by Ginger Scott
“Really,” Casey repeats, brown eyes and dimple there to top it off like warm fudge and whipped cream.
“I have a good feeling,” he says, and his eyes stick on mine while I remain in my pose. I don’t know what to say. My father gets me going again.
“You should. Murphy is gifted. Always has been. She’s overcome so much, too. Makes for one hell of an inspiring story. I mean, I’m inspired by her.” My dad delivers what is known in some circles as diarrhea of the mouth, and I lean to the side and slowly—but firmly—push my elbow into his ribs. He gets the hint, and stops before he makes me wish I could just fall and hit my head on something again.
Casey’s confused look means I didn’t stop him quickly enough, so I make a rash decision to change the subject.
“Dad, if you guys don’t mind, I’d like to spend the night at the club watching Casey work, so I can see what goes into everything he does—maybe learn something,” I say, making excuses. They’re thin, and both my father and Casey see right through them. My dad’s assuming I’m going because I want to spend the night with the guy who inspired this song they’ve teased me about endlessly…since finding out the guy in the lyrics was real. Casey is assuming I’m going to change the subject from all of my overcoming.
They’re both right.
“You’re an adult, Murph. You can go out with a cute boy on a Friday night if you want to; you don’t need to ask permission,” my dad says, getting one last tease in. The red flares up, and my eyes close.
“Excellent,” I say, feeling my way around the counter with my eyes still shut. “Casey, I’ll be out in a few minutes. Just let me change. And die.”
I whisper that last part.
Maybe he said okay. Maybe he said fine. It doesn’t matter what his response was, because I made my way into my room without having to crack an eyelid until I flung myself face first into my mattress and screamed into my pillow with a mixture of frustration, humiliation, and call-your-best-friend euphoria.
Appears my song was slightly prophetic, only I had a few things wrong. We’re not in his dreams. My dreams, however, and Casey Coffield, seem to have collided.
Casey
If she only knew how many times I drove by her house this week. Monday’s excuse was that I had a dinner meeting in Archfield and was just stopping by. There was no dinner, and my car never stopped, because I’m a chicken shit.
On Tuesday, I drove by earlier in the day, because I didn’t have work at the studio. I was up late at the coffee house with Eli playing chess the night before, and that always makes me feel mature and quixotic. I thought I’d just drive right to her house and talk about what happened, like grown adults. I never made it past the stop sign on her corner.
Wednesday was another concocted excuse, something about needing to rerecord that night to fix something on her demo. I only made it halfway to her town from the city before talking myself out of that bad idea; it would have plagued her self-esteem.
I was ready to try again yesterday, but then John told me he’d take my samples home Friday, so instead, I rushed home and spent all night making sure everything was perfect on her song.
I really have a gig tonight. And the thought of having her see me in my element gives me this mental edge that, for some reason, I need around her. I didn’t hesitate once on my way to her house, and ringing the doorbell even came easy. Her mom seems to like me, so I felt like a rock star all the way to the point when Murphy’s piercing grays hit my system. If she hadn’t fallen first, I’m pretty sure I would have found a way to make a fool of myself. Instead, she was just as rattled by me as I had feared I’d be by her.
None of that means I have the advantage though. I don’t, and I know it the second she walks out of the hallway bathroom wearing this dark gray, skin-tight dress and flat sandals with ribbons that wrap up her legs; I’m not quite sure where the ribbon ends. Normally, her look is a little bohemian. And there’s still some of that right now, her hair loose and draped over one shoulder—a bare shoulder. This look is sexy though—and it’s taken everything about tonight out of my hands. Hell, I might even just hand my board over to her and sit back and watch. She could play complete crap and the dance floor would devour her just because of those legs.
“Should I drive separate? That way you don’t have to come ba—”
“No,” I cut her off. No, you do not need to drive separate. No, you are not leaving early. No, you are not dancing with some shark-fiend-asshole while I play sexy tunes for him to grind against you to. There are a million no’s that roll through my brain right now. I cover them all with that two-letter word.
She blinks at me, and all I do is grin.
“All right then,” she rolls her eyes.
Good. Settled. All of the no’s agreed to. I know that’s not really the case, but I’m not going to let any of those other things happen either, so she may as well just give in.
She steps into the living room, and I follow her, waving to Lane who sits up on his knees to say hi to me. She kisses her parents while Lane and I chat about our favorite part of the movie, and then she brushes my arm to let me know she’s ready to leave. I look down convinced she’s turned my arm to ice. I’m magically fine, though I haven’t a clue how—because I swear she froze my arm with that touch.
We get to my car, and I remember to open the door for her—the only tip Houston would give me for tonight. He said if I could just get through that, it would be a miracle.
Asshole with little faith.
I get in, and my eyes go right to her legs. She catches me, and I grin sheepishly.
“Yep, you caught me staring at your legs,” I say, looking back to the steering wheel as I shift into drive. I know she’s blushing, but at least I’m not now.
I blush. Dudes blush. It isn’t cool on a guy, though, because we also sweat when we blush. And unless we’re swinging an ax or doing pull-ups on Instagram, sweat on a guy isn’t hot. It’s disgusting.
