In Your Dreams (Falling #4) (7 page)

“Oh…oh no you don’t,” I start, my heart beating hard as I put my palm flat on his chest, which is…hot. It’s warm, I mean. But it’s also hot. And hard. And really big and immovable. My eyebrows narrow, and I push harder as his arms fall to his sides and his thumbs find his pockets. “What are you, like a bouncer on the side? Were you always this…big?”

I look up realizing what I said and the right side of his mouth ticks up.
Jedi dimple.
I roll my eyes in response.

“Stocky,” I say, my lips pursed. “I meant stocky. And…pushy. I definitely mean pushy.”

“Just hear me out,” he says, stepping closer to me. My eyes dart erratically from side to side. I’m willing to scream for help if I have to. He senses my panic and holds his palms up on either side of his face, a small flash drive between his right thumb and forefinger. My eyes zoom in on it. “I meant every word I said on your porch, Murphy. I can’t change what you think of me, or shit…anything I may or may not have done to earn that reputation with you. But the fact remains that you have a talent, and whether you like it or not, so do I. And mine—it complements yours. In the best possible way. You’re special, Murphy Sullivan. I can make you believe it.”

Goddamn it; that was some speech. My eyes leave his just enough to take in the flash drive he’s now holding out for me to take. I’m skeptical. But I’m also curious, so I pull it into my fingers carefully. As Casey lets go, a heavy breath escapes him.

“What is this? Is this…a bribe?” I say, one eye smaller than the other.

“No, it’s proof,” he says quickly.

I twist my lips and squeeze the drive in my palm, sliding it into the front pocket of my dress. It’s my navy blue fifties dress, and I wore my hair up in twists tonight. I wanted to feel like a pinup, I guess, but somehow now I only feel vulnerable. I think it’s the cologne’s fault.

“Proof, huh?” I say, pressing my shoulder blades as flat to the wall as I can, trying to buy space. Casey notices and takes another small stride back, pushing his hands into the pockets of his dark blue jeans. I notice his shoes when I look down—PF Flyers, green ones. He taps his right toe out and back, and I chuckle.

“I’ve had them since high school,” he says, his grin lopsided.

I nod in response, but the thing is—I remember. I’ve watched those shoes take center stage every chance they got. I’ve watched them get the laugh, watched them get the girl, and watched them break her heart. I’ve also watched them walk right by without stopping. I never really cared, though I always thought they were kind of awesome shoes. They’re still awesome. And now, the toes are pointed right at my Mary Janes.

“It’s a demo. Of you. But…in a way that will make people—the
right
people—take notice,” he says, tapping his toe again and bringing my eyes to his.

“Demo,” I repeat, flipping the small square drive around in my palm, which is buried in the pocket at my side.

“One listen. When you get home. That’s all I’m asking,” he says, using that same tone—the one that I swear to god is honest and real. If not, then I’m a fool. Please don’t let me be a fool.

“One listen,” I say in agreement. His mouth curves the moment I nod. I’ve made him happy, which makes me feel nervous and sick.

“You won’t regret it,” he says, kicking his foot forward just enough to nudge the tip of my shoe. It startles me and my heart skips, but I hide it from him.

He walks over to his seat and settles in next to Houston, and I watch them talk for a few minutes while Steph finishes her set. I’m up next, and my mouth is completely dry. I feel my hand in my pocket for the small plastic device that I’m terrified to listen to, yet dying to race home to play.

“Can I get a water?” I ask at the bar, guzzling it down the second the waitress rests the glass on the napkin, my other hand never leaving my pocket and
the proof.

I give Steph a nod as she walks down from the stage, and I step up to the stool for my set for the night. I adjust the mic and fix the strap of my guitar around my neck. I close my eyes briefly with my back to the crowd—to Casey—and draw in a deep breath through my nose.

You’re special.
Damn it if he doesn’t make me believe it just a little.

I smile as I turn around, even though it’s fake and plastered on. I’m hiding my nerves with extra work tonight. Sometimes, the act is harder.

“Thanks for coming out tonight,” I say, the sound of my own voice in the mic just as startling to my ears as it always is. My eyes settle on my muse—though I swore he wasn’t, he barged his way into the role, just like he does with everything. Green PF Flyers on a boy who demands my attention.

