In Your Dreams (Falling #4) (3 page)

“You want me to ask my mom to babysit Leah, so I can go spy on some mystery girl who hates you so much she wrote a song about you?”

Yes, he gets it!

I nod.

He sighs.

“Please?” I say, leaning forward with my head in my hands, my lips pouty. His brow lowers more and he makes a sick face. This method isn’t working.

“I’ll pay you,” I say. His brow raises a tick. “I’ll give you half of tonight’s paycheck. It’ll be like when you have to come assist me with my equipment, only instead…”

“Instead, I’ll be stalking some Internet obsession,” he fills in.

“Exactly,” I say.

He leans back on the doorframe, and I know that means he’s considering it.

“I’ll have to borrow my mom’s car, because well…you’re borrowing mine, remember?” I didn’t think about that.

“Yeah, you’ll need to do that,” I agree. Better to just agree with his plan rather than open room for argument. He opens his mouth for a second then shuts his lips tight in a line. His eyes are closing. He’s on the fence.

“Five hundred bucks,” I lie, feeling my gut burn a little because I’m getting fifteen hundred tonight, and I promised him half. I hold it in, and eventually he agrees. I’m an asshole, but I need the cash.

“What do you want me to do when I’m there? You want me to talk to her or…I don’t know, get her number?” he laughs.

I don’t.

“Just listen, maybe record more of her set. And if there’s a contact card or something, or she’s selling CDs? I don’t know…pick something up. I just need to get more info, and if I don’t know her—she’s talented, and maybe she’s the first artist I could help or maybe…” I trail off, twisting my computer back around and slamming it closed.

Houston watches me for a few seconds, but eventually nods and laughs out an “a’right” before going back to his work. There’s something alluring about this chick, but I know it’s probably just the fact that she somehow knows me or there’s a really fucked up coincidence happening. But she is talented. And I do want to get into recording and producing. I didn’t get a chance to break the news to my mom today, because of my father, but starting Monday, I won’t be a student at McConnell any more. I’ve officially withdrawn. I know the fact that I’m walking away with only a semester left on my degree for some pipe dream will disappoint both of my parents, but it feels right. And maybe there’s some small part of me that sees the fantasy playing out to an end where I get to show my family how successful I am—and they’re proud.

John Maxwell heard me at one of my shows a few weeks ago and liked what I was mixing with some of his artists, so I’m taking an internship with his label. He said he was looking for ways to bring more of his indie folk vibe into the clubs, to reach the younger crowd with some of his
quieter
artists, and he thought I might be up for the challenge.

Quiet isn’t exactly what I do, but there was no way in hell I was passing up on a job with John Maxwell. Plus, it pays a little, too. And I can learn how to deal with quiet.

Mystery girl—she’s quiet. Yeah.

I pull my phone out to watch the video one more time and notice the message notification from my sister’s call earlier. I stare at it for a few seconds and consider putting it off, but she’ll just call back, so I press PLAY and settle into the metal chair, ready for my reprimand.

“Case…hey. It’s Chrissy. You’re probably in the car, or work or…whatever. Listen, you need to call me. Case, it’s Dad. He…he has cancer. And he doesn’t have long.”

Her message just ends.

Like a boot to my chest.

I wait to feel it.

For the next thirty minutes, I sit in the back room while my friend finishes his shift, my phone balanced between my thumbs and forefingers in the same spot it was when I played the message. I don’t play it again. I don’t need to. It was short. There isn’t much left to be said—no questions unanswered. Nothing more I need to know.

My father is dying.

It doesn’t change a thing.

It probably should, but it just…doesn’t.

I
guess
it was just a matter of time before someone I recognized turned up at one of my shows.

Shows—I say that like I put on shows. I sign up—for space at open-mic nights—on legal notepads with beer rings on them. I get to
show
off my talent. It’s good enough though. At least for now, until I grow my confidence and I figure out how to perform somewhere where people can see me while I sing.

That’s the other reason I picked Paul’s. It’s busy here, and the people are more interested in having date nights and enjoying a few drinks after the busy week. It’s kind of cosmopolitan for the type of music I play, but they keep letting me write my name on the sheet of paper every week, so they must not completely hate what I do on the stage. As long as it’s dim in here, and I can afford to keep this up, I’ll keep taking that open slot the second they put the paper down on the bar after the weekend show.

There’s that word again—
show.

I wonder if Houston still hangs out with Casey? I’m sure that’s why he’s here. I was pretty freaked out when my brother posted that video on YouTube last week. I’m not ready for that much…
public
, I guess? I want to get better first. One more year.

That’s what I said last year.

