In Your Dreams (Falling #4)

by Ginger Scott

  “I’m sorry,” I say, finally, and her hands touch both sides of my face tenderly.

  “Don’t be,” she says, kissing me again, harder. “Zero regrets,” she says, her nose running along my neck and her lips finding my chest.

  I hold her to me tightly, and as much as I feel her trying to use us to forget about all of the reasons her heart hurts right now, I don’t give in. My body wants her. My fingers ache to touch and feel, but I’ve been the user before. Murphy and I are different, though…we can’t be distractions to one another. We can’t be. Because distractions are disposable, and I don’t know how to think about anything else but her.

  * * *

  When I left Murphy with her car, she promised she’d stay on the list for Paul’s. I made her cross her heart—literally—and I promised to come and sit in the front row. With every ring on my phone, I say a prayer, to a god who has never heard from me, that Murphy keeps her promise. Then again, she’s not the one known for breaking them really.

  “Hello?”

  His voice is nothing like John Maxwell’s, but it’s intimidating all the same. I hardly know him, save for his card left at one of my gigs over a year ago, telling me to “call him.” Noah Jacobs is John Maxwell…only completely not. He’s quiet and thoughtful. When he dangled the carrot for me last summer, he was still off the map. I saw him as nothing more than a slightly-more-together version of me—some chump with a dream of opening up a label.

  Only Noah comes from money. And it turns out he’s more than just a little more together than I am. He’s got his shit figured out completely. I dug his card out of the pile I had in my glove box when I read about him in Rolling Stone a few months ago. I recognized the name—and the list of people dying to work with him. He isn’t big like John, but he will be. And soon.

  “Hi, Noah. I don’t know if you remember me. My name’s Casey Coffield; I deejayed the OSU Alumni party before the bowl game last year…” I don’t even have to finish. He either remembers, or he’s faking it, because I dropped the right event name. Either way, he’s working me so I feel important, and he’s doing it well.

  “Oh yeah, I remember…” he starts. There’s a pause, and I think for a minute I might have him stumped, but he fills it quickly. “You never called.”

  I never did.

  “I’ve been trying to get my own thing going, and…I don’t know…you’re Nashville, I’m OKC…” I fumble through excuses. They’re weak because I leapt at John Maxwell. I wish I could remember that saying about hindsight, because it’s spot on.

  “I do love the Smokies,” he says, his chuckle low and deep. “So tell me, Casey Coffield from the OSU Alumni party…to what do I owe the pleasure of your call now?”

  He knows I’m working for John. And there’s a smugness to his tone that tells me he probably also has an idea exactly what kind of style John uses to run his business. He thinks I want to jump ship, and he’s right. But I’m not jumping anywhere with anyone else ever again. I’m jumping on my own. This call…it’s for her.

  “Respect?” I ask.

  There’s a pause, because he’s not sure I deserve his. I probably don’t—I’m the punk asshole ten years younger than him who thought I knew more. Creatively, I kick everyone’s ass. But Murphy needs good business sense, and she needs someone who believes in her. Noah’s quickly building a brand that doesn’t do bullshit. He’s either in, or he’s out.

  “Respect,” he says, finally. I sense that it’s probably provisional.

  “Any chance you’re in town for the dedication?” I hold my breath and close my eyes.

  They just added about twenty million in skyboxes and luxury shit to the stadium, and I know Noah’s dad is part of that circle who ponied up the cash. My father’s alumni—I check his mail. The flyer could have easily been tossed away in the trash were it not for the fact that my mother saw it and saved it to show my dad, who hates football and will only think it’s a tremendous waste of money. But the date flashed in front of my goddamned photographic eyes—it’s Monday.

  “I am,” Noah says.

  “I have someone in mind that I think you need to see…and I’ve got nothing to gain,” I say. When he tells me to go on, I breathe deeply and give Murphy my best sell, and I promise to forward him the demo—the really hot one Gomez made that technically isn’t my property, because fuck him and fuck John Maxwell.

  And when we’re done, there’s about a fifty-fifty shot I’m going to see Noah somewhere at Paul’s tonight, until that stat falls quickly to zero with my phone call from my sister Christina.

  “Dad’s in a coma,” she says. “He’s been having several small strokes for weeks, it seems. They think this is probably it. He has a DNR, Case. Mom’s…you need to be here.”

  I need to be there.

  I can do this.

  I can’t…do…this.

  Chapter 17

  Murphy

  I should have called Sam. She would have come. But I haven’t told her about my day yet, how everything fell apart in the matter of eleven minutes. She was so proud of me; I’m just not ready to watch her have to backtrack on all of that and pretend that everything is right and for the best. None of this is for the best. Today—walking out on John Maxwell, signing away so much power to him—that was all for the worst.

