makes a mess out of my heart and head. He’s still here. And I lean on him.

“This is something new,” I smirk.

His head tilts.

And as much as I wanted to make this song a hate anthem about boys like him, when faced with one that’s rooting for me, I just can’t.

“It’s called ‘Tease,’
and I’ll let y’all sort out what it’s about,” I say, a playful smile making my lips twitch as I lean forward and feel the energy of the mic calling me close.

“Tease”—there could not be a better title for that song.

I’m not sure if she realizes how sexy it is, but wow! I hit record on my phone the second she said she would be playing something new. I was expecting the song I told her I liked. This surprise is welcomed, though.

The staccato lyrics spill from her troubled mouth like poetry. She’s putting men in their places—calling us all on our ways. She’s putting
me
in my place. And I’m going willingly. This song is her dominating me.

By the second verse, she loses herself, and I know she’s going to be all right. I lean back in my chair and just listen, my head internalizing and working out the rhythm. I can’t wait to layer this with something soulful. This song—it’s the kind of song people make love to.

My eyes open on her at that thought. My hand flexes at the memory of being splayed over her stomach, and I imagine more. By the final verse, she’s so close to the mic that I watch her love it—her tongue slow across her lips in carefully timed swipes. I am mentally begging her to lick it. This is her performing, and she is a master.

I’m her slave.

I shut off the recording when her final note ends and the applause erupts. Her table of friends is obnoxious, and I can see it threaten her peace, so I lean forward again to catch her sightline.

“So good,” I mouth slowly.

I don’t smile, but only because I can’t. The feelings she’s stirred—they aren’t the smile kind. They’re primal.

They’re probably the exact kind of feelings an asshole like me gives into, which is why I’m going to give her the news I came here to share, and then leave.

I suppose the news could have waited. When I think about it, it’s selfish that I’m here at all. Of course it’s selfish—that’s what I do, isn’t it? I want to tell her because she’ll be happy, and that will make me happy. So if I reduce the formula, I’m here to make myself happy. I swear it’s not that I want credit, though. It’s only that I want to give her a taste of success, because she’s worked hard, and she needs something to believe in.

And since I’ve ruined so much…

She finishes three more songs, then escapes to the edge of the stage. I wait patiently at my table near the front, nursing the small Pepsi I ordered instead of the double shots of whiskey I wanted. The loud table that’s been cheering for her—
obnoxiously—
stands and meets her at the bottom of the steps. Her friend, the one I recognize, is tipsy, but is genuinely proud of our girl. The guys are clueless losers—especially the one that wraps his bear-claw arms around her and lifts her from the bottom step, spinning her once before setting her on the ground. At least, I
presume
he set her on the ground. I had to look away.

When I search for her again, a minute later, Murphy has moved to the tight area behind the bar where she’s filling out something on a clipboard. It’s probably the list to perform next week. Bear-claw is overly interested, leaning over the bar and watching her write, and before my self-discipline kicks in, I walk over there with the intent of pressing my palm against his forehead to shove his face away.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” her theater friend slurs. “In the flesh!”

I grin at her, tight-lipped, and pull my beanie from my head, tucking it in my back pocket before running my hand through my hair and stretching my palm out to shake hers. She stumbles into me and her hand grabs at my chest in that familiar way I’ve come to know at the end of the night in a club or bar. Only this time, I wish it were the hand of the girl watching me with disgusted eyes. And I wish it weren’t a bar at all, but rather her bedroom, while on her floor, listening to her favorite records.

“Good to see you,” I say, because while I recognize her, I don’t remember her name either.

“That’s Sam,” Murphy says, her eyes set on the notepad she’s still writing on. “You recognized her tits, remember?”

Her eyes shut instantly and she sets down the pen, her fingers flexing for a brief second before turning away. I think even she’s surprised she said that. Good on her, though, because there’s really no response for me to give.
No, I didn’t recognize her tits
comes to mind, but only for an amusing second.

“Yeah, Sam. I remember,” I lie. That was the wrong thing to say, because Murphy spins and gives me a sharp glare the second I do.

“I mean, from the theater photos…I saw your picture.” I try to repair the damage, but it doesn’t matter—Murphy’s moved on, working to pack up her guitar and fend off the banal conversation from the bear-claw lips hovering over her.

