In Your Dreams (Falling #4)

by Ginger Scott

  “You haven’t even started yet. You start next week,” he says, taking my card in his hand and flipping it over a few times between his fingers. “These look terrible.”

  I reach forward and snatch it from him as he laughs.

  “That was mean,” I huff, poking the card back in my wallet. He’s right, though. They didn’t come out like I wanted them to. Houston’s girlfriend is good at design stuff, and she comes back in a few weeks. I’d planned to ask her for help. Paige gets me. Or she tolerates me. She doesn’t hate me, at least, and I’m never anything but full, selfish, pig-headed Casey with her.

  “Forget about the cards. So this…chat…,” he says, making finger quotes, “it went positively? You think you might actually get her to record something with you?”

  “I think…I think there’s a lot of positive that came out of it, yeah,” I stammer, letting the fact that I smashed her car with Houston’s sneak into my stream of thoughts while speaking. He notices my facial tick. I need to get better at lying.

  “Case?” He tilts his head and looks at me hard.

  I shirk my shoulders up and lean my head from side-to-side. “I may have…sort of…not lead with my best…self?” I half admit. I fucking smashed her car with yours.

  “I said less YOU!” he says, but his tone is joking, which is the reason it only hurts my feelings a little. If only he knew how much of me I’m not fond of. My mental list of defects is so long that I forget the old ones to make room for recent ones.

  “Well, there’s a whole lot of me, so it turns out that even less me is still, like, a shitload of me!” I say, falling back into the couch, this time tossing my hat to the side in frustration. “And I might have hit her car.”

  I throw the last part in quickly, mumbling and pulling the cap from my water bottle fast to drink. I don’t like lying to Houston. I had to tell him. I feel like a kid who broke a lamp.

  “You…that dent…my car…” he stutters chopped up sentences. I only nod. “Damn it, Casey.”

  That single phrase has been uttered by my best friend so many times.

  “I know,” I say, an apologetic half smile. It’s all I got. I smile my way out of messes. “I really will fix your car.”

  He stares at me for a few long seconds.

  “I know,” he blinks. My stomach rushes with relief—not because he isn’t yelling at me, but because he knows I’m good for my word—that I at least have some integrity. It makes me feel less like a bum.

  After a minute of silence, my head falls to the side, and I nod to regain his attention.

  “She’s probably not going to call me,” I say, my face scrunched up.

  “Probably not,” he agrees.

  I’m really disappointed that I screwed this up. She’s talented, and something about her voice motivates me to think big. And, oddly enough, it’s not just because I think she could help me get ahead, but I really think I can help her, and the thought of helping her makes my chest squeeze the way it’s supposed to.

  “I really think she’s good though, man,” I sigh.

  “She is,” he approves again.

  I look into my friend’s forgiving eyes and build up the courage to test him again, to add to my ever-growing list of IOUs.

  “I’m gonna want to go to her next open mic,” I say.

  “I know,” he says, holding up his hand to stop me from saying more. “And yeah, I’ll go with you.”

  I breathe out a soft laugh and smile at him, even though he’s standing and not looking at me. He’s frustrated with me. I do that to him a lot. If I could afford it, I’d buy him an entirely new car. Hell, I’d buy him a new house. Maybe one day I’ll get to.

  Murphy

  I threw that ugly card away a dozen times over the last week. Two dozen! I threw it away again on my way into Paul’s. I thought if I threw it away somewhere public, where I didn’t have the safety net of knowing it was my own fairly-sterile trashcan, that I wouldn’t go diving back in after it.

  Chalk this one up to a fail. I got mustard—or at least I hope that’s mustard—on the sleeve of my blouse as I reached in to pull his card back out.

  It’s that whole special thing he said. I’m pretty hung up on it. It wasn’t a line or some cheesy hook to push me into something. In fact, the entire time we talked, that one sentence about me having a real talent was the singular time it felt like Casey Coffield was truly being real.

  I know it’s weird to have a dream, but to also be terrified of it. But that’s where I’m at. I have a dream—and living that dream scares the ever-loving crap out of me. I want to write songs and sing them and have people download them into their iTunes accounts. Then, I want to be so popular, people will bother to buy my music in record format, to play on vintage turntables, because I love that retro sound with the small pops and cracks that accent the crisp magic that comes from a needle on vinyl.

