In Your Dreams (Falling #4) (9 page)

She hesitates, and the battle she’s having with herself in front of me over giving me her number is making my palms sweat. You’d think I was some goddamn creeper praying on teens at the roller rink.

“Murphy, this is business for me too. Frankly, you’re not my type. So quit thinking I’m out to get you in bed and just give me your damn number,” I say, regretting it the second I see her eyes tear up and widen in a flash. I open my mouth to fix it, but then my brain kicks in, knowing it’s better leaving that line in place—despite how tactlessly I drew it. I shut my mouth and keep the million
I’m sorrys
begging to spill out tucked deep inside. I say one in my head, though, to the sad gray eyes that now look like they regret ever saying
yes
to me at all.

“Right,” she swallows. “Here,” she says, taking my phone back into her now trembling hands. She types her number nervously and sends herself a text.

“Good, now you have mine, too,” I say. She nods, but won’t fully look at me. This is what Houston was talking about when he said
too much Casey.
Though, the voice that came out of me…it kind of sounded like my father’s.

“I’ll call you when I’m done with class, and you can give me directions, or whatever,” she says, turning from me, flitting her hand over her shoulder as if our meeting again is no big deal. A voice in the back of my head tells me to rush over to her and grab her hand before she can take it away. My feet stay put.

In a matter of seconds, I’ve given this girl all the confidence in the world and stripped her of it just as fast. What a fucking asshole. I’m not even sure how to write this one down on my personal list of flaws. But I know it’s at the top.

“I’m looking forward to it,” I say, trying to sound softer. As if that can some how make up for my bad reaction to what was probably just her being nervous.

She nods, her lips tight. She’s gone back to giving me nothing. But she hasn’t changed her mind. This dream is bigger for her too, whether or not she wants to admit it. Our dreams are bigger than butterflies, so whatever it is that just happened—it’s probably for the best.

“Great, I’ll see you tomorrow then,” I say, backing out through her door, patting the frame once. I pause waiting to see if she looks my way one last time. She doesn’t. My chest burns a little.

I can hear the television on some travel show in the living room as I pass, her brother repeating things, almost as if he’s making a mental list of the many places he’d like to go. I wonder what life is like in this house when it’s full; when her parents are home, too? I bet there’s even more of this feeling—of family. I wonder if it’s always felt so beautiful, and full of simple joys. I wonder if that feeling will come back for Murphy the second I leave.

I hope so. I hope I’m not stealing it from her by taking her voice. I’ll give it back when I’m done. I swear it; I’ll give it all back.

I’m not sure how much of me I’m going to lose in the meantime, though. That’s the thing—if she were my type, I’d know exactly how this all plays out. Instead, I haven’t got a clue. But I have a song. And I’m going to get it in John Maxwell’s ears if it kills me.

“
Y
ou should bring coffee
. Stop somewhere and pick up one of those drink carriers and bring in two black, one caramel, and one light,” Sam’s voice echoes from the phone in my lap. I don’t have Bluetooth, but I hate holding the phone when I drive—even for my best friend.

“How are you the expert on this? Why would I bring coffee? And what’s with that list of flavors? What if there are five people there?” I ask my barrage of questions with my forehead wrinkled. I glance at the directions on the Post-it that is stuck—scratch that—has just fallen from my dashboard to the passenger side floor.

“Uhm, I’m a secretary? Hello! I do this for the ad execs here at the paper every Wednesday before the big meeting, and I always only get four. My boss says they are for the four most important people in the room.”

Sam has been working as an assistant at the Oklahoman since graduation. Her degree is in finance, but she really doesn’t know what to do with it. I feel like coffee delivery might be selling her skills short, but she’s happy, so I keep my mouth shut.

“Right, well…I’m not so sure I want to set the precedent that I’m here to bring them coffee—no offense,” I throw in.

“Whatevs,” she says. “But you’re going to wish you had coffee.”

I drive in between the iron gates in the back of a two-story building made of tinted glass, the undercarriage of my car scraping the curb as I roll in. Always making an entrance.

“Sam, I’m here. I gotta go,” I say, hanging up after her short “Kay” and tossing my phone into my open purse in the passenger seat.

I have a feeling Casey is the only one who knows I’m coming here. It’s after five, and I bet when Grammy winners have an appointment at John Maxwell’s studio, they get a late morning timeslot—and reserved parking in the front. I pull up to a bunch of guys in blue overalls, smoking. I think it’s probably the cleaning staff.

“This is nuts,” I whisper to myself.

For a second, I consider backing out—a three-point turn, as if I came in here just to flip around—but Casey swings open the back door and heads right to my car. Pulling away will look really strange now. And he’d probably just chase me on foot.

Deep breath.

“Hey,” I say, opening my door. He takes over, swinging it wide and reaching for my hand. I look at his palm and let out a small laugh.

“What? I can actually be a gentleman, you know,” he says.

I glare at his lips, the way they purse and smile only on one side. He gets a dimple when I tease him. I have to admit…I like it.

