by Ginger Scott
“Fine, I have a little crush,” I say, my voice jumping eight octaves, my shoulders shrugging to my ears. Stamp guilty on my forehead.
Her grin spreads slowly. I swear she draws it out just to torture me.
“You don’t have a little crush, Murph. You freaking have the hots for Casey Coffield!” she practically cackles. “Oh and girl…mmmmm...he’s got it back. I know it!”
“Sam, please, I’m begging,” I lean forward and touch her arm. “Stop, please.”
Even though I want nothing more than the teasing to end, I giggle. It slips out, from god knows where, and I cover my mouth as if I have the hiccups.
“Oh, girl…we are definitely hitting that club now,” she teases, raising her hand to get the attention of our waiter. “She’s going to need one of these,” she adds, lifting her drink, shaking her pinky against the glass and winking.
I grimace. But when it comes, I sip it down fast, because my friend is right—nothing wrong with a little liquid courage.
* * *
The first time I came to Max’s, I was with Casey—from the very beginning. I was here before the lights were off, which is a lot like getting to see a haunted house before all of the creepy things take over. Things are different in the light. In the dark—things are scary.
Sam and I walk in through a set of elaborate double doors, passing a line of beautiful people who I’m sure assume we’re part of the staff, because as beautiful as my friend Sam is tonight, she’s still not supermodel hot. The people in line? All supermodel hot. Even the men.
I let Sam take over. She gives our names to security, asks a hostess—who yes, is supermodel hot—where the VIP booths are located, then leads me by the hand through the thick crowd of hot hotness grinding together in one mass sexual motion along the dance floor. I bump into no less than thirty people, and I utter sorry’s and excuse me’s the entire distance to the private booth lifted a few feet higher than most of the other rows and nestled next to the best view I’ve ever seen of downtown Oklahoma City.
I collapse into the leather, crawling on my hands and knees until I’m so deep into the curve that I have an entire six-inch-thick table made of glazed redwood between me and every other person in the club right now.
“You look like the wild woman they find in the forest who has lived her life among the animals and is frightened by the city,” Sam laughs, sliding into the booth next to me.
“That’s because that woman? She’s my people,” I pant.
A waiter glides by our table and drops off eight water glasses, and I drink through two of them in the time it takes Sam to place an order. She adds a cosmo to the order for me, as well, then slides her water glass my way as the waiter leaves.
“At least you’ll get to see what the restrooms look like if you keep that up,” she jokes.
“I saw them last time. They’re nice. Kind of plain, but,” I stop talking to guzzle water. Drinking is sort of like singing—it distracts the millions of synapsis misfiring in my brain and lets me remain calm. The only flaw I’ve found is that at some point, I have to stop drinking, and the panic is usually still there waiting.
“Damnit. You were right, I owe you twenty bucks,” a perfect-ten of a blonde says as she slides into the opposite end of our booth. My mouth is agape, and I’m about to bolt from my safety zone when Houston steps up behind her and holds out his hand, which Barbie’s twin slides a folded-up twenty into.
“I told you she was real,” he chuckles. “Murphy, meet Paige—my girlfriend.”
“Nice to meet you,” Paige says, reaching to take my hand. Her shake is firm—like a business deal—and her eyes continue to scrutinize me. I was already acutely aware of every square inch of my basic make-up, hair and outfit, but it all suddenly feels tighter under her inspection.
“My friend tricked me into coming here. I have nicer clothes. Not that this dress isn’t nice. It’s actually really nice. It’s Dior. I got it at that little bargain shop in old town, right down the street from the arena, and I was so surprised to see it there because, I mean usually there aren’t expensive things mixed in with all of the vintage stuff, but this one was, and when I found it, I was like score! And it really only goes with boots, so that’s why I’m wearing boots, and…hmmmmm….”
My eyes shut tightly, I let my face fall flat against the table, forehead against the wood and mouth firm so I can try to see if wishes come true and I can zap myself out of this place and time.