  But…I also don’t want them to boo. I don’t want them to say my lyrics are weak, or that my voice doesn’t evoke enough emotion, or—like on those reality singing shows, when the judges tell the contestant they’re pitchy. Sometimes, I am pitchy. I just don’t think I can handle someone saying it to my face, or in print, or on Twitter. This is why I freaked out when my brother put the video on YouTube—that place is a gateway to criticism, and my hard shell, it’s still soft. And mushy. I have a mushy shell.

  “Murph, hey!” says Steph from across the room.

  She’s another regular here on open-mic night. She and I have a similar vibe, and we hit it off instantly. I like it when we’re both performing on the same lineup. She’s quiet in crowds, like me. A friend. I step through the small gathering forming at the tables near the back of the club, and grasp her hand when we reach one another. She knows I don’t hug—one more thing I love about her.

  “Congratulations!” she says through a bright smile. My hands freeze and fall from hers as my head tilts to the left. My eyes catch hers and I know I look puzzled.

  “Your deal?” she continues. There’s something I’m supposed to know. But I don’t know it. That makes my stomach feel a little sick.

  “My deal…uhm…” I say, my head turning to the side just enough to lock my eyes on the explanation.

  Casey stands and Houston shakes his head behind him in apology as they both approach me.

  “Murphy, we’re really looking forward to the show tonight,” Casey says, that fucking smile that had me confused all week simply pissing me the hell off right now.

  “I’m sure you are.” My eyes narrow on him. Houston chuckles.

  “I knew you’d be the first one plucked outta here,” Steph says next to me.

  “More like conned,” I add in a hushed tone.

  “Huh?” she asks, her lip bunched and one eye squinting.

  “She said she’s excited,” Casey fills in quickly.

  Steph does a double take because that sounds nothing like what she thought she heard. Probably because it’s nothing like what I actually said.

  “Sorry to surprise you like this, Murph,” Houston says, stepping beyond his friend and hugging me quickly.

  “Wow—y’all must really go way back, or she must trust you, because Murphy don’t hug anyone,” Steph says, her hands on her hips. I swallow under the heat of everyone’s instant attention.

  “I just…it makes me feel trapped,” I explain.

  My family is a huggy family. They all hug. Unfortunately, even the uncles who get a little too touchy feely when they drink. Nothing ever worth throwing a punch over, but enough to put me at odds with hugs for the rest of my life. My brother Lane is the only one who I can take affection from without red flags flying up all around me, and that’s because he’s the brightest sunshine in my life.

  “Sorry,” Houston mouths. I shrug him off and tell him not to worry about it, but I doubt he’ll hug me again, and I’m okay with that.

  “I’m up soon, so I’m going to head toward the front,” she whispers, shaking Casey and Houston’s hands again, and
telling them how happy she was to meet them. God, I wish they were here for her instead of me.

  As soon as Steph is out of earshot, I turn to Casey, happy that Houston walked back to their table to give us privacy.

  “You are out of line!” I whisper as sternly as I can. I pull out the teacher voice, but all it does is make him dimple one cheek and laugh at me.

  “She misunderstood me,” he begins, but I raise a hand.

  “Your Jedi powers are no good on me, Casey Coffield. Don’t you dare start spinning. It’s a waste of your breath and my time. You thought you’d get my friend all excited and then I’d just cave in because of her happy dance and all of the merriment and shit, but listen here, buddy,” I pause, my chest heaving with my breath. His dimple is gone. Good. It’s a Jedi dimple. And it might work if he throws it out there enough.

  “I…am impervious to Casey Coffield. And you can have your ugly-ass card back,” I say, pulling his hand up in my own and stuffing the card in it. I fold his fingers into a fist and walk away, my feet stomping a little to the beat Steph just started on her guitar.

  What I did not count on was him following me.

  “I’m sorry, all right?” he says, his mouth a little too close to my ear. Shivers happen quickly, and I shrug them off before they turn into tingles. He’s close, so I smell his cologne, which is…not strong and overpowering like I’d assume. It’s masculine and little bit like a good cocktail. He catches me off guard—drunk on his pheromones—and manages to walk me backward into the small nook at the far end of the bar.

  “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.’”

  Chapter 5

  Casey

  “Dude, 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 wid
e 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.