“Fair enough,” I shrug, taking his help. His hand is warm and it covers mine completely. The full touch startles me a little, and I stumble as I climb boot over awkward boot out of my car. Casey catches me by my elbow, and my face slams into his chest. That’s warm too.

“Sorry,” I say. “I…I’m a little nervous.”

I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut.

“It’s fine. Everyone’s gone,” he says.

I knew it!

“Oh, are we…allowed to be here?” I ask, my stomach thumping with the beat of my heart. I’m not good at breaking rules. I play by the book. I’m a book player.

“Relax, I got permission,” he sighs. “That’s why it had to be late. They have someone coming into the other studio all night, and they’re booked tomorrow completely, so this was our only shot.”

“Oh, good,” I say through a whoosh of air.

I move to the trunk and pull out my guitar, looping the case over my shoulder, then grab my purse from the passenger side and follow Casey to the door. He holds up a badge against a small metal plate that beeps to let us in; then he holds the door wide for me.

“Here, let me take that,” he says, reaching for my guitar. Nervously, I grip it fast to my side and shake my head.

“I’m good. It…it makes me less nervous to carry it. Makes me look legit, like I have a reason to be here…that’s all,” I say, my cheeks burning a little.

“All right,” he chuckles, a slight shake of his head.

The door shuts behind us and he slides by me in the narrow hallway, his body brushing against mine one more time. I need to quit noticing that. But then again, Casey Coffield was always good looking. He’s built like a bouncer, and I don’t think he owns a single shirt that doesn’t cut perfectly against his chest and abs. He always has a hat or a beanie hanging out of his back pocket, too—when it’s not on his head. That hair is in a constant state of tousled, and well hell, that’s appealing too.

But
this
is a business relationship. He made that perfectly clear. I suppose…so did I. Which is perfect, since the very thought of Casey—and his personality and most of his circle of friends, Houston excluded—has always annoyed the shit out of me. I need to remember all of those things. The grating character traits. The way he uses his brash humor and forced charm to get his way. That’s right—he needs me. I’m in charge here. I call the shots!

“So, let’s get started,” I say, my voice loud and confident as I step into the soundproof door of a small studio room at the end of the hallway. My guitar case scratches against the nearby console. As I turn, it knocks over a rack of headphones. I reach to catch them, snagging my purse on the arm of a rolling chair, which both opens my purse wide, spilling my things all over the floor, and has the equal effect of slingshotting the chair into the glass wall of the sound booth. It all ends with a thunderous
crack
—that somehow doesn’t leave behind any permanent damage.

That’s right. I’m in charge.

My eyes are wide and frozen on Casey, waiting for him to react. His are just as wide as he runs both hands along his stubble-covered cheeks and looks around the room that I’ve now knocked to bits and pieces.

“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out quickly, dropping my last hold on my purse strap and moving to my knees to gather back my lipstick, hair pins, roll of Tums and…motherfuck there’s a tampon.

“It’s okay,” he says, bending down and picking up a few stray pens and my notebook. I can’t find my keys, and I start to panic, pacing around the very small space, my eyes on the floor and my hands at my forehead.

Casey chuckles.

“Murphy, really. It’s fine. Stuff in here is meant to withstand rock stars and metal bands. Look, it’s all cleaned up,” he says.

“Yeah, but my keys. Shit…I don’t know where my keys went,” I say, walking in fast circles and looking in nooks and crannies as if my keys somehow took flight, grew legs and walked into a crevice somewhere.

“Uh…Murph?”

Casey tugs at my thumb, which is pressed against my forehead, along with my…keys.

“Oh my god,” I roll my eyes, flickering them shut momentarily.

I am not in charge.

“Relax,” he says, his hand resting on my shoulder. His hand is still warm. He’s made of heat. That’s his superpower. Fire. He makes fire.

Breathe, Murphy.

I let a gradual pass of air drag out through my lips and nose, then inhale again slowly. I’m using the laws of biology, and my heart finally slows enough that I can hear my own thoughts again.

“Look, I’m allowed to be here. People know you’re here. I reserved time to work on a personal project. I haven’t even mentioned your song to John yet. I wanted the recording to be ready first. So, this afternoon…it’s just me and you hanging out. It’s no big deal,” he says, punctuating it with a crooked smile. I swear his tooth just gleamed out a flare.

Just me and him hanging out. No big deal.

“Okay,” I say, nodding with a tight smile. It still feels like a big deal.

“How about we set you up and get something on digital?” he asks, eyebrow ticked upward. I nod again and pick up my guitar case, resting it on the arms of the chair I just made into a weapon. I pull my guitar out and step through the glass door he’s holding open, then sit on the small stool in front of a mic, and the visual of exactly where I am makes my body flush.

“I don’t know, Casey…” I slouch and let the strap weigh on my shoulder again.

“There’s nobody watching. Look…I won’t even watch you while you sing. I’ll be too busy moving those dials up and down. I’m like a man possessed when I start working,” he says, his head cocked to one side and his eyes promising. This might all be charm, but I’m buying it. He crosses his heart with one finger, making a crease in the tight black shirt, and my eyes take in every line.

Man possessed.
That’s what I hear out of all of that.

