In Your Dreams (Falling #4) (29 page)

“He won’t wait forever,” I say, my eyes on her hands. I work hard to keep my tone even, taking a step back to break our touch. I pull my headphones on and turn the other way, because I know if she looks into my eyes she’ll see the truth—that I’m just as afraid of her leaving. Time is her enemy though—my girl needs to be backed into a corner, otherwise she’ll always choose limbo and stay here with me, playing at Paul’s and teaching for pennies while I fill in the role my father vacated and peck away at my own dreams slowly on the side
.
We’ll both stall, and she’ll never get the spotlight she deserves—the one that is literally waiting for her to stand in it.

I ready my playlists and ignore her while noticing every single breath she takes. It kills me, but I decidedly act, as Houston would say,
more Casey
than normal. The club begins to fill, and I say hello to people I barely know. I talk to anyone who passes by that I recognize, showering them with my time and attention, giving them what Murphy desperately wants so that it will eat away at those feelings that are tying her to me. At one point, I see her look to the side and run her palm under her eye, and I feel sick, but I keep putting her last so that way I can put her first.

When the lighting switches, I go to work, and Murphy excuses herself to the restroom. I nod. I don’t say a word. I watch her walk away and hate every pair of eyes that falls on her body in the crowd, but I give up the right to be jealous. I surrender it all—and by the time she comes back to my booth, the reason why she escaped in the first place clear with the remnants of red puffiness in her eyes—I’m resolved.

Welcome to the asshole, Murphy. The one who loves you. He’s sorry, but it’s for the best.

“Hey,” I nod in her direction, urging her to step closer to the board. She bounds up next to me, anxious and full of hope. I crush it in a breath as soon as her eyes ask me “what?”

“You’re not putting off Noah because of
us,
are you?” I ask.

Her expression switches to puzzled and afraid. Her eyes dart to my work, to the lights and screens and people beginning to crowd around us, the space we’re losing.

“I’m just not…I’m not…not ready,” she says, her stutter stronger than I’ve ever heard. She grinds her back teeth and flexes her jaw in frustration. “It’s not a good time.”

“Bullshit,” I say, making the word harsh and disgusted, as if I’m tired of her excuses. She winces. I die a little more.

She inhales, the deepness of the breath lifting her shoulders high as her head falls to the side and her hair tumbles off her shoulder. I think about reaching up with one finger and brushing the rest away. I think about touching her.

I don’t. I can’t. I shouldn’t.

“Your father just died, Casey. It hasn’t even been a week. We can talk about this later. It doesn’t have to be now. It can wait,” she says.

“My father died, Murphy.
Mine.
Not yours,” I say sternly. My brashness makes her cringe.

“Fine. Okay, fine!” she says, her hands fisted and shaking at her sides. I can see she’s growing angrier, her eyes tearing a little in mixed emotions. Good. Get angry. Don’t pick me, Murphy. Do not feel loyal. Be greedy.

“You should go to Nashville,” I say, praying she’s mad enough that she’ll just say
yes
and leave. Wounds are better when they’re fast. But nothing is that easy.

“I don’t know,” she shakes her head, looking down, more tears replacing the ones she just dried.

“Don’t stay here because of us. Noah Jacobs is not going to wait forever. And I’m not worth it, Murphy,” I say. She takes a step into me and her lip quivers.

I take a step back, but it only makes her completely fall apart.

“I don’t want to leave you!” she admits, her hand cupping her mouth fast. Hearing her say it out loud is both beautiful and tragic all at once. Her eyes come up to meet mine, and she shakes her head, begging me to ask her to stay, and god…I want to. I can’t bare it any more, and I touch her, grabbing her wrists, placing her fists on my body and running my hands to her shoulders, up her neck, under her eyes. I swipe away fast-falling tears, and she shakes her head, afraid.

“This is your shot. A real shot. Take it,” I say.

She shakes her head
no.
I nod mine
yes.
She collapses to my chest, and I hold her to me, rocking her slowly as my lips whisper “go” in her ear over and over. We remain like this for long minutes, and she never gives in; neither do I.

When I have to play through another mix, Murphy retreats to the corner again. She’s wearing her anxieties, their colors showing up all over her body—the grays deeper, her cheeks redder, her lips paler.