The crowd grows quieter, and I clear my throat lightly. Let’s see how brave I can be.

“This one’s called ‘In Your Dreams, Casey Coffield.’
”

“
D
ude
, I think maybe you need to quit stalking her at this point,” Houston says. I have the phone tucked between my cheek and shoulder, and it’s giving me a cramp, but I need to lock my car.

I finally claimed my new Craigslist chariot—a 1989 Volkswagen Rabbit. It’s hideous; the locks are old-school push buttons that require keys in holes and shit. It smells like a lawnmower when I drive. I fucking love it.

“This is the last time I show up on her unannounced; I swear,” I lie. If she turns me down after hearing the sample I made her, there’s no way I’m quitting. In the few days that have passed since I gave her that thumb drive, I’ve mixed two more versions of the song about me.

Houston thinks I have a God complex because I like that I’m the hook in the song, but that’s not it. Her voice is meant to be the center of everything. She’s like one of those singers where you hear them on some awards show one day acoustically and your mind is blown. I like the mix I made last the best, and I want her to hear it. I raced over here the second it was done rendering, and I dumped it on my phone. Houston just happened to catch me leaving my apartment on my way.

“Good luck, man. I have a feeling you’re going to need it,” he chuckles just as I knock twice on her front door.

“You’re supposed to believe in me, asshole,” I grimace to myself.

“Oh, I believe in your talent. It’s the dumb shit you do in your free time I’m not on board with,” he laughs.

“Ha ha,” I say, crudely before hanging up in time for a guy—
maybe he’s a boy?—
with messy blond hair and glasses to swing the door wide open.

“Who are you? Are you selling something? We don’t take sol…solis...we don’t want it.” He fires questions right out of the gate. I can tell by the slight lisp and trouble with his speech that he has some kind of disability.

“I’m Casey. I’m friends with Murphy?” I say tentatively. His face lights up the second I speak my name, though.

“Casey Coffield?” he asks.

Shit, she’s really made me famous. At least, in her circle.

“That’s me,” I smile.

He begins laughing, clapping his hands a few times and pushing the door the remaining few inches so it’s opened completely.

“Murphy is working on her face in her room. Come with me. I’ll take you to her,” he says.

I quirk a brow, but my new friend is letting me in, so I don’t question him out loud. I shut the door behind me and think about how he might have let just about anybody in if they said the right name, and it makes me worry a little about Murphy’s safety.

“Murphy!” I think this is her brother. I recognize the way he’s yelling; it’s how I used to call out my sisters’ names.

There’s no answer, so he pushes a door down the hallway open and steps into what must be her room, judging by sheets of music scattered on the floor, an open guitar case and stench of nail polish. I’m a few steps behind him when he starts swaying back and forth and giggling. I understand why when I step through the doorway, too.

Her purple hair is twisted in knots on either side of her head, and there’s a small white bandage across her nose. But that’s not what has me rapt. She’s literally bouncing where she sits, her head bobbing like a drum to whatever beat is pumping loudly in the headphones she has looped under her chin and pressed to her ears with both palms. She’s in a musical nirvana, and it’s both sweet and familiar. Every now and then, she mouths a sound, but never a lyric. She’s into the music of whatever this is—not the words.

We both watch her for a solid twenty seconds before her eyes flutter open at the floor. Her head moves just enough to catch our shadows, though, and she jumps to the center of her bed, bringing her knees in and tossing the heavy headphones at us.

“Lane! Oh my god. Casey! What is he doing here?” Her eyes widen in a flash, dashing between the two of us, and then she freezes, her eyes crossing as they take in whatever the hell is on her nose. She slaps her hand over her face, cupping it.

“Get out!” she shouts, standing, and shooing at us both.

“I’m sorry, Murphy,” Lane says, sounding worried and sad.

“He was just helping me find you,” I say, holding a hand up and glancing from Lane, who’s leaving her room. He looks upset.

“Yeah, well, you did. Imagine that; you found me in my own house,” she says, her voice super pissed off and irritated.

