In Your Dreams (Falling #4) (25 page)

I join her and move to the cockpit, looking to her for approval before I step inside.

“Do you fly?” she asks.

I laugh loud, and it echoes against the metal walls.

“I’m not much better than you. I drink heavily when I fly just so I don’t rip the seat arms away with my death grip,” I admit, running my fingers over the small switches and levers that have jobs I don’t understand.

“Good old Jim Beam, huh?” she chuckles.

“Don’t you mean Johnnie Walker,” I tease.

Her head leaned to the side, she holds on to the rod tightly and swings her body underneath the wing until she’s standing next to me.

“If you were a pilot, I’d let you fly me to the moon,” she says.

I stare into her eyes and wait for her to laugh at her line, but she doesn’t—so I leave it alone, too, and lean my head forward against hers. We rest like this for nearly a minute, her hand running over mine along the edge of the cockpit. She traces every knuckle, and my nerves react by sending signals to my heart. The kick is swift, and constant.

“Thank you for showing me this,” I say, finally breaking our silence. “I’m really glad it isn’t a spaceship.”

She gurgles a laugh, and the sound makes me laugh, too.

“My dad comes to clean it once a week. He was here a couple days ago, and I came along to hang out,” she says, holding on to the edge and stretching her body back before finally letting go and urging me to follow.

I climb from the plane, my feet hitting the ground in a loud clap. We both cross back to the other side to a small workbench set up against the wall, and she brings her guitar case up from the ground, unclasping the hinges and pulling her instrument out.

“I would always come here to test out songs, especially when I was still learning,” she smiles shyly, holding one of her picks in her teeth while she plucks her strings and twists the bolts for tuning. Taking the pick in her hand, she strums a few times, making minor adjustments until her ears are satisfied. Her eyes come to me and her smile is crooked.

“Even when I sucked…” she starts.

I interrupt.

“You never sucked,” I say.

Her head tilts to the left and her lips purse.

“I did. Believe me,” she says. “But even then, I sounded good in here.”

She strums a few more chords followed by a soft melody that she picks out. It’s sweet at the heart, but the echo does something special to her tune. She’s right—an old airport hangar off a country back road is the great equalizer.

“Not bad,” I nod, sliding up on the metal table and leaning back until my head rests on the corrugated steel wall.

“Fucking phenomenal,” she winks.

I could watch her in her element for days and never grow tired. Wondering why we’ve come here tonight, I begin to ask, but Murphy holds up a finger, urging me to have patience as she reaches back to her case and pulls out the tattered notebook I’d riffled through that day in the mall. She flips a few pages, clearing her throat when she lands on the one I had hoped for. Her eyes flit to mine, and her smile is brief—her nerves alive and evident all over her face. She closes her eyes and begins to work her fingers, letting the melody play out several times while she wills away her demons.

I don’t interrupt. I don’t become a crutch. I do nothing but wait, watching in wonder as her hands do something I could only dream of having mine do. Nearly a minute passes, and I forget that I was ever waiting to hear her sing at all, my soul too invested in all she’s already done, when her lips part and a fucking miracle happens.

Murphy sings her song—the one I like best. It isn’t about me. It isn’t about guys like me. It’s about the girl she was, the one who wanted to break out, but couldn’t—the one whose own tongue betrayed her and tangled her messages and held her hostage when she should have been careless and naïve and young and free.

That tongue is a thief, no matter how much I love it. But it’s powerless now.

I watch her lips and take in every painful wince and twitch of her eyelids until the very end, when she’s completely gone to the other side—fearless and singing in front of only me, singing words so personal they almost look as if they burn on their way out.

I’ve never been more proud of something in my entire life, and I was only the witness.

When her mouth closes and her hands stop, I sit still and don’t make a sound. She brings her guitar flat to her chest, hugging it while her mouth takes on a satisfied form.

I love you, Murphy Sullivan. You are better than me, and I don’t care. You will slay dragons.

I never say a word, and Murphy packs her guitar quietly before I hold the tips of her fingers and let her guide me back out through the pitch-black room. I don’t speak until I know her heart has finally quit racing, her adrenaline has run out, and her ears are ready to accept the truth.