I gulp, but nod again—the kind of nod where my head never quite stops moving. Casey breathes out a small laugh and puts my headphones in place against my ears as I keep twisting my head like I’m psyching myself up to enter an MMA ring. I might as well be. Intimate performances like this actually make me
more
nervous.

When he’s done adjusting the fit on my headset, he looks up at me and holds up a thumb. I mimic him, even though I’m nowhere near ready.

The door closes gently, and the second I hear it
click
secure, I exhale. The room smells like whatever it is Casey wears. This is going to be the single hardest thing I’ve ever done. My lips feel tingly, and I’m worried they won’t work. My hands—I can usually trust them. I look down and strum a few chords, tuning as I go, playing small bits and pieces. For a spilt second, I lose myself and forget that I’m here, in a glass booth on display for a really hot guy…a guy who’s not my type.

Not my type.

I say that phrase again in my head. I say it a few times, and my lips move with it, but I don’t even whisper a sound. I’m here because what Casey did to my song was perfect. It’s like I gave him a blueprint and he understood how to make it a skyscraper—this little blend of coffeehouse and pop. The electronic touches were so freakin’ cool. And if there’s a chance that he can make more of that—that he can build me a city of those skyscrapers—then I can manage to get through a two-minute song without falling into old habits.

“You ready?” he says. His voice fills my ears. I like having him in headphones. It’s safer. His voice is calming.

I don’t look up, because I know that will just shoot me back to square one. Instead, I hold up a thumb and nod my head to get my beat.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

One two three. Two two three. One two three. One more time. Here I go. Hands are live. Touch the strings. Sound is good. Smile.

I run through the opening pass three times on my guitar, just to get a feel—to get a little more lost. But I keep smiling. I grin because this guitar—it has never sounded so good. Everything about it is smooth and crisp and I swear somehow it sounds like it’s playing from an old forty-five on my dad’s turntable. I love this room.

“Shadow of a girl…” I begin, but stop quickly, my tongue feeling fat out of nowhere.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my eyes still closed. I shake my head, but keep playing.

“It’s fine, just pick up from there and start again. I can edit in,” Casey says.

I like having him in my ears. He’s like my confidence—if I
had
confidence.

I strum again. The rhythm is there. One two three, two two three.

“Shadow of…of…of,” I say, my lip quivering when I realize what’s happening.

I stop playing this time, but I leave the headphones in place. I don’t want Casey to come in. I want him to stay in my headphones—
out there.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, opening my eyes, but looking down where my hands are stilled on the base of my guitar. They’re shaking now too.

“I’m coming in,” he says.

“No…” I say, but not quickly enough. Stupid small room. I don’t like it any more. He’s standing in front of me in a breath, leaning on the ledge of the glass window that I was happy to have separating us. My heart is beating more wildly now. That’s the nerves. It’s the nerves, which feed the problem, and I can feel it all pulling me out of line. I’m a squiggle. I’m not going to be able to get back to normal—I’m not going to be able to make it through this if he stands there. It’s too much.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

I let out a sharp laugh-slash-cry, and the sound surprises me enough to make my eyes sting. I’m literally going to lose it.

No. I lost it.

“I’m so sorry, Casey…I…I…” I begin, and my mouth is so heavy. My lips refuse to round to form the right letters, and my brain is in a fight with my muscles—my mind throwing punches and swearing and my fucking nerves!

“Let me see your guitar,” he says, his hand suddenly next to mine along the strings. I glance up at him, blinking away the evidence of the tears that just shot out of my ducts without warning. “Just for a second,” he smiles.

I nod, pulling my strap from over my body. He pulls it around his and sits on a small stool in the corner of this closet of a room.

“I always wanted to be really good at guitar,” he says, his fingers slowly picking out a melody. It’s faintly familiar at first, and I soon realize it’s Van Halen. “My dad thought music lessons were a waste of time, so I had to teach myself. I had a buddy down the road—Brandon Morales? You remember him?”

I nod. I remember them all—that’s what happens when you spend four years of high school with your mouth shut, only whispering in the chorus for school musicals. Four years of hiding in the back gives you plenty of time to watch the people out in the front.

“Brandon’s dad owns that music store in Stillwater—Low Notes? Anyhow, he’d let me come over and mess around, and I could hang out in his dad’s store and play whatever I wanted. I didn’t have money for lessons or whatever, so I taught myself what I could,” he says, sucking his top lip in and focusing on his fingers. He isn’t smooth, but he’s not bad. He plays a run and then holds a note, swaying the guitar like he’s Eddie Van Halen. “Anyhow…what you do? I wasn’t bullshitting you, Murphy. It’s amazing. You’re special. Trust that.”

He plays a few more lines, messing up once or twice and restarting, laughing at his fumbles along the way. When he hands the guitar back to me, my heart rate has calmed some. It’s still not to the level of alone in my bedroom. But it’s at least close to a usual Saturday night at Paul’s with strangers.

“Let’s take it from the top,” he smiles, handing me the headphones. I smile back, sliding them in place, and this time when he points at me to begin—through that ever-so-wonderful piece of glass between us—I begin singing on time, and the words come out just as they’re supposed to.