I fill my chest with the club’s dirty air and change the mood, letting sex and music meld into one, the thump deep and hard and felt in my bones. I set everything just right, and make sure I have time before smirking at my girl and luring her to me with the call of my finger. She leaves her things under her chair and comes to me quickly. The control I have over her isn’t good, and it’s the problem.

It ends now.

I lead her willing body down from my platform and into the crowd, and pull her to me close enough that I feel the curve of her ass against my body. I lower my head into her neck and taste her one last time, breathing deep to remember her perfect scent. If I do this right, I’ll need this memory in order to sleep again.

My hand starts at her thigh and runs up her leg, fingertips snagging the bunched silkiness of her dress on the way up. Her arms rise above her head automatically, and I follow the line, fingertips grazing the insides of her arms, and my mouth humming just behind her ear. I am temptation—Eve’s apple here for her to eat. I am nothing but a trap.

“Go to Nashville,” I say, and she shakes her head again.

“It’s too long. We’d never make it,” she says, her eyes on mine as she turns into me, and I circle my arms around her bare shoulders and tiny frame.

Thing is, if it were only going to be a few months, I would bet on us and convince her she’s wrong. But I know better. When Murphy leaves, she’s not coming back. She might not believe in herself, but I do. She’s going to be huge, and our run ends here in this club. Now. Because my life—at least for the foreseeable future—is here, with my mom, keeping that promise I made and seeing it through. Then keeping the one I made to myself and finally taking one of those leaps I talk so much about to other people.

Closing my eyes, I feel her one last time. I guide her hands into the air and move my body against her hips, my hands finding her waist when I know she’s lost to the dance, the sway taking over. We move together as one song shifts into another on my playlist, and from one heartbeat to the next, I step back, leaving nothing but our fingertips connected.

Her mouth parts as her head falls forward and her eyes land on mine. In a blink, what was moments ago a look of hunger, turns to lament.

“Go,” I say.

“I won’t,” she says.

I grimace and look down at my feet, searching for a better way to do this, but there just isn’t one. The more I beg the firmer she is about staying. Stubborn meets stubborn.

“I’ll make you,” I nod, not bringing my gaze up to hers completely.

“You can’t,” she says, and I laugh sadness. I’m sad because I can. I could walk up to the brunette grinding against her friend two feet away, high on ecstasy, and kiss her until Murphy hated me to the core. But I’m too selfish for her to hate me so much and for so long. I only want her to hate me a little.

“I just want what’s best for you, Murphy. You’ll regret not trying,” I say, one last attempt.

Her head shake comes fast and her smile seems so sure.

“I’m happy where I am,” she says, falling back into me. I take her because I’m weak. I hold her for the rest of the night and let her believe she’s won. I kiss her and memorize every curve and scent, and I don’t ask her to go again. She’ll only say
no
.

But I will make her go. And she’ll hate me a little…at first.

I can live with that.

Not a single call.

No visits.

When I go to his apartment, he’s never there, and I can’t bring myself to drive to his mother’s house. They’re mourning; he’s mourning. That’s what I’ve told myself for days. I pictured it finally hitting him, the weight of everything, and then I only wanted to find him more. I started calling, and those calls were unanswered. They were unreturned.

They were unwanted.

Those terrible thoughts continue to mix in with the good ones and battle for dominance. One minute I believe he hates me, the next…I hate him.

I don’t leave messages. He can see it’s me. I have nothing to say, really, other than “Stop!” He’s shutting me out. He said he would make me leave, and I didn’t believe him, but I’m at a crossroads, and for the first time since falling in love with Casey Coffield, I’m considering choosing something else.

I let the week play out. I drove to the club, knowing he’d be there. But when my name wasn’t on the list of guests to enter early, I knew. I think I knew the last time his lips were on mine days ago that he was saying goodbye. But I just kept saying “No.”

I’m not sure when
no
changed to
yes,
but it did.

The only thing I’ve gotten from him is a single text.

Go. We won’t survive it if you don’t.

I texted back the opposite—over and over. He never replied again.

The phone rings twice before someone answers, and I’m shell-shocked and afraid sitting in the parking lot of my school—the one I just put in my notice at. Somehow, I speak anyway, and I don’t stutter—not once.