“You said club, so I thought I should wear something a little more contemporary,” she says, the corner of her lip tucked in her teeth when I glance toward her. I will myself not to look at her legs again before I turn back, but I’m weak—I look. And I’m sweating up a shit storm.
“You look nice in anything,” I say, looking at her one more time with a tight-lipped smile. She’s blushing again, too, so at least we’re even.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
“So this club,” I start, giving over my focus to the road. “Let me give you the rundown of what to expect. I’ll be working in the middle, and the entire space is floor-to-ceiling windows with dance space and a bar on one end. It’s part of John’s brand, actually—it’s called Max’s. He hired me to host his opening first, before I got on with the studio. He had heard good things about me, and came out to one of my gigs at Ramp 33. I didn’t know he was there, which…shoot, good thing!”
“Why’s that?” she says, her body turned a little to face me. She’s genuinely interested, which is something I’m not used to when I talk about this stuff. Even Houston’s mom sort of glazes over and responds with “uh huh” and “how nice.”
“I killed it that night—tried some way out-of-the-box things and had this vibe going that just made everyone feel kinda high I guess,” I say, and I catch her stiffen and tuck her hands under her thighs. I reach over and touch her arm without looking. “No, don’t worry. I said feel kinda high. They weren’t high—it’s not that kind of scene. Well, no…that’s not true. I’m not going to lie; there are a lot of people who are on shit at these places, but that’s not the point. I’m not into that. I meant that the music sort of took over.”
“Oh,” she relaxes, turning again to face me just enough.
We drive for a few minutes while listening to my stereo. I buy piece of crap cars so I can put my money into making the sound system worthy of my ears. I’m playing through some deadmau5 right now, just to get in the mood. I can tell she likes it by the way her right knee is pulsing with th
e beat, but I also wish she would sit still—because I can’t help but notice the movement, and I’m compelled to look, and her dress isn’t very long.
This is so not the girl dressed in rags and playing Helen Keller in that yearbook photo. I bring a hand up to my neck, blocking my view from her for just a beat—I need a breath.
“So, in high school, you…you did a lot of theater stuff, yeah?” I ask. I’ve been dying to ask.
“Kind of,” she says, turning her head away from me, her eyes out on the city whizzing by as we get on the freeway. Her hair is down and wavy from the tie she had it in before we left, and she lets it fall over the opposite shoulder to block my view of her face.
“You were in Helen Keller, if I remember…” I say, wincing through the lie since she can’t see me.
She takes in a deep breath.
“I was,” she says through a light giggle. Her hands grab a hold of her hair, shifting it back to the opposite shoulder, and she lets her head turn to face me. I glance over to find her smirking. I cock my neck and raise an eyebrow. “You’re such a bad liar, Casey. You didn’t see the show.”
I blink and suck in my lip, bringing my eyes back to the road.
“You’re right on two counts,” I chuckle.
“Two?” she asks.
“Yep,” I say, filling my guilty lungs and glancing at her one more time. “I’m a horrible liar and no, I did not see the show.”
“I know,” she says.
I squint in question.
“Our auditorium was small, and I…I would have known you were there,” she says.
I nod, but can’t help but think of the next question that begs. She would have known because…she wished I was there? And as if she can read my mind, she continues.
“You had a pretty big personality, Casey. There weren’t many rooms you could walk in unannounced,” she says. It isn’t flattering, and it twists my insides a little.
“I see,” I answer, moving my hand forward to tap the volume button and make the music louder.
We ride for the next few miles with the music so loud it rattles the dashboard. But before we get to the exit for downtown, Murphy leans forward and turns the volume low again.
“I didn’t mean that how it sounded,” she says. I know the face she’s making before I look at her to confirm it. I chuckle when our eyes meet, and her eyebrows dimple.
“You’re a pretty bad liar, too, Murphy. You meant it exactly how it sounds,” I say, shaking my head and rubbing my neck. I’ve been dished harsh criticism before, and I’ve built up a pretty thick skin, but for some reason her pin-point accuracy on these little things stings. “I was…am…a little arrogant. It’s a flaw. I’m working on it.” I tap my fingertip to my temple and glance at her. “I’ve got a running list.”
I can feel her eyes on me as I drive through the tall buildings to the center of town. The music is just loud enough to fill the void, and the sights outside provide a good temporary distraction until I drive us into the garage; the lights dim as I continue several floors below the thirty-story building we’re going to the top of in a few minutes.
I pull into a spot and force a smile at her, feeling about half the size I did when she first said she’d come with me tonight. Exiting my door and walking around the back to her side, I catch her door just as she opens it so I can hold it the rest of the way. I look away as one foot hits the garage floor, knowing that her skirt will get shorter, and that her tempting legs will bring out my worst. But then she stops moving.
“You have a running list of your…flaws?” she says. I don’t look, but I sigh and nod slowly.
“It’s a long list,” I laugh, but a full smile never quite hits my lips, because it isn’t really funny.