I look up slowly and peel one eye open and then the next. Paige is looking at me with the exact horrified expression I sort of expected. Clearing my throat, I smile with tight lips and do my best to start over, sliding my hand her direction again, this time shaking with the same firmness she gives.
“I’m Murphy,” I say, meek and demure. “I’m not great with crowds, and stress usually makes me stutter. However, you seem to have the opposite effect on me, and I deeply apologize for that assault with words and nonsense I just unleashed.”
Her horrified expression melts into something kinder, and her smile is accompanied by a sweet, raspy laugh as she brings her other hand up to cover the top of mine in a gracious shake that somehow calms my chest.
“Murphy,” she smiles, looking to Houston as she lets go of our hold and points to me with one waggling finger. “I like her, Houston. If Casey fucks this up, I’ll punch him.”
Houston pulls my new ally close to his side and kisses the top of her head, and I can tell by the way he dotes over her—the small gestures like his fingertips along her bare shoulder and the gentle casting of his eyes over her face while she speaks—that Paige is someone special. I’ve been approved by her, and that alone has made the moving sea of people around me feel less threatening.
“Hey, you all made it!”
Casey’s familiar voice pulls me to sit straight up in my booth. I’m wedged in the very middle, which means I can’t reach him, and I inwardly kick myself for blocking my body in.
“Nice to see you again, Casey,” Sam says, a tone to her voice that denotes her eyebrows are wiggling teasingly. I can’t see her face, but I know she’s doing it by the small chuckle Casey gives before his eyes land on me.
I love seeing him in his element. He’s wearing a dark hat with a flat brim, a black long-sleeved tee and black jeans. The only thing that doesn’t fit the shadow is the white scarf around his neck tucked under the headphones he has resting there. When I talk to him on the phone tomorrow during his drive to his parents’ house, this is how I’m going to imagine him.
“Case, I have to hand it to you, you weren’t kidding,” Houston says, standing and pulling his friend in for one of those manly handshake-hug combos. “This place is something. These people are here for you, man. For you!” Houston smacks him on the chest once for emphasis, and Casey pushes his hands in his pockets and lowers his head with a bashful smile.
“They’re here to drink expensive vodka and hook up, but yeah…maybe I get like one percent of the credit,” he says.
“What?” Paige says loudly, her brow bunched. “Are you…was that…did I just hear Casey Coffield be modest?”
“Ha ha, Paige. Yes, I can be modest,” he says, his cheek dimpled with his sarcastic smile.
“Can you? Because…and no offense,” she says, glancing around the table. Casey shuffles his feet and purses his lips, ready for her. “I’ve just never seen it. It’s usually kind of the me show around you.”
His mouth a rigid line, Casey looks at her for a beat before he blinks and opens his gaze back on me. My body beads with sweat instantly.
“Yeah, well…new Casey maybe,” he says, his eyes square on me, my body literally on fire. “Things aren’t always about my needs…I guess.”
It’s silent for about two seconds, but it feels like hours. In that time, Houston, Sam, and Paige all glance around the table and have silent WTF conversations before Casey breaks the awkwardness.
“I’ve gotta get up to the booth. I have some great stuff planned, though,
so I hope you guys like the mix,” he says, his eyes catching mine as he turns to leave and his lips curved into that special smile he gets when he’s up to something.
Sam introduces herself to Paige, then climbs from the booth to sit on the other side of her so they can scope out each other’s shoes and hear better over the thumping taking over the rhythm of the room. I slide to the edge of the booth, but remain behind the table—my protective shield. I watch Casey work, and I wait for the special something he promised with that look until I recognize it.
It’s subtle at first—blended with a mix of house music and retro seventies disco. He gives everyone a taste, hooks them like a drug dealer with a dime bag, until their bodies adjust and crave more. My tablemates are lost in their own conversation, and they don’t know it’s coming. I won’t tell them, but I’m sure my voice is going to take over the room in five, four, three…
The heavy beat picks up and bodies jump in unison, their hands high in the air, their fingers free and begging for Casey to give it to them—to let this new melody take over and control everything to come.