Lane’s been dying to come see me perform though, and I made sure he had a decent seat last week. Sam sat with him, and he was excited to impress her with the new tricks he learned with his video app on his phone. And of course, she indulged him, probably encouraged him a little, too. My best friend thinks I’m ready. She has for years.

Maybe I am.

Perhaps Houston showing up tonight is a good way to test things—to see if I fall apart with someone I
know
watching. I go on second; I won’t have to wait long. Of course, I’ve been pacing in the back like a wolf waiting for my prey to weaken so I can go in for the attack. I should probably just go talk to him now, get it over with.

My feet betray me—in cahoots with my streaming thoughts, it seems—because I’m steps away from him when he leans forward, resting his folded hands on the table in front of him and leaning in to hear something from the waitress.

“Water’s fine,” he says.

“And your date?” The waitress gives me away, and Houston twists in his seat to make eye contact, his brow bunched in confusion.

“Oh, no…I’m not. I was just saying hi,” my words already unsure and jumbled. I’m failing this test. Yep, not ready yet.

“But…I’d love a water,” I say quickly, raising my hand before she fully turns away. She nods and heads back to the kitchen, leaving me alone with my high school years…and an unsure feeling I’m really going to get that water my mouth now desperately needs.

Houston’s head tilts and his eyes squint with his smirk. I always liked him. Not in
that
way, but just in a he’s-a-decent-person kinda way. He’s scanning my face, digging in the depths to see if he can pull my name out of that old, dusty hat from adolescence. I don’t look very different. Maybe…older. And my hair is purple. But I’m still very much the same.

“Murphy,” I say, my mouth twisted into a pathetic half smile. I feel awkward for a few seconds until recognition hits him and his mouth curves into a full-on grin as he stands.

“No way!” he says, stepping into me. He’s going to hug me, which…oh god, I can’t avoid. I don’t hug. Ever. But, yeah…here we go. I’m hugging him in return. I pat the center of his back twice and step away—thankful he breaks his hold too.

“Wow, this is crazy. I haven’t seen you since…what? Graduation?” Houston says, returning to his seat and sliding the one out next to him. I glance down at it, and then back to the line of performers all pacing near the back. I should probably get back in line, but I don’t want to be rude, and maybe talking to him longer will make me more comfortable singing in front of him. I sit on the edge of the chair, nervously, and my eyes dart to the wall in the very back where my guitar still rests.

“Yeah, probably. How’s…” I pause, because I don’t think I ever really knew his child’s name. I just knew he had one. Everyone in our school knew his story. It was tragic. His girlfriend, Beth, got pregnant and died in a horrible car crash when their baby was an infant. Houston finished school as a single dad, and last I heard he was studying at McConnell. I don’t see many people from our high school any more, not since my parents moved to Archfield on the other side of the city. I live with them to help take care of my brother and teach music part time at the elementary school, at least until I find something more permanent.

“Leah,” Houston says, filling in the unknown for me. His expression shifts to something proud and warm. “She’s great. She’s starting kindergarten, which is…” He finishes that statement with a puff of air and high eyebrows. It makes me smile.

“I bet,” I say, glancing over his shoulder again at my guitar. Someone is standing near it, which makes me uneasy.

“So how are you? Do you still do that theater thing? Weren’t you into that stuff?” I smile through tight lips. I’m not sure why I’m hiding it, because he’s going to see me in about five minutes.

“I…did that in high school, yeah. I studied music in college, though. That’s what I was really into. Theater was just the only place it fit in our high school,” I chuckle. My gaze falls to my lap and twisting fingers.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Houston says, leaning forward again, staring at his own hands folded together on the tabletop. He pats his thumbs together, but freezes after a few seconds, and his head tilts up toward me. “So you’re…singing here tonight?”

I nod
yes
, and my stomach flips, rumbling inside with the threat of a volcano.

“You…play here often?” he asks, leaning in his seat, stretching out one arm over the back.

“Lately, yeah,” I say.

He’s heard the song. There’s no way he hasn’t heard the song. Which means…

“Actually, I’m on soon, so I’m gonna…” I nod my head to the side, toward my guitar, as I stand and push my chair back under the table.

Houston stands with me, and I make an internal wish on repeat that he doesn’t hug me again—or ask me about the song. I won’t be playing it tonight. And maybe, with a little luck, he’ll just assume it’s all a coincidence and go back to wherever it is he lives and not breathe a word of this to Casey Coffield.

“Yeah, I can’t wait to see you perform. Good luck, or…break a leg? I don’t know, is that a thing with music?” he says, pushing his hands in his pockets. Thank god he’s trapping his hands. I step back more and laugh nervously, shrugging.

“I think it works here. I appreciate it. Hope you enjoy the show,” I say.

Show—there’s that word again.

Murphy Sullivan.