“Murphy says you’re helping her get a record deal?” Sam asks, her hands flirty, touching my collar and arm. I take a step away so she’s closer to the guy she came with and begins touching him instead.

“Well, that’s what he says, but…we’ll see,” Murphy hums, her tone doubtful as she snaps the clasps shut on her case and pulls the strap along with her bag over her shoulder. “Sam…
and friends,
” she grimaces, “thanks for coming. I’ve got an early morning, so…”

“Awwww, I thought you were coming out with us. Party bus!” Sam says, hopping on her toes. It’s amazing to me how this behavior is so appealing when I’m lit.

“Sam,” Murphy says, squaring her shoulders with her liquid-happy friend. “It’s not a bus, dear. It’s a limo—and it’s a gross one at that. And you know I am not the party girl.”

“I know, but…” her friend whines.

“I love you. I’ll see you for lunch this week,” Murphy says, tilting her head forward. The exchange is sweet, and I’m envious as she glances at me and furrows her brow before turning and marching right through the back door to her car.

“Murph, hey…wait,” I call after her. She isn’t running, but she’s not wasting any time, either. “Murph…”

She turns and offers a tight-lipped, very fake smile. It catches me off guard so I stare at her for a second, my lips parted and my heart surprised at the way it feels. My eyes fall closed and my head tips forward with a breath of a smile.

“I’m sorry. You’re just…you’re kind of all fired up, and it caught me off guard,” I say, cocking an eyebrow as I glance up to her.

She doesn’t look at me—instead only fidgeting with her keys and chewing at her lip. The longer it takes for her to find her words, to look up at me and answer, the more I realize just how much damage I’ve done. I forced her to play pretend, and she has been trapped in that role ever since. I need to leave this girl alone, but I need to make it right first.

“Lane really liked your com…your company today,” she says, her gaze still at her own feet.

A legit smile hits my lips at the memory of earlier, before pieces started falling into place. I swallow while I think of what to say, a way to answer that conveys exactly what today was for me, a way that say’s
I’m sorry,
and means it for everything—
all
of the things.

“I heard from John…” I say instead, because that’s what I can give her.

I can give her her dream.

Her expression changes, and her hands stop twisting as she pulls her lips into her mouth, sucking and holding her breath. She brings her eyes to mine, ready for disappointment.

No, Murphy. I wouldn’t come out here tonight to disappoint you. I’m never going to disappoint you again.

“Think you can get a sub for your class tomorrow? He likes to sign contracts in the morning…when his lawyer is in…and…”

“Shut up,” she interrupts, her bottom lip jutted out, her eyebrows rising slowly, realization sinking in. I can’t help but smile at her happiness.

“He loved it,” I say.

“Shut up,” she says again, this time a small tickle of a laugh squeezing through. Her lips begin to curve and the light in her grays comes alive as her hand cups her mouth.

“I will…in a minute,” I laugh. She steps forward and pushes the center of my chest, shoving me off balance. I laugh and catch her hand, but let her fingers slide through mine quickly because that’s not what this moment is about.

“He loved it, Murphy. I knew he would. And he wants to get you in to the studio fast. He was going to call himself, but I…” I pause, thinking the truth.
But I’m a selfish prick, and I wanted to be the one who got to make you happy—just once.

“Thank you, Casey,” she says, taking a step toward me and throwing her arms around me.

The girl who doesn’t like to hug pulls me close and buries her face in my chest, and I memorize the soft feel of her hair on my neck and chin. My hands grip for a second, holding the fabric of her shirt as my eyes fall shut and I breathe her in. I let go and step back after only that second, though—that’s more than I deserve—and I push my hands in my pockets.

Murphy brings both hands up to cover her mouth again, but she can’t hide the smile in her eyes.

“So you’ll let me know? If you’ll make it in tomorrow?” I say, taking a step or two in the opposite direction, my keys in my hand.

She nods
yes
.

“I’ll be there,” she says. “I’ll get someone to cover, and I’ll…I’ll be there.”

“Eight…if you can,” I say.

“I can,” she responds.