“Hi, it’s Murphy Sullivan, and I’d like to take you up on your offer. I can be in Nashville in two weeks.”

His response is warm and melts like butter. “I can’t wait for our future, Miss Sullivan. I suggest you bring your lawyer along to make sure we do this right.”

My eyes fall closed and my chest deflates; I’m not scared, but I’m also not happy. This feels nothing like it did the first time. I only wish I could talk to Casey about it.

But then I wouldn’t be doing this if he were here.

“
Y
our sisters are going
to be the death of me. Really…truly. I can’t take them. And I can take anything. But they’re constant. They never go away. And oh my god, their opinions—which,
hello!
Are like, maybe the worst opinions in the history of perspectives ever…”

I chuckle to myself as I carry the last box to the back room of what is now officially my business office. Paige has been a godsend, which I will never say out loud. More than her design skills—and ability to bargain with the property owner to get me something I could afford—she has been a defense against my siblings.

Like my father, they all have opinions on this risk I’m taking. They disagree with the location, with the structural integrity of the building, with the proximity to the railroad tracks. Christina didn’t like the contract for the building, but I shook her advice off. Really, this shithole in the warehouse district is the only thing I can afford, and it’s going to be the only thing I can buy for a long time. I was tired of waiting, and if I’d held out for the ten years it would take for me to save for the type of property my sister found acceptable, I would no longer be relevant to the music industry.

Relevant.

I shake my head and clear that word. John Maxwell called me relevant, but last I read, he was being sued for plagiarism by at least twenty-seven artists from other labels. Murphy’s name wasn’t one of them, but only because the law turns a blind eye to what he did to her song—crooked and unethical, but legal on the dotted line.

“I sent them home. I did. I just told them to get out,” Paige says, leaning against the arched doorway to my office space and holding one shoe while she stretches the arch of her foot on the floor. There’s a smudge of cream paint on her cheek, and I motion my hand to it.

“You’ve got a little something,” I say, and she wipes her hand on her face, only making it bigger. I laugh and scratch at my neck, shaking my head. She scowls and marches to the file cabinet drawer where her purse is stored, pulling out a small makeup mirror to see for herself.

“Shit, Casey. That’s paint,” she says.

“I told you…”

“You told me I had
a little something.
A little something is like an eyelash or a crumb, not fucking latex,” she says, licking her thumb and rubbing the drying smudge on her skin.

She exhales and lets her hand fall to the side, dried paint and a red cheek now left behind. “Are we done here for today?” she sighs.

I chuckle and nod. “Yeah, I think I’m going to spend some time getting files set up. The sound guys are coming tomorrow for the equipment installs, and I want to have everything ready so they can bust that out in a day…” I say, realizing she’s now standing at the door with her purse pulled tightly over her arm, staring at me.

“So we’re done. I can go,” she confirms, clearly not interested in my evening plans.

“Yeah, you can go,” I smile.

She spins before I’m even done speaking and holds her hand up over her head.

“Bye,” she throws in.

I hear her heels click down the hallway and the door opens and closes with the sound of a small set of bells tied to the handle. This is the first time I’ve been here alone. It’s not the old gas station, but it also doesn’t cost a million dollars and come with underground oil wells that would need some serious time, money, and attention. I looked at fifteen, maybe twenty different properties, and this one was dead last. I almost crossed it off the list. But then the address caught my eye.

Murphy Lane.

I’ve never been big on reading into symbolism, or maybe I’ve never slowed down long enough to pay attention. This street, though—it was too obvious to ignore. I drove up with my realtor and something settled in my chest.

The street is ordinary, and, according to the Coffield sisters, it’s “horribly unsafe.” But I disagree. My mother did, too. There isn’t a lot of traffic, sure, but there’s a certain peacefulness here. There’s a distillery next door to me and the two large warehouses across the street are up for sale. There’s been some talk about converting them into music venues, and I’ve even reached out to one of the owners about lending my time there if he decides to go the club route.

When I saw this space, I saw a neighborhood on the verge. My sisters pointed out that neighborhoods have people, but my mom was quick to defend, saying this one has ghosts. My sisters pounced on that, but I got what she meant. There’s a spirit about this place. I’m here at just the right time.