“Hey,” I say, leaning with one arm over her doorway, blocking her escape. She still has her hand over her nose, but I can see her mouth. It’s a straight line. I look into her eyes, and they are definitely on fire, but I glance over my shoulder again—to where Lane has now rounded the corner—and look back at her to find a hint of sympathy creeping in.

She steps on her tippy toes and looks over my arm, sighing at the empty hallway.

“I’m sorry, Lane!” she shouts. “You just scared me. I’m not mad.”

Her eyes come back to me, and she deflates a little more.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, bending her pinky finger up so she can speak under her hand.

“I came to find out if you’ve listened yet. To the demo? I haven’t heard from you, and I’m kind of anxious. Plus, I made a few more…” She cuts me off.

“You made more?” she sighs.

“Wow, so…you must have really hated the first one?” I question, frankly a little surprised. Even if the dance vibe isn’t her taste, that cut was good. There was something in there for everyone to like.

“I haven’t heard it,” she finally responds with a shrug before switching the hand that covers her nose.

“Are you kidding me? That’s it; you’re listening now. And instead, I want you to hear this one,” I start, pulling my phone from my pocket. “Headphones?”

I hold my hand out, but she only crosses her arms over her chest.

“I guess I could just play it, but it sounds better right in your ears. The sound is richer,” I say, thumbing to the file on my recording app.

“Casey, I’m not interested. This thing I do, it’s not like you think. It’s a hobby, and really…I don’t want anything more from it,” she says.

Her words stop me. Not because she’s rejecting me or my help, but because of the tone in her voice. She’s lying. I recognize it—I spent a lifetime pretending I was all right with my path, and my voice sounded the same way when I told people I was going to be an engineer. Music was my hobby too. Because I was afraid to say I wished it was more out loud. Her words sound just as painful and rehearsed. I bite the tip of my tongue and engage her in a stare off, and eventually she nods her head slightly and blinks her gaze away from mine.

“What’s up with your nose?” I ask, changing topics. I’m going to try Houston’s advice and be a little
less me.

“I was cleaning my pores,” she sighs, taking a few steps back into her room, away from the door. She’s wearing this old-fashioned dress that looks like something from a barn dance in the fifties, and as she falls back to sit on the edge of her bed, she reaches with one hand and tucks the plaid ruffles of the skirt under one knee. She’s like this jazzy little Dolly Parton mixed with Adele. God, I want to make her famous.

Keeping my eyes on hers, I tilt my head to one side and smirk. I stare at her until she grows suspicious of me; I look at her until she feels me looking at her and has to turn away again.

“I use soap and water,” I say. It makes her laugh once, quietly. This laugh sounds almost as nice as the notes she sings. Probably because for once, she isn’t laughing at me.

“It’s a Bioré strip,” she says, finally pulling her hand away from her face to tap on her nose. The surface sounds solid, so I hold my hand up cautiously and raise my chin, asking permission to touch her face. She scrunches her brow, but eventually shrugs.

“Sure, go ahead,” she says. I take my finger and touch the very tip of her nose, running it up the bridge and then down one side. The band is hard like plastic.

“Those things actually work?” I ask, quirking a brow.

“You’d be shocked,” she says, her lips curved in a tight and timid smile. She’s so damned cautious around me. That’s why she won’t listen to the recordings—because they came from
me.

“So that’s like…what? A sticker?” I ask, moving closer in small, planned steps until I’m able to sit on the floor next to her bed.

“It’s more like a cast, but yeah—sticker works too. It yanks all the crap out of your pores,” she says, tugging on the corner of the one stuck to her nose lightly, peeling slowly until her skin is free, leaving only the pink outline of where the strip had been on her face. “See?” she says, holding it toward me in her palm.

I lean forward and glance at it. It doesn’t look like much to me, so I shrug.

“Believe me, there’s a ton of dirt on there,” she says, holding it up to her eyes and glancing at it from the side. “Come look.”

I do as she says, sitting up on my knees, and I look out over the surface of the small strip and see a few raised bumps of dirt, but it doesn’t take long for my eyes to meet her gray ones across from me. Her pupils flare, and she glances away, dropping her hand.

“No way my nose is that dirty,” I say, trying to hook her and make her forget how uncomfortable she is all at once.

“I bet it’s worse,” she laughs, standing and moving toward her small trashcan where she drops the strip inside.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s bet.”