With tight lips, I smile and nod before holding up a thumb. I spin and move toward my car, looking over my shoulder to give her one more congratulations, but she’s already moved into her driver’s seat and shut the door. She’s already pulling out and rushing home—to her beautiful family, who will embrace her and fill her head with positive thoughts about how this is only her beginning.

I stop at my car door and watch her pull away, satisfied that she has this new start, as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, naïve to think it’s her.

It’s Christina.

It’s my nightmare.

He’s asking for you. You have to come.

I sit in the parking lot behind Paul’s for three hours and try to think of a way to tell her
no
.

Because I’m a selfish prick, and I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

S
he texted
me that she’d be at the studio by eight, so I arrived at seven. She showed up at seven-thirty. Somehow, I knew she would.

“So the paperwork…is it…I don’t know…a lot?”

She’s polished off an entire pitcher of water in the conference room. I refilled it, and she’s pouring her second glass from this round. When she finishes that one, I slide the pitcher away from her, moving it to the far end of the table, and her eyes flash up to me.

“You’re going to drown,” I smirk.

She smiles with tight lips and pushes her glass away, falling back in her seat.

“I’m nervous,” she admits.

“I know. Don’t be,” I smile.

I’ve purposely remained two seats away from her, careful not to be too close. I don’t want her to have a reason not to trust me, or for her to get some crazy notion that I’m going to swoop in and take this from her, too. I don’t want to mess this up, but I also know she doesn’t want to be left to do it alone.

I’m not naïve enough to think that John will involve me to a large extent in any projects with her. But when I spoke with him yesterday, he mentioned several times how much he liked the mix and what I’d done. A few weeks ago I would have seized that opportunity and come in guns blazing with ideas for other things I can do. But now I don’t want to make this so much about me as much as I want to make it about her.

“All right, let’s get this deal done. Murphy Sullivan, yeah?” John says, stepping in and looking at the papers that his assistant just placed in front of him rather than the girl the papers are about.

Murphy stands and moves her hand toward him to shake, but I hold my hand up and wave her off. As much as she doesn’t like to be hugged, John Maxwell does not like to be touched. He’s a brilliant producer and an enormous name in the business—but it’s not because of warm fuzzies. He’s cutthroat when it comes to getting his artists the airtime they deserve. Murphy—she needs cutthroat in her corner, but I’m not sure she’ll realize that.

She looks at me confused, but I shake my head and smile, winking, my signal for her not to worry.

“I really like your sound, Murphy,” John says, flipping through the standard boilerplate contract, checking with a pen next to the places that already have his name signed. I’m sure he has a person that does that.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice soft. I can hear her struggle.

John isn’t easy. Most of his artists are men—the kind in the news for hopping through celebrity girlfriends they swoon with their guitars. So, assholes.
Yeah, I fit right in.

“Murphy…look…” he says, finally dropping his pen and leaning back in his chair, his hands folded behind his head with his winning smile atop his perfect, crisp, white shirt collar. The man is success in a suit, and this is the move he makes when he wants something. I’ve seen it. It’s how he got me. He wants her on his label. He wants her bad.

“I’m not going to kid you or waste your time. You have something…” he stops, leaning forward with an arm on the table as his mouth ticks up. “Unique. You’re unique. And I…” his eyes squint, “don’t come across unique very often in this business.”

“Okay,” she says, barely audible. Her eyes are terrified, and her hands are now tucked under her legs. She wore the gray dress from the night at the club, but she also wore tall black boots and a black business jacket that slims at the waist. Somehow, she’s made that fucking dress even hotter, and I think John likes that too. Sex sells—it sells records.

“If we can agree on this,” he says, waving his hand over the contract spread out in front of her, “I’d like to get you in the studio today.”

Her eyes grow wide, and I see the anxiety coloring her skin.

I jump in.

“Is this just for the song we demo’d? Or is this for the full contract?” I ask, and John’s jaw flexes. I move my eyes to her, gesturing that I’m only trying to put her at ease, not act as her agent, though I know that’s her fear—she’d prefer her dad get a shot at looking these papers over.

“For now, yes. We’re looking at a single,” John says, his mouth a hard line, and my shot at working on her mix down the toilet. “What you gave me—it’s a hit, Murphy. If we give it the right push, the right touch. But I’m a businessman, so I’d really like to test the waters with it.”

Disappointment crawls into her expression.