I pull a few files from the last box I carried in and set them on my desk. I don’t have much yet, only some prospective contracts to work with a few people on demos and some editing work to remaster for some small labels who learned about me from Noah, but it’s a start. I have to work out my advertising plan, and it’s going to need to be thin on dollars and fat on creativity. But so far, the grassroots word of mouth has been paying the bills along with a few weekend gigs every month.

My mother brought my father’s painting by this morning. I kept it turned around against the wall in the corner of my office, not wanting it to become a conversation piece for the rest of my family just yet. My sisters won’t know what it is, though I’m sure they’ll recognize it’s of our mother. The symbolism is deeper for me, though, and that’s why she gave it to me. It’s like righting my father’s path and making amends for the passions he missed out on, though I’ve come to terms with the fact that in his own way, he was very happy and satisfied. I just wish he could have been proud. My mom says that somewhere he is, but I doubt that. And it’s okay.

I lift the painting from the ground and test a few places along the wall where I think it would look best, deciding on the space by the doorway, across from my desk. I’ll see it daily, and it will renew me with determination.

I make a small mark on the wall with a pencil, then tuck my writing tool between my teeth and hold the painting with one hand and a hammer in the other as I step from my office in search of a nail. I don’t expect to run into an angel, but when I do, I halt and take every bit of her in.

“It was unlocked,” Murphy says, her voice the same as the last time we spoke, when she told me she was happy where she was and I knew she wasn’t really.

I spit the pencil out on the floor to free my lips. She laughs. My chest fills up.

Home.

“I’m glad it’s you and not one of the vagrants my sisters swear are going to come in here and loot the joint,” I say, my eyes not blinking, not leaving her face. I’m taking a thousand pictures in my mind.

She laughs again at my words, and it’s that familiar laugh, the one that comes from knowing the truth behind the little things. She knows my sisters.

“I’m pretty sure I was the only person out on the street a minute ago. This place,” she says, looking around at my humble headquarters. Half-painted and torn-up floors, it isn’t much to look at yet, but the vision is starting to come together. She grins when her gaze lands back on me. “It’s hard to find, but wow…Casey.”

Hearing her say my name is like a dream. Maybe she’s a ghost.

“I know…it’s rough. Paige is helping, and she’s got plans for just about every wall in this place, and I’ve got a few clients lined up. Business will come,” I shrug.

“I know it will. I saw the article in the paper. Mom sent it to me,” she says. “And this building…I see it. It’s good it’s hidden. Only the right people will find it.”

“Exactly,” I say.

There’s a pause—a beautiful one—after she compliments me. I live in it and revel in her beautiful face and the silence and her smile. Looking to the side, I search for a place to set down the painting and hammer, deciding on a box filled with plastic sheeting and paint supplies.

“I heard your single,” I say, and her eyes brighten. She’s nervous, afraid I won’t approve. How could I not. “They’re playing it on heavy rotation on the country station here. Your brother…” I start, falling away into an “ahh” at my slip.

“You’ve been talking to Lane,” she says, her smile falling a hint as suspicion and questions come into her eyes. I’m a little surprised he’s kept it a secret, but then again, he promised he would.

I breathe in deeply.

“I have,” I say.

I missed her. And I missed her family. I let two months go without a word, but I knew she had gone. I kept in touch with Noah, just enough to make sure this time, things went as they should for her. I knew they would though. He’s class. I stopped by her parents’ house one afternoon on my way to a club opening in St. Louis. Lane answered the door, and before I knew it I was at the dinner table being fed and listening to stories about crazy renters and how the football team has decided Lane is lucky, so they insist he leads them out on the field. My cheeks hurt from smiling that night. It had been so long since I had a reason to, I was afraid I didn’t remember how. I didn’t care that I was five hours behind schedule in hitting the road. I skipped sleep in return for time with them. Lane’s been texting and calling ever since. Hell, at this point, I think he calls me more than Houston does.

“We’re kind of like…bros,” I say, taking a fist to my chest, my mouth twisted in a smirk.

She laughs lightly because I’m ridiculous. Her eyes fall to where my hand touched my heart, and I wonder if she can see how fast it’s beating?