The club is loud, so I can’t hear the video Houston just texted me. It’s her—the mystery girl. I recognize the way she sits in that stool. I don’t, however, recognize the name. Murphy Sullivan.

I write him back a series of question marks and wait for a response, but one doesn’t come, so I give up my investigation for the next hour while I blend pop songs with seventies disco for high college kids to grind to under the neon lights.

It’s a good gig. The club is called Ramp 33, and it’s built under the Exit 33 underpass outside the airport. I played here a month ago, and was out of my mind happy when they called me again for this weekend. The pay is ridiculous, and I’m hoping they like me enough to keep me for a while so I can replace my car. I might be able to get something decent with the money I make here, so I can start saving what I get from John Maxwell. I found an old Volkswagen Rabbit on Craigslist this morning, and I may be able to swing it with tonight’s paycheck if it’s still available.

It’s almost two in the morning when I finally pack up. There isn’t anything more from Houston, so when I get everything tucked into the back of his car, I lean on the trunk and play the video again.

The song is different. It’s a cover of Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.” I’ve heard this before—a lot of people cover it. She nails it, even though it isn’t original. That break in her voice, and the cool way she hits the guitar for rhythm—it’s all there.

“Murphy Sullivan,” I whisper her name. It’s literally meaningless to me.

I dial Houston as I pull out of the parking lot, and when it goes right to voicemail, I hang up and dial again. He picks up on the fifth ring.

“You’re such a prick,” he growls.

“Yeah, I know. But I needed to talk,” I say, glancing both ways at the red light and pulling through the intersection anyhow. It’s two in the morning; feels pointless to sit here for nobody.

“Case, we can talk in, like…four hours. When my alarm goes off. And I’m up for work,” he sighs.

“Dude, I won’t be up then. I’m up now,” I say.

“I hate you,” he says.

“Nah…you don’t,” I chuckle.

He doesn’t. If he hated me, he wouldn’t pick up the phone all the time. I know I’m an asshole for waking him up, but I’ve literally got nobody else. Houston—he’s my family, and my chest is all tight from spending the last six hours trying
not
to think about the phone call from my sister. When I think about that, I think about how little it hurts, and that scares the shit out of me, because I think maybe I’m broken. Or, maybe I really hate the man who gave me life—or maybe I really don’t have a home or a family, because I’m supposed to love those things above all, right?

“So did she play it? The song?” I ask, blinking to clear away other thoughts.

“I sent you what she played,” he yawns.

“Oh,” I respond. “So that was it? Just the one song?”

“I sent you the whole thing. But I talked to her. Crazy it’s Murphy, right? So…what’d you do to piss her off?” he says through a half laugh and cough.

“Huh, I have no idea,” I say, not finishing the statement that I also have no idea who the hell Murphy is. Houston catches on to my silence though.

“You know we went to school with her, right?” he says, his tone rising at the end. He’s going to give me shit.

“Oh yeah, yeah. Murph. Totally—she looks…a little different…” I swallow, not knowing if she’s different at all. Houston breaks into laughter in an instant.

I guessed wrong.

“She looks exactly the same, except for her hair might be a little longer, and it’s purple. You have no idea who I’m talking about, do you?” he chuckles.

“Dude, I don’t know. I knew a lot of people back in high school. I can’t remember everybody,” I say, pulling up slowly to another pointless stoplight. I give both sides a quick glance and then move on to the freeway ramp.

“Whatever, man. Our school graduated like…a hundred people. You just didn’t pay attention to girls unless they were interested in you,” he says.

“Uhm, that’s not true. I paid attention to Beth, and Logan Sheffield,” I say, throwing out the only chicks from our high school that I honestly really remember. Beth was Houston’s girl, and Logan had enormous tits and put out like crazy, so yeah…I remember her.

“No wonder Murphy wrote a song about you being an asshole,” he says, punctuating his words with a laugh. It’s a joke, but it kinda hurts.

“Fuck off,” I say. “It’s not that kind of song. Or…whatever, even if. Point is, she’s good. Did you get her number?”

“Shit,” he says. “No, I was too caught up in the fact that I knew her. We only talked for a few minutes. I bet her parents still live in that house though…”

“And that house would be…” I fill in, waiting for more direction.

“Well if you
remembered
her, then I guess you’d know,” he teases.

“Houston, come on. Where does she live?” I ask.

“I’ll show you tomorrow,” he chuckles. “You crashing here so I can have my car in the morning?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in half an hour. I’ll try not to wake you,” I say.

“Gee, thanks,” Houston says, laughing once more before hanging up.

Murphy Sullivan.

I hit PLAY on my phone in my lap and listen to her voice a few more times during my drive to Houston’s. It isn’t familiar. Nothing about her is familiar. But hell if she isn’t gifted. And fuck if I’m not obsessed.