“But I have a feeling,” John pipes in quickly. He saw it too. Disappointed artists don’t sing with passion, they sing with reservation, and he can’t have that. “I think we’ll be sitting down here and talking about some bigger plans very soon.”

He pushes the papers forward, turning them to her view and sliding the pen next to them. You can take as long as you need. My secretary, Cara, can take your signed copy and make sure everything is squared up. And if you’re able, just head to the main studio on the end; I’d like to hook you up with Gomez.

Her frightened eyes find mine. I shake my head lightly, so she swallows her question down and thanks John again as he stands to leave the room. Her hand out again, John smirks at it and takes it into his own. Only I notice him wipe his fingers with a towelette on his way out of the room. I’m glad Murphy didn’t see it. It isn’t personal—he does it constantly.

“What do you think?” she says the moment the door closes and we’re alone.

I remain two seats away, but turn my chair to face her, scratching at my chin and dragging the paperwork closer to me to review. I recognize the language instantly—it’s the same exact thing I signed. It gives John control over her song—the one about me—but it’s open ended after that, giving them both an out. It’s the biggest shot she’s ever going to get. And if John wants it now, it means there’s a slim opening somewhere that he thinks it fits. Waiting a day—I don’t think she can wait a day.

“I think…” I pause, returning the contract to her and letting go before our fingers have a chance to graze. “I think it’s an amazing opportunity that
you
deserve,” I say.

“Who’s Gomez?” she asks, knowing, but not wanting to say it out loud.

“He’ll do great things with you,” I say through a soft smile, my heart breaking at the thought of someone else being trusted with her voice. This isn’t about me; it’s about someone else knowing what to do. I meet her gaze and try to force down the lump in my throat.

“But if I’m working with him…” She knows.

I nod.

“I’m new here. I’m…I’m not even fulltime yet. Gomez—he’s…well…here, let me show you something,” I say, urging her to stand and walk to the far wall with me, where gold records hang along with dozens of plaques and Billboard Awards. I point to the first one, and say his name. I point to the next and do the same. I credit him with at least sixty percent of the hardware hung on the studio wall.

“So that all…that means he’s good?” she asks.

Does it?

I don’t answer, instead letting out a long breath tainted with indecision. But I know the drill here—I know how easy this kind of deal is to blow.

“Murph, John isn’t going to gamble on both of us. He already owns what he wants out of me, and he sees something special in you,” I say.

Her eyes fall to the table—to the duplicate copies and legal jargon that always encases the best of hopes and desires. She steps closer, pulling the pen into her hand as she sits down and begins to read.

“But what if…what if I like the song the way you made it?” she asks, not looking at me, breaking me, and making my chest expand with pride and my heart rip with regret.

“I didn’t make that song, Murph,” I say, as her eyes flit to mine. “You did.”

She chews at her lip, her eyes eventually falling back to the decision on the glossed maple planks in front of her. I wait for more questions that never come. I stand in the room, perfectly still and silent while she reads. I wait just in case her belief in herself wavers and I need to tell her she’s good enough without me.

I will be her swagger.

When her pen begins to scratch along the paper, I step out of the room and let her revel in the strength she’s found on her own.

I
busied
myself with tapes and phones for the rest of the day—mostly phones. I’ve been at the studio for just under two weeks, and I’m starting to realize that my role here is not necessary…or really wanted. No, that’s not true—it’s wanted, it just isn’t very glamorous. I feel kind of foolish for going in with my big expectations.

My father’s voice is in my head.

John’s team and I have different ideas of what my scope is. John wanted me for his club; that much is clear. He wants my local buzz to put Max’s on the map. He wants my allure to bring in local talent. In the few years I’ve been working this circuit, I’ve cultivated a nice little list of friends. They give me beats, make riffs for me to use in my mixes. I heard him throw my name around with a few other guys he was trying to work on this morning, something about building the Maxwell brand to include more than just folk bands and reformed-country-stars turned pop stars. I’ve been tasked with scouting YouTube and putting my signature on things to show artists how their sound can transform, be relevant.

Relevant.
That’s John’s favorite word. It’s how he hooked me. He said I was relevant and my eyes bugged out like Tweety Bird caught in a trap. An exciting trap—laced with sexy women and expensive cars and dollar signs. So far, all I’ve gotten in return is a key to use the studio equipment after hours and a used vehicle that loses about a can of oil every two days.