My song.
He’s debuting it right here, and bodies are obeying his orders. I’m in awe as my voice echoes and beautiful women shake their heads, hair flying and hips moving to an anthem of their time. It’s powerful this way—the song so much bigger than it feels when it’s just my guitar and voice on a stool in the middle of a bar.
It’s fucking beautiful.
“Murphy!” my friend squeals, her palms pressed flat on the table, her body lifted in the air and her eyes on me—glee filling every inch of her face as she points to Casey. “This is you! Oh my god! This is it!”
“Wait, this…you wrote this?” Paige says, her eyes wide. Houston taps her shoulder and cups her ear, whispering confirmation. I grin larger than I have in my entire life.
“Shit, girl!” Paige says with an enormous smile. “You can’t sit on your ass to your own song!”
Without hesitation, she wraps her fingers around my arm and pulls me all the way through the booth and out the other side, dragging me into the masses, my body bumped and slammed from all directions, but for the first time—maybe ever—I don’t care. I don’t care whose hand is touching me; I don’t care that a girl I just met is hugging me; I don’t care that Houston grabbed my hand and squeezed it and my best friend kissed me on the cheek.
I don’t care because “In Your Dreams, Johnnie Walker” is blasting in my ears and my soul feels warm and delicious. It pounds, and Casey lets it play pure and untouched—and I find his eyes waiting for mine through the forest of hands and arms waving and swaying to the beat. I stand still amid my tiny circle of friends and lock eyes with him, his proud smile simply spectacular.
And I cry.
I’ve heard people describe how bliss feels—the moment when something huge happens to you. Miracles. Reunions. Relief. Happy things so powerful that they induce tears. I could never understand such a phenomenon…until now. I cry hard, and I smile big and my song takes over an entire room filled with discerning ears—people who spend thousands of dollars on food and liquor just for the pleasure of falling in love on a dance floor to Casey’s magic. Only right this minute—for four and a half minutes, actually—it’s my potion they are getting drunk on.
I…can make…them feel anything. I. Want.
The moment my song ends, a new mix takes over, and Casey whispers something in the ear of the guy working with him at the booth. He hands over his headphones and weaves through exhausted bodies until he finds me in the very center of it all.
Steps away, his mouth tugs up to the right and that knowing dimple, dripping with confidence and pride and everything that makes my heart pound, touches his cheek. His left hand reaches up to pull his hat from his head and his right palm slides over my cheek, his fingers run through my hair, and in one swift motion he pulls me to him, his mouth on mine, his lips strong and his kiss potent as he walks me backward slowly, one arm around the small of my back and the other holding me to him—making sure I feel.
I feel everything.
The crowd disappears into nothingness as Casey’s teeth graze against my top lip before his tongue gently tastes my mouth. Music drowns out everything else, and in my mind we are alone—nobody watching as I give in to something I think maybe I’ve wanted for longer than I care to admit. My hand slides around his neck, and I grip his soft hair, holding him to me, and we kiss hard and greedily.
When my feet stumble, he holds me tighter, and when our chests crave oxygen, our lips hardly part, and we take our breaths against one another.
I don’t know how many songs play, but I know everywhere his hands touch my body—they slide up my back slowly, his thumbs sensuously drawing a line along the bare skin exposed along my spine. His fingers thread through my hair and his chest grows wide, like the lion king claiming his mate. When his hands release their grip they trace along my collarbone, the tips gliding along my neck. Shivers soak my skin and I am drunk. When palms find my cheeks and lips grow raw and breath becomes ragged, Casey holds my head to his and we rock to the music he made.
“Come home with me,” he breathes, his lips parted and shaking with need and want.
I cling to him, eyes heavy and heart sure.
“Yes,” I say, stopped only by the faint feel of his lips catching one of mine.