“You are so special,” I say as she starts the car’s engine. She lets her head fall to the side against the seat, and I can tell by her expression she thinks I’m just complimenting her. I’m not—I’m warning her. “Do not—under
any
circumstances—give that song to anybody who doesn’t deserve it.”

Our eyes lock, and several seconds pass with my words the only thing on both of our minds.

“Okay,” she says, giving herself back to the road, taking us home.

“
O
h my god
that song is so boring!”

Leave it to a seven-year-old to put me in my place.

It’s free-play. Because I said so. Because my heart does not want to be here in this classroom today. It isn’t fair to the small group of kids left. They get to sign up by the week, and it seems only the most dedicated eight have stuck around to continue moving into Brahms and Beethoven. Well, seven dedicated students—Sasha is still here, and I am totally convinced it’s because her parents have nothing else to do with her.

“You think it’s boring, hmm?” I ask Sasha. The rest of the kids are playing on the keyboards with headphones, and she’s staring at me with her chin against her table.

“Yeah,” she says. “Sorry.”

I laugh out a small breath and look down at my fingers. I was plucking out a melody, but I couldn’t settle on one I liked. It seems I need to keep looking.

“What kind of music do
you
like?” I ask my worst student ever.

“Rock!” she shouts, her voice loud enough that two or three others hear her and pull their headphones from their ears.

“Rock, yeah?” I nod. She smiles big. “Well, this class is about the classics, but maybe…if you’re lucky…I’ll surprise you with a little something tomorrow,” I wink.

Sasha perks up, unraveling her headphones and pushing them to her ears with a grin on her face that matches the size of the bubble she blows with her gum she isn’t supposed to have. I let her get away with it, because there are only a few weeks to go, and if she’s chewing, at least she isn’t talking.

When class is over, I rush to my car for my favorite part of the day. I wait for Casey to call, because I’m never quite sure what he’ll be dealing with. His father suffered a stroke the night after my half birthday, which seems incredibly unfair and cruel, but the doctors told Casey and his mother that it was actually common.

Casey was distraught. He rambled through percentages that the doctors gave him, risk factors mixed with medicines that equal likelihoods, talk of another stroke—everything he said seemed entirely
uncommon.
So did he. My cool, calm, nothing-phases-him boy was drowning in what to do.

I pull on my safety belt and lay the phone in my center console so it’s easy to see and grab. The
buzz
comes before I leave the lot, so I pull back into a space and rush to answer, pausing when I realize it’s Gomez instead of Casey. My heart rushes for an entirely different reason—I haven’t heard from John Maxwell since the day we recorded, and I haven’t heard a word about my song since Casey played it for me. He’s asked around, but didn’t get any clear answers.

“Hello, this is Murphy,” I answer, squeezing my eyes shut, because I always sound so incredibly unhip with Gomez and John.

“Murph, heyyyyyy,” he says, the word sliding out as if it is longer than one syllable. He sounds high—I’m pretty sure he’s stoned.

“Hey,” I answer back, starting to feel like we might just go round-and-round with this.

“Yeah, hey…so…John wants to get you in. Can you stop by today? We’ve got some exciting stuff to share, and some new ideas he’d like to run by you,” Gomez says.

My pulse is doing triple-time, and I’m suddenly searching around my car for a pen to take notes, even though…I don’t really know what I’d need to write. But a pen…I just need a fucking pen!

“Sure, yeah…uhm…” I’m stuttering. I’m sweating. I find a pen and I pull a receipt from my purse and turn it around and begin drawing circles. This is stupid, but it’s working. “I can be there in an hour. Does that work?”

“Sounds good,” Gomez says, and I hear some laughing behind him along with the clanks of silverware. “Hey…hey, order me one more…” he says to someone in the background, his hand muffling the phone. “You there?”

I don’t answer at first, still listening, still full of adrenaline.

“Murphy? You there?” he repeats.

“Oh…yeah. Sorry,” I say, pen clenched and drawing triangles now.

“Good, so make it two hours. We’re on a business lunch, and John wants to sit in,” he says.

“Okay,” I answer, my mind searching for what question I need to ask next—there are so many. He hangs up before I get the chance.

My hands are shaking and I’m staring at the 1:37 total minutes stamped on my last call when my phone buzzes again in my palm. I shake my head and try to clear my nerves, to temper my excitement in case Casey’s day did not go well.