Murphy is relevant—John said it when he called me after hearing her demo, and I know she really is. It kills me that I wasn’t in that room with her today, that Gomez is going to get to mold her sound. But that’s my ego thinking that I’m the only ear that understands, that my hands are the only ones capable of building the right levels—that my taste rules. This isn’t about me, so I block all things Murphy and
her record deal
out of my head as I pull up outside Houston’s house, my belly hungry and my heart craving that feeling of home.

Christina hasn’t messaged me again; our siblings have taken over the dirty work. Hourly updates laced with just enough guilt to repeatedly make me feel like shit. My father is getting thinner. He’s refusing to work with the nurses. He doesn’t want to take pain meds. He’s questioning what’s covered by insurance. He hid this from us all for months. Now it’s too late. Mom is crying. Mom is constantly crying. And all she wants is me to come to the house.

It’s that last one that stabs. This rift has never been between my mom and me. It was never meant to be, but I can’t fathom how my presence in that house can possibly be good for anyone. I would be like shredded paper thrown on a candle. The flames would come fast and indiscriminant.

“Well, if it isn’t my boyfriend’s
other
child,” says a familiar voice. I smile hearing it, but I hide it from her because fuck if she knew I actually liked her. Paige leans halfway out the backdoor, her arms crossed over her chest and her hip slung against the frame. I forgot that she would be here tonight—one more piece of evidence of how self-absorbed I am. I think the date has been circled on the calendar hung in Houston’s kitchen for weeks. This date was important to him.

“Well, it’s nice to see that your little stint in California hasn’t made you go all soft,” I say, stepping up toe to toe with her. “You know there’s still time…”

“Time for what?” she asks, her mouth tugged up in that irritated face she makes—that
I
get out of her. Maybe I should send
her
in to deal with my sisters—she can handle herself.

“Time to tell Houston the truth—that you were just using him to get to me. Come on Paige, I mean…
all this?
You know you want a taste of Mighty Casey,” I smirk.

Paige doesn’t hate me…anymore. She doesn’t necessarily like me, either. She tolerates me because she’s in love with my best friend. That fact makes her all right with me. And picking on her is a wonderful distraction. She couldn’t have come back to Oklahoma at a better time.

“You think you’d spend less time walking around in your boxers in front of me,” she says, and I narrow my gaze, waiting for the zing. It’s coming. “Because now we both know there is
nothing
mighty going on…well…”

My frenemy waves her hand about an inch away from my crotch, not intimidated or offended in the least. I look down and let out a chuckle as I step up and past her on my way into the house.

“Oh, I’ve missed you Paige,” I say. I mean it. I honestly think I have.

“That makes one of us.” She doesn’t miss a beat.

“Uncle Casey!” Leah shouts, running to me from the sofa where she’s playing with what looks like a pair of Paige’s shoes. Her feet fall out of the purple heels quickly and she scurries into my arms so I can lift her against my side.

“Hey, princess,” I say, twirling her once and walking her with her feet propped atop mine until we’re back to her spot on the sofa.

“Paige brought me a new pair of shoes. She said she doesn’t want these any more,” she says, putting her feet into them and scooting toward the coffee table and television. I chuckle and part my lips, but Paige puts her hands on my shoulders behind me, pinching with enough force to get my attention.

“Don’t you dare make a streetwalker joke about those shoes. She loves them,” she says.

I shake my head and smile, because she knows exactly where I was going.

“I think you have a little more growing to do, but they look nice,” I say instead, making both Paige and Leah’s faces glow.

“Are you joining us for dinner, Case?” Joyce asks, busy in the kitchen.

“I will never say no to you, Joyce. Not ever,” I smile, settling into the deep cushion and lying my head back with the weight of the day.

“Hey,” Houston says, taking the final steps down the stairs into the living room. The house is full, and everything here just smells different—like the way a home is supposed to smell. Murphy’s house smells like this. I’m thinking about her. I wasn’t supposed to do that, but I am.

“So, Houston says someone important actually hired you to come work for them,” Paige says, nestling next to Leah. Houston sits on the edge of the coffee table between us both not even phased by our banter.