“Say it again,” he says against me.
“Yes,” I obey.
Yes.
Just…yes.
Casey
Goddamn she said yes.
She said yes and I still had four fucking hours of music I no longer gave a shit about to pump out for people—I just wanted to leave so I could be alone with her.
Clocks stopped, and life that normally feels like it’s rushing toward the meaningless next thing slowed to a crawl. Minutes lasted two. People requested more. Bosses demanded I give. None of it mattered, because I got to touch her.
I held Murphy next to me the entire night. I made her ditch her car so I could feel her thigh brush against mine for the car ride home when we both found ourselves speechless—our bodies teeming with nerves and anticipation. For once in my life, I kept my mouth shut. I wasn’t less Casey—I was this Casey, the better man she makes me.
When I pulled her up to my apartment door, my hand clutched around hers tightly, I growled like a fucking caveman because she is mine. I threw forty bucks at my roommate and told him to “Beat it,” and he did.
Hours. Minutes. Seconds. Heartbeats. Sounds. Pauses. Hopes.
Dreams.
Fucking dreams.
Never in mine did I think I’d be standing here with Murphy Sullivan, a girl I wished like hell I knew and claimed before anyone else. But I am. And I am weak, and my tongue is tied. Command left somewhere around the exit door of the club, and I stand before her now a slave. But she’s so shy and unsure—her hands nervous as they tickle and grab at her dress at her sides, her lip caught between anxious teeth. The pull is strong, but the wait is so much better.
I step toward her in my room, my legs wanting to run and my hands wanting to take, but my selfish needs force things to happen slow and seductive.
“I really like this dress,” I say, stretching my arm to her and catching the tip of my finger on the lace trim that curves around her breast.
I like the way she takes a short breath the moment my fingertip grazes her skin. She nods, and her eyes widen the smallest bit. Her hands tremble when she raises them and reaches for my hat, lifting it slowly with one hand and running her fingers through my hair with the other. I keep my eyes on her; it’s so sexy to watch her watch me.
Her tongue passes over the edge of her top lip and then her teeth. My hat falls, and I let my eyes follow it to the floor, my chin grazing against her arm as I do. When I feel her fingers start to slip away, I grab her arm and hold it to my cheek, my eyes on hers as I open my mouth slightly and press my lips to the softness of the inside of her arm.
She shivers.
&n
bsp; “They made me…” she begins, but pauses with parted lips. She bites at her bottom lip again, and I run my thumb over it to free it from her hold, wanting her to do it again so I can touch her mouth once more.
“They made you what, baby?” I ask, stepping closer, not really caring what anyone did or wants or needs if it gets in the way of my hands on her. I kiss at her neck and her head falls to the side at my touch.
“Johnnie Walker,” she pants, and I smile against her neck, chuckling and letting my lips tickle against her ear.
“Baby girl, I don’t care about Johnnie Walker,” I say, my tongue taking a small taste along her jawline until my gaze comes square with hers again. Her lashes fall in long sweeps and her gray truth undoes me as I stare into her. “It’s just a song. A fucking…amazing…song,” I say, leaning in again and breathing my words against her ear.
“I felt bad,” she sighs.
“It was always your song,” I say, standing with my feet square to hers, her mouth relaxed finally in a hopeful smile as I run my fingertips up from her wrists to her elbows and shoulders until they once again dance against the lace of her dress.
“I love your song, Murphy,” I say, glancing into her eyes before letting my gaze fall along the curve of her neck and jaw until I’m focused on nothing but where my thumbs slide under the edge of her dress. “But right now…” I pause, slipping down the material being held up by her shoulder until her I can see the brown silk and lace edge of her strapless bra. I lean forward to press my lips to the freshly exposed skin, then move my feet on either side of hers so she’s completely pinned between my body and the messy sheets behind her. “Right now, I’m going to take this dress off you,” I finish, and her lip falls from her teeth as her eyes shut and her head nods slowly.