She turns to me, her lip quirked on the side, her eyes narrowed. Her feet are bare, and they’re tiny and cute. Her toes are painted pink. I need her to listen to this demo before I forget why I’m here and start hitting on her.

“You put one of those thingies on my face, and if I have less pore junk on it than you did, you have to listen to the demo I made,” I say.

This is a stupid bet. I sound desperate, but I don’t think I care how I sound. I may very well be desperate. She holds my sightline for a beat, her mouth twisting, and her tongue pushing into the inside of her cheek.

“And if
I
win?” she asks.

“Then I’ll head out of here and quit popping in for surprise visits like this,” I say, knowing full well that I won’t stop, but also secretly hoping that my morning shower cleaned my face good enough to win this really weird bet.

“Lane!” she yells, her eyes still locked on mine. I start to smirk, because she’s going to take my wager, which means I’ve got at least five more minutes to talk her into trusting me.

A few seconds pass and soon I hear footsteps coming down the hallway along with a slight pant. “I was watching my show. What do you want?” Lane says, sniffling into his sleeve.

“Casey and I have a bet, and I need you to be the judge,” she smirks. I nod, because it’s fair. I also know there’s no way I’m leaving without getting my way.

“I can do that,” he says, moving into the room and sitting on the floor between us.

“We’ll be right back then,” she says, standing and nudging over her shoulder for me to follow.

I start to, but stop at the inside of her door when she’s just out of earshot, and lean down toward Lane. “We got this one, right buddy?” I say, holding out knuckles for Lane to pound. He does and laughs, but my plan falls flat instantly.

“You’re on your own. I’m the judge, and we have to remain impartial,” he says.

Shit.

“Right…right,” I smile, tongue in cheek while nodding.

I turn back to the hallway where Murphy is waiting for me, a hand on her hip, at the bathroom door.

“My brother is not a cheater,” she says flatly.

“So I’ve learned,” I admit.

Her eyes narrow on me, and she puts her small hand on my back, pushing me into the bathroom. Her fingers are cold through my T-shirt, enough so that when she pulls her hand away, I can remember where every single finger touched me.

“Sit,” she says, pointing to the edge of the tub.

She turns on the sink, running hot water for several minutes over a small washcloth as she pulls out a new strip from the box. She lines everything up, then shuts the water off, stepping in front of me with the cloth in her hand.

“I need to steam open your pores,” she says, moving toward my face.

“How hot is that…ah…oww…never mind,” I wince as she holds the cloth over my nose, pressing into the skin as her other hand cradles the back of my neck. The smile on her face is slightly sinister, and I think she might enjoy torturing me.

This process is deeply clinical, but I’m also enjoying her hands firmly on me. I tell myself it’s because she seems comfortable, which is ultimately good for me getting her to listen to my demo. But that’s not it at all. I just like her hands on my neck, and her eyes on me. And I like her pink toes and twisty hair. I think maybe I’m smitten.

She releases her hold briefly, and I watch every movement of her hands as they pick up the strip and press it against my skin, her fingertips massaging it around my nose. I don’t care how ridiculous I must look. I hope it’s crooked and she has to do it again because I like the way her touch feels—which goes completely against my mission.

I stand quickly when she gets the strip in place and move out from the front of her, toward the mirror, toward fresh air. My head feels weird, and I’m definitely not in control. She is. That much is probably evident by the piece of plaster I let her slap on my face. I’ve gone from
less
Casey to pussy Casey.

“So how long does it take?” I ask, glancing at her reflection. We stare at each other like this for a breath, and I’m the first to have to look away.

Yep. Not in control.

“Five, maybe ten minutes,” she says, busying herself with cleaning up after our facial experiment. She pauses in front of me, the small box in her hands, and I reach for it on instinct, my fingers tangling with hers.

“I can put it away,” she says, shaking her head quickly and blinking again. That’s her nervous trait, and she’s done it twice since I’ve been here.

We both walk back to her room, neither of us dominant. Lane is now holding the headphones to his ears and bouncing on the bed just as Murphy was when we walked in on her. She moves to take the spot next to him and leans her head against his, just enough to hear the beat in the earpiece, and she begins to sing.