A few seconds pass before she steps from the car completely, and my eyes flit to the ground to let her move without my gawking. I’ll have plenty of time to take her in tonight, and right now, I don’t feel very worthy. She pauses right in front of me, though, bringing her hands up to the collar of my shirt and reaching her cool fingertips inside, running one finger around the edge to the back. I look up at her then; she’s so close—so close I could kiss her if I wanted to. I could make that mistake all over again; I could go through with it this time.
Her eyes follow her hand, her neck tipped to the right, accentuating that long line that’s so bitable and delicate. She dips her thumb inside my shirt and then presses her palm flat against the back of my neck and I see stars—for just a second, things are bright. Her eyes pop to mine, and her tongue barely edges out of her mouth, wetting her bottom lip, and I’m so close to caving.
“Your tag was out,” she says.
I nod, and my head hardly moves. Her hand falls from my neck, and milliseconds go by—but feel as if they drag on for minutes—while I watch every opportunity to make a mistake slip through my fingers. I hold my breath and let it go, exhaling the moment she steps away from me, but not without giving into the craving and watching her ass set a new tempo inside my chest in my very favorite dress ever made.
The elevator ride is short and crowded—thank god. When we reach the top floor, I guide her to the right through a small hallway while the others in our car turn left to go to the restaurant attached to the club.
The lights are on and the only people on the floor are wait staff and bartenders who work there. It looks like a vacant loft space, except for the occasional round, white-leather seat placed sporadically throughout the room. The mood is coming soon, but first, I need to get set up.
“You must be Casey?” says a tall blonde walking toward me with an earpiece and a clipboard. Her legs are the second best set in the room, but I can tell Murphy disagrees. She hangs back a few steps, stopping at one of the leather seats to sit and tug her dress lower. I catch her insecurities out of the corner of my eye.
“That’s me. Are you Kendra?” I reach my hand out and take her palm when she nods yes and smiles. Kendra is John Maxwell’s daughter. She’s off limits. And she’s intimidating as hell. I could tell Murphy all of this, but making girls jealous is about number seventeen on my list of flaws, so I keep her in the dark for now.
“You should have everything here you said you needed. I think the guys brought over your board and equipment this afternoon?” She’s all business, but still Murphy watches with pressed lips. I bet she doesn’t even know the face she’s making.
“It looks right,” I say, stepping over to the booth and walking around, my finger touching the key pieces and seeing how everything connects.
“Great, well, do your thing—whatever you need to get ready. Doors open in an hour,” she says.
I nod and watch her walk away, not even really looking at her, but knowing Murphy is looking at me. I glance back at her to see her eyes dart away from me toward Kendra. She’s still making the same face, though, so I pull my phone from my pocket and take her picture. The flash gets her attention, and she jerks her head toward me again.
“Did you?” she points at me with question.
I wave my finger and gesture for her to come. She smooths out her skirt when she stands and walks, with a little extra sway, over to me. Her eyebrows raised, I hold my phone out for her to see.
“Casey!” she says, glaring at the picture of her pouting on the sofa. “I wasn’t ready for that picture,” she protests.
“I know,” I smirk, taking it from her and zooming in on her face. “I wanted to catch this face…right here,” I say, tilting it back toward her to see. Her eyes narrow and her mouth tightens. She glances up at me and shakes her head, her eyes squinting even more, like an angry bully.
“Come on, let me show you the board,” I say, tilting my head to the right and urging her to follow. I slide my phone back in my pocket and turn to take her hand to help her up the few small steps. Once her fingers hit my palm, my thumb falls over the top, and when the time comes to let go, I don’t. I feel her fingers become still, and without thinking, I run my thumb slowly over each knuckle. Her eyes flash up
to mine the second I do.
“That’s Kendra Maxwell,” I say, no longer wanting to torture her. “She’s the boss’s daughter. She writes my check.”
Murphy nods a response, as if what I said is just new and interesting information, but she also sucks in her lip, and I notice how the corners of her mouth rise with the grin she’s trying to hide. I won’t tease her. But I sure as shit won’t forget seeing her get jealous.
I slide out one of the stools for her to sit on while I test out everything and correct a few connections. I don’t really like letting others set up for me, but when they’re willing to pay five grand just so I can do what I probably would have done for free, I let them set up whatever shit they want.
I play through a few beats, looking for the right ones, then line up my lists on my laptop, getting every drop and sound bite ready to go. I get so lost in my work for a while, I can tell Murphy is growing bored, her phone in her hand as she concentrates on one of those mindless games dropping boxes and jewels in a line on her screen. I wave a hand to get her attention, and she startles.
“Sorry, I’m good. I was just waiting, staying out of your hair,” she smiles.
I give in to temptation and stare at her small, perfect mouth. Her top lip curls just enough to show her teeth, and there are these small freckles that line her cheeks and nose. Her eyes catch a few of the lights being tested, and reflect the purples and blues. If I could paint like my father, I’d need a canvas right now. Her head leans to the side to break my trance. I notice, but I don’t care—I keep staring. I smile and eventually call her over to me, pleased to see the pink on her cheeks.
“I wanted to show you how it all works,” I say.
“All right,” she says, her eyes scanning over the equipment. I watch her take it all in, and she catches me staring again. I don’t care. I grin like a fool.