“Lane loves your song,” I say, clearing my throat and rolling my shoulders to get feeling in my fingers again. I scratch at the side of my face and try to hide the fact that I’m looking at her. I’m studying her, looking for changes—the effects of fame. She’s only on the brink, but that fame is here. She’s still the same girl though—nails polished, but chipped, hair fading, but purple, clothes lost somewhere between country and rock.

“It’s his birthday, you know,” she says.

“Real? Or half?” I tease.

She bites her lip, leaning her head as she walks a few steps into the front room, running her finger along the dusty windowsill. “Are you saying half birthdays aren’t real, Casey Coffield?” she accuses. It’s flirty, the way she talks, and my heart pounds harder. God, I miss this girl.

“I wouldn’t dare say such a thing,” I say, shaking my head for a slow
no
. She can have any birthday she wants—a million birthdays. A year’s worth. I would shower her with gifts. “And no, I didn’t know it was his birthday. I’m surprised he hasn’t told me—Lane’s a talker.”

She giggles, nodding in agreement.

“You can come to the party…if you want. It’s tomorrow. You know the drill—cake and Ghostbusters,” she says.

“My favorite combo,” I chuckle. I rest my weight on the wall opposite of her, and it’s quiet again.

I breathe. She breathes. Our eyes dance, but we hold our tongues. I didn’t know seeing her again would be so hard, but then, there hasn’t been anyone since she’s been gone. I’ve been driven, and nobody else has what she had. The focus has been good for me, but now, all I want is her to distract me every day.

“You look good, Casey.”

She says my name again, and I feel it in my chest.

“You…” I begin, stopping and letting my mouth curve into a slow smile as I stare at her long enough to watch her neck and face blush from my attention. I look down to my feet, my chin tucked to my chest as my hands find my pockets to hide how nervous I am. I look up at her with a sideways glance, and smile like a fool. “Well you’re as beautiful as you’ve always been. But a little more so. You look…you look happy.”

Her eyes crinkle, and eventually she breathes out a laugh.

“I am happy,” she says.

“I’m glad,” I answer, feeling the waves of adrenaline roll through my insides. I knew I’d see her again, but I also knew I would never be prepared. I was right. I’m not.

“I should go,” she says, her words hesitant, her feet still here despite them. She doesn’t want to leave, but she should—she’s on her way. Or maybe she’s already there. Perhaps she
is
the destination now. I’m still in the beginning, trying to figure out how to fly.

I swallow my nerves.

“I’ll walk you out,” I say.

I lead her to the door, pushing it all the way open, noticing the bells on the ground outside that must have fallen when Paige left. I chuckle to myself and pick them up, looping them over the doorknob. This is how my muse snuck up on me.

She’s paused a step or two away from me, and I wonder if I look as afraid and unsure as she does. She glances over her shoulder to her car parked a few yards away along the side of the road, then turns back to me.

“I think I can find my way. But maybe I’ll see you? For Lane?”

I hear her, but I don’t answer right away. I’m too busy counting the freckles that stretch from one side of her smile to the other. When I meet her grays, I fall all over again.

“You will,” I say, “for Lane.”

For you.

Always for you.

She smiles and nods, and her timid fingers form a delicate wave before she finds the courage to step into me and touch my face with her small but gifted hands, pressing her lips to my cheek as old friends do when it’s been a while.

But we aren’t friends. And with every step she takes further from me, the more my chest breaks open and reason and logic fly from our picture. I’m here. She’s seven hundred miles away. None of that matters though, because it only takes me a dozen steps and a single heartbeat to catch her before her hands reach for her car door. My fingers wrap around familiar shoulders as Murphy stops everything, dropping her keys from her hands while her body trembles.

“Casey,” she whimpers, and my lips fall to the back of her head as I breathe her in with closed eyes. I’ve missed her so much. I can’t do this. I can’t, because I’m selfish. I need her.

“Don’t go,” I say before I know any better, and I squeeze my eyes closed hard, hating that I will have to take this all back. And I will, because that’s what’s right, but I still have to say it. I have to, because I mean it. It’s the only real truth there is, and I can’t not let her hear how much I struggle when we’re apart.

“Why,” she says, turning slowly in my arms. Her hands find the center of my chest, and her eyes square on the small diamond shape on my shirt as if it’s a shield for my heart. Her fingers grasp at the fabric as she slowly looks up at me, honest eyes that have missed me too. “Why did you make me go?”