In Your Dreams (Falling #4)

by Ginger Scott

  “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.

  * * *

  I played the song no less than a dozen times in the hour I sat in the recording booth. Casey kept his promise and never looked up at me once, except for between takes when he circled his finger in the air and mouthed “again.” Each time, it was better. And the last one actually left me feeling proud.

  I collapse in the rolling chair next to him—the match to my nemesis chair—and let out a puff. My shoulders hurt from scrunching, but I did it.

  “Wanna listen?” he says, his right lip tugged up as his eyes sway to me. I nod, and he tugs my chair closer, plugging in a second set of headphones, handing them to me. I put them on and try not to notice the fact that my knee bumped into his—and just like the rest of him, it’s warm.

  “I’m still going to do more layering, but here’s the general idea,” he says, his voice still loud from the music playing in his ears. “Sorry,” he laughs.

  “It’s okay,” I smile.

  Our headsets go silent as he drags the song back to the beginning, then I count out just as I do in the booth and wait to hear my own voice begin. I can’t look at him just yet. It feels oddly personal—both of us listening to me sing about him. Not that it’s about him, but it’s a little about him. It sounds so unreal. I don’t sound like this. This girl, the one playing back to me, is a professional. If I weren’t here to witness everything, I’d swear sleight-of-hand occurred. But it didn’t. This is just the me that Casey brings out.

  He’s right about one thing. He’s good at what he does.

  We get to the part with the pause—the dramatic break
before the chorus—and then something amazing happens. There’s my breath. It’s so real and beautiful and raw. He left that in there…from the last take. I can’t help it and my eyes fly to his, and I’m startled when I find they’re waiting for me.

  “You like that,” he smiles.

  “I do!” I say, realizing I’m yelling too. We’re alone in here, though. And we both have the music playing loud in our ears.

  “I was so excited when you did that. I pulled it out and was like oh yeah,” he says, lifting his feet from the floor and pushing himself to spin around once in his chair. The cord wraps around his body, so he shimmies his feet against the floor in the opposite direction to unwind it.

  I giggle, and cover my mouth when I realize. He narrows his eyes on me, smirking, then pushes the arm of my chair around so I loop in a circle too, then he stands and begins wrapping more of the cord around my arms and head, crossing over my nose and eyes.

  “Untangle me,” I laugh, fighting to free myself.

  “Not until you admit it,” he says, spinning my chair one last time, hard enough that my headphones unplug and the sound of me singing breaks into the air of the studio. I look up and my mouth falls open, but slowly works into a smile.

  “Admit what?” I ask, my hands outstretched, but only the few inches they can reach being pinned to my sides with cable cord. He’s teasing me. I’m teasing back. I’ve left the back row and stepped into the spotlight just now and it’s not scary. It’s nice.

  “That you’re special. Listen to that…and tell me you’re not,” he says, resting against the small desk by the console and folding his arms over his chest.

  “I’m…” I begin, a small shake of my head. My own voice hits the final notes of the song, and the beat slows. I’m the blueprint. Casey is the artist. “I’m grateful.”

  His head sags to the left and his eyes blink once slowly before coming to rest on me again. Being tied up—though I know I can easily escape—and under his scrutiny, does something to me, and the longer his eyes stay set on mine, the hotter I become.

  “What?” I finally ask, looking down, my neck what is I’m sure the color of a beet.

  “You’re something,” he says, reaching out a leg and nudging my chair an inch or two away from him. I shrug.

  “Can you untangle me?” I plead.

  He lets out a heavy, exaggerated sigh.

  “Oh, I suppose,” he says, unwinding me and draping the cord lightly around my body until I’m free.

  When his phone buzzes on the console, I take the opportunity to stand and work out some of the nervous energy in my legs and arms. With my back to him, I shake my head one more time in disbelief.

  “So, what happens now?” I ask.

  “Uhhhh,” Casey begins. I turn to see him squinting at his phone, reading something. He puts it down where it was and begins shutting off controls, clearly affected by whatever he read. “I need to get time with John. Which…don’t worry. I will.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  He’s moved into a rather manic mode, cleaning up the studio and making sure things are shut off and put back in place, so I turn my attention to my guitar, opening my case and putting it away.

  “Does he listen to things right away?” I ask, my eyes noting how agitated he’s become. He’s nervous about something. Shit…I bet we really aren’t supposed to be here.

  Casey’s stepped into the sound booth now and is looking over things in there, moving the mic back in place and scanning the floor and the outlets. He rubs his chin as he stands in the center of the room, his eyes down and looking at nothing. He’s rattled. He pulls his hat off and scratches at his head before glancing up and realizing I’m watching. Only then does he force a smile back in place.

  “I’m sorry, what?” he asks, but his smile isn’t a solid one.

  “Nothing, was just wondering how long he takes to listen. I’m patient though…” I say as he locks up the small sound booth.

  “I’m hoping right away, but I guess I’ll have to wait and see,” he says through a deep breath. His chest seems heavier all of a sudden.

  He swings the key ring around his thumb a few times, his eyes once again lost, looking toward the door to the hallway. After a few seconds, he holds them up and looks at me. “I need to make sure these are back at the front desk. Be right back?” he says, almost asking permission to leave me alone.