“Hey,” I answer—that same
hey.
I hope I don’t sound stoned and disinterested.

“Beautiful girl,” he breathes, and I sink into my seat, suddenly grounded.

“How’s your dad?” I ask.

There’s a deep breath before he responds.

“Good. I guess,” he says. “Nothing new, but he’s having trouble breathing. They have the oxygen going, and his doctor is coming in this afternoon. I called in to work again. I hate missing so much, but I guess…I mean…whatever, right?”

“I’m sure everyone understands,” I say.

“And fuck ’em if they don’t,” he says, and I frown, because for the first time since I’ve known him, he sounds so detached from this thing that used to fill him with fire.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring you down,” he says, and I can tell his chest is tight and he’s trying just for me.

“You didn’t. I’m glad you can talk to me. I’m sorry this has all gotten so…I don’t know…hard, I guess,” I say.

I hear him sigh long and deep on the other end.

“Me, too,” he says. “But hey. I’m okay. Really, Murph. I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“Okay,” I whisper, lying. Not okay. Not at all. And I worry—a lot.

My teeth saw at my bottom lip while I think about how I could possibly mention my news to him. I’m excited, and that doesn’t feel right, because I also want to help and I feel bad. Casey is the person who got me here, no matter what he says. And I want to have him with me, at least mentally, when I go into that big board room again in two hours.

“Gomez called,” I say. It’s not the greatest transition.

“Oh yeah?” he asks. I can hear him working to sound happy…for me.

“They want me to come in to talk about more,” I say, my thumbnail resting between my teeth.

“Murph, that’s…that’s a really good sign,” he says, genuine pride in his tone.

“Thanks,” I say. “I’m nervous.”

“Don’t be. You’re the one they want. You hold the power. The keeper of the chips. The big kahuna,” he chuckles.

“Wow, that’s…like…a whole lot of metaphors,” I smile.

His laugh is soft and breathy on the other side. He sounds tired, and I know he has to work tonight. I miss him. We’ve only been voices to one another all week.

“Do you need me to visit your mom while you’re at the club,” I offer. I know he’ll refuse.

“Thanks, but it’s okay. My sister’s coming in,” he says.

“Which one?”

He chuckles. “All of them, actually. I think they’re going to watch chick flicks with my mom,” he says.

“Sounds nice,” I say.

He pauses for a few seconds. “It does, actually,” he says, and I don’t ask, but I think a part of him likes seeing the women in his life do normal family things that don’t involve banking and dinner-table talk about projects and management.

I want to keep him on the phone with me. I want to carry him into my meeting and have him there just in case, whenever I need. But I know he has a lot in front of him today. So I settle with just hoping I’ll see him later.

“Can I come tonight?” I ask, knowing I’ll show up no matter what.

“You better,” he says.

We hang up, and I drive home in silence, because my thoughts are enough to fill my head. I coach myself while changing clothes, and I wait at the table with a sandwich ready for Lane as his bus arrives. My brother has a million stories to tell me, but I’m a selfish sister today—I don’t hear them.

What if my song hits number one?

What if John Maxwell offers me a huge deal?

What if they want me to sign on the line right then—without showing contracts to my father?

I need a manager. I should have an agent.

Am I good enough for this?

That last question plays constantly, even though it’s the one worry Casey tells me is completely unjustified. I’ve let my nerves stand between me and so much for so long, but I’ve always really wanted this. And now that I’ve had a taste, I’m hungry. I’m starving to be a success.

John Maxwell.

Grammies.

American Music Awards.

Bands I fucking love.

I stop at the coffee shop on my way to the freeway, and order a large. I don’t drink caffeine normally—the stimulant sort of works against me and the whole stuttering thing. But I think I need to give some power to the strongest version of my personality, and this is the only way I know how. I’m so ratcheted up with coffee by the time I pull into the Maxwell lot, I run over the parking hump and my bumper scrapes the brick wall between the lot and the road.

“Shit,” I mutter to myself when I get out and look at the new texture on what used to be smooth chrome.

I close my mouth and shut my eyes, straightening my posture for a deep breath, then open my sites on the large double doors in front of me. I walk in through the front this time, and the receptionist guides me to the familiar room in the back. I brought my guitar and my book, just to be prepared, but as I amble through the hallway and knock into the walls, I feel more ridiculous than ready. This is not how big girls take meetings.