  I nod and lean against the table, the handle of my guitar case in my hand because I have a weird sensation that I might need to make a break for it now. The door swings shut behind him, but doesn’t latch completely. I tip it open slightly and catch the sight of him walking down the hall, his arms swinging, his steps normal—he isn’t running. I can still hear the other group faintly down the hall. We aren’t totally alone, which gives me some relief that maybe I’m wrong.

  His phone buzzes again. And again. At the third buzz, I grow dangerously curious, so I slide from my position toward the console, glancing through the small glass window in the door before flipping the phone over on the table.

  I can only see the beginning of messages.

  Christina: You can’t keep ignoring this…

  Myra: Christina said you haven’t called…

  Myra: It’s so bad, Casey. We need you…

  I flip the phone back over. It’s personal. Whatever that is—Myra and Christina. Whoever they are. Something’s bad. They need him. And…what if it’s an emergency?

  I glance at the door again and step closer, to gain a better view through the small window. I don’t see him, and the hallways are quiet, so I’ll probably hear him coming.

  My thumb moves back to the phone, and I hover over it for a second, pretty sure I’m invading his privacy, but something is definitely weird. The phone buzzes again, making my decision for me, and I flip it over again.

  Christina: He’s going to die, Case. We’re meeting with…

  I swipe the phone awake and touch the message icon.

  …Hospice.

  I swallow.

  Casey walks in.

  His eyes move right to the spot mine were—to the phone pinned under my finger—to the open message. We both freeze in our positions—me because I’m not sure if there’s a way to delicately extricate myself out of this, and because of what I just read; him because he clearly knows I’ve just read his messages.

  “It was buzzing…a lot…and I…” I say, a tear threatening my composure.

  I hear Casey swallow. He steps closer to me, dragging the phone out of my hold with his forefinger. He twists it so it’s facing him. I hold my breath, careful not to make any sound. I don’t want his eyes to come to me. I don’t want him not to read everything there waiting for him. Something is wrong.

  He sniffles finally, a slight sound—a manly kind of sniffle that indicates he’s pretending and whatever he does next is going to be bullshit.

  “You know your way home?” he asks, his eyes shifting to mine, his mouth flat.

  What?

  “I’m sure I can figure it out, but…” I say, but he turns from me when he’s heard what he wanted.

  “Okay, good. I’ll call you when I have the final ready, and when I’ve had a chance to meet with John,” he says.

  He’s moving toward the door, and without warning, he flicks the light off, and I’m standing in the cascade of florescent hallway illumination coming through the half-open door propped by his forearm.

  Okay. So, we’re going to just leave. And whatever that was is…it’s none of my business. He’s right. It’s none of my business.

  I step under his arm out the door, and I follow him down the same corridor I did on the way in. As quiet as it was then, it’s even more so now—and not just because the sun has gone down. This silence—it’s almost palpable. I taste it.

  We walk through the back door, through the group of guys still hanging around smoking, and one of them nudges Casey, asking him for a lighter. He shakes his head that he doesn’t have one, then adjusts the hat on his he
ad, smoothing his hair underneath and rolling his shoulders as if he’s trying to lose something—a burden perhaps. He walks me to my car, and takes my guitar from my arm without even asking. I let him, and move to my trunk, opening it and watching him quietly lay it back inside.

  “I hope you enjoyed that,” he says, only half of him smiling. His eyes are warring against the smile though—they want to go back to being lost in thought, so I don’t keep him.

  “I did. Very much,” I say, laughing lightly and swinging my arm toward the handle of my car door. I pause with my fingers on the latch. “I know it didn’t look like it, but…but I did. I enjoyed that very much.”

  I glance up at him and his eyes are waiting. His hands deep in his pockets, he merely lets out a small breath and smiles tightly. So much locked behind that façade. He can’t hide that he’s shaken, but he’s stubborn enough not to share any of whatever it is with me. Or maybe I’m just too afraid to ask.

  “Drive safe,” he says, pulling one hand from his pocket and swinging it toward me. It grazes against my side, and I shudder from the touch. At least he’s too distracted to notice.

  I watch him spin on one leg and walk away, his shoulders high and his hands both tucked away again in his pockets. His head is slung low, his eyes on his feet, careful not to look too far ahead. Casey’s future is like that, I’m guessing.

  As he rounds the building, I slip into my car and start my engine, letting the tear finally fall, but only halfway down my cheek before I swipe it away. I’m not even sure why I’m crying, only that…I felt something. I felt something for him, because of him, or maybe it was that I felt him—his pain. Whatever. It’s private, and I shouldn’t have looked.

  Just like I shouldn’t have driven around the building as I left and paused at the exit long enough to catch his reflection in my mirror. The sound my blinker makes is assaulting—clicker-clonker, clicker-clonker, clicker… That sound drowns out everything else. I can’t hear him. But I see him pounding on the roof of his car with two angry fists, his hat wadded in the right one. I see him kick at the door until I think he may have dented it, or broken his foot. I watch as he throws his hat against the metal side and grasps the edge of his car with both hands, hanging his head forward until his body shakes.