Gomez is waiting in the room along with the assistant I recognize from last time. I think her name is Cara.

“Murph,” Gomez says, walking around the table with open arms. I ready myself for the hug and am instantly grateful for my guitar and heavy purse so it’s cut short. “Oh, we’re not going to need you to play today,” he laughs, and I’m red with embarrassment.

“I know. I have somewhere to go after this,” I lie.

“Where you headed?” he asks, and I want to kick him for being nosey.
Nowhere, shit, I was just saving face!

“My aunt’s,” I say quickly, my eyes flitting around the room, looking for the most opportune seat. My second lie was worse, so I don’t look up again, because I swear if he starts asking me questions about my aunt I’m just going to grab my things and run, probably taking out chunks of drywall on my awkward exit.

John comes in after a few seconds, and as scared as I am, I’m relieved to let him take over the conversation.

“Murphy,” he smiles. His hair is a blend of black and gray, and he wears tinted glasses that make me think of gangster movies and Robert de Nero.

“Nice to see you, John,” I say, immediately debating if I should call him Mr. Maxwell. Casey’s voice echoes in my head:
You’re the one they want.
John it is, then.

“Would you like some water?” he asks, holding up a hand and calling Cara to his side.

“I’m okay,” I say. Honestly, I would
love
water, but I also have to pee badly as it is from the large coffee jolt. I think adding any more would be self-abuse at this point.

He smiles and whispers his request to Cara, who excuses herself from the room to fetch whatever he asked for. God I hope it’s not coffee.

“Do you know why we brought you here?” John asks, leaning back in his seat. His feet fold on top of the table, and I smirk because I remember Casey’s imitation of him.

“Not entirely,” I say, breathing in through my nose for strength, “but I’m hoping it’s for a major record deal.”

Might as well come out guns a blazin’.

John’s harsh features fall into a smile quickly, but he remains silent. His hands move from behind his head to his lap, and I watch as he folds his fingers together and cracks his knuckles, almost for his own amusement.

“We’d like to pair you with one of our new artists,” he says, and my head starts to spin instantly. I’m sure I don’t mask my expression well. I think I’m still smiling, but I can tell by the way his lips purse and Gomez fidgets that I probably look forlorn. I’m just glad I don’t look pissed, because that’s also brewing in my belly.

“Pair me,” I reiterate.

“Yeah, like what we did with Johnnie Walker,” he says.

I pull in my brow and look to Gomez.

“Yo, I don’t think she’s heard it yet,” he says.

I part my lips, about to protest, but I think better of it and wait for them to call Cara back from wherever she went so she can fetch Gomez’s laptop. Coffee comes, and I give in and pour a glass, the taste bitter and my bladder almost as pissed as I am. Cara’s back again in minutes with the laptop, and soon Gomez is turning it toward me, a sound file beginning to play.

The start is familiar—the same as it was in the club more than a week ago. But then suddenly it isn’t my song any more. It’s nothing of what I heard, heavy beats taking over the melody completely and some rap artist who I am now picturing as Porky the fucking Pig tossing out lyrics that are anti-feminine and just plain abrasive.

I point, unable to speak, because I’m not sure if I can come up with a word strong enough to accurately portray how deeply I hate what Gomez is playing for me. Vile—I think that’s the best I’ve got. It’s what I say…like a question.

“Vile?”

Gomez’s eyes snap to John’s and he taps the keys, the music, if it can be called that, stopping abruptly.

“His name’s Shaw Chris. He’s going to be huge. His YouTube numbers are sick, and that whole soft with hard vibe is so in right now,” John says, and I picture myself poking my fingers through the orange tint of his gangster glasses.

“He’s shit,” I say, and my belly thumps wildly with my heartbeat. I’m not scared. I’m not intimidated. I might cry, but only because I’m that angry. I’m so angry, I don’t even know whether or not to sit or stand. I begin to rise, but fall back to my seat and cover my mouth, slowly letting my eyes look to them both.

“I assure you he’s not…
shit,
” John says, clearing his throat. His eyes move to Gomez.

“Quit looking at him. It’s not his song!” I yell.

“It’s not yours either,” John says, and I fall back, sure that I’m not hiding the shock I feel. My skin is tingling with it.