  The motherfucking worst.

  Casey was going to be here. But he’s not. And I’ve thought about leaving at least a dozen times. Everyone here tonight is so good. They’re always good, and I’m starting to think maybe I’m a delusional hack. John Maxwell could roll out my friend Steph, who’s playing now, and wind up with the exact same record he played for me. Of course, it would still suck, because that Shaw guy is shit awful.

  “You about ready, Murph?” Eddie asks, tapping his fingers against my upper shoulder as if I’m a piano. I jump in surprise but deflate quickly.

  “Yeah, I’m ready whenever, Eddie,” I say.

  He pauses in front of my dangling legs along the back table while he pushes his tie closer to his neck and straightens his lapel.

  “Half of anything we do in this world is show, Murph. I’m not sure what’s chewing at your insides right now, but how about for the next ten minutes, you get up there and show ’em your best smile, huh?” He bends his head down to catch my eyes.

  I chuckle and take a deep breath, pushing off from the table and tugging my guitar strap over my body.

  “That’s good advice, sir. You got a deal,” I wink and force my cheeks to dimple.

  “Ah that’s my girl,” he smiles back, taking a few steps toward the stage to help Steph off and announce me next. “And it’s better advice than you think.”

  There are a lot of things that are better advice than I think. There are a lot of things that are worse advice, too. The trouble is telling them apart. Smiles are harmless, though, so I keep it plastered on my face, and when Eddie calls my name, I give my familiar crowd at Paul’s a very friendly wave. These are my people. Baskets of food, retired couples dancing, a few stray college kids who prefer light crowds to sweaty clubs—all my beautiful, wonderfully introverted people.

  “Good evening,” I say, adjusting the level of my mic so I can stand rather than sit on the stool I usually hide on. Maybe I’m still angry, or maybe I just want a little change—perhaps I’m finally so comfortable playing at Paul’s that I no longer need the four-legged barstool crutch. Whatever it is, I carry it to the side and Eddie runs up to take it from me.

  “Sorry, I just…I kind of felt like standin’ tonight,” I say through light laughter. Nobody’s really listening yet, minus the older couples at the tables near the front.

  “I’ve got a few new things I’d like to try for you, if that’s okay,” I say, tuning and adjusting to my sound on the stage. “It’s called ‘Boxes.’”

  My fingers find their newly familiar place, and I close my eyes and imagine I’m in my dad’s hangar, with Casey cheering me on. I only play the intro through once before I’m ready—the way it�
��s meant to go—and I sing with the force of everything that’s still lit up in my chest and belly. I open my eyes and look people in theirs. I make people feel, and I pull them in and take them with me, until they begin to clap with my rhythm and I can’t help but pick up speed and play harder.

  It’s not exactly how the song is supposed to go, or maybe it is. Maybe this is what was missing—connection. I play the final verse through one extra time, improvising, because I’m having such a good time and I don’t want the feeling to end. I roll my vibe right into another new song, then two or three covers, going a good ten minutes over the time I’m given. Nobody stops me.

  The cheering at Paul’s is usually polite. When I play the Casey song, I get the clapping and whistles, but that’s because people recognize that song now. I didn’t touch it tonight, because it’s officially retired, and yet they whistled all the same. They stood, and two people shook my hand as I stepped from the stage. Steph hugged me, and I let her. I hugged back.

  That felt…that all felt amazing.

  Only Casey…he missed it all.

  I put my guitar away half paying attention to how I put it in the case. My eyes are busy running over the crowd, searching in dark corners—anticipating. He isn’t here. And there’s no message on my phone. I’m worried.

  “Murphy Sullivan?” a man asks, his accent the thick kind that belongs to someone from a family who has lived in Stillwater their entire lives. I recognize it because my father has that accent, too.

  “That’s me,” I say, looking over his shoulder, still expecting.

  “That was pretty impressive stuff. Those originals—those all yours?” he asks, his hands moving into the pockets of his gray suit jacket. It seems expensive. I narrow my eyes on him, suspicious, and scan down his body—a Harley Davidson T-shirt on under his jacket, Wranglers on his legs and cowboy boots on his feet.

  “They sure are,” I say, flitting my eyes to his, hand on my hip. “And they’re not for sale.”

  His head cocks to the side a tick and his left eye squints as a slow smirk takes over his lips. He reaches out a hand, and I stare at it for a few long seconds before I shake. When our palms meet, I shake with a tight grasp, like that girl Paige did. When he looks down at our grip, I smile with tight lips and he nods at my nonverbal sign that this girl—she’s not going to be taken advantage of.

  “I’m Noah Jacobs,” he says, reaching into his jacket front and hauling out a wallet stamped with the OSU Cowboy mascot.

  I’m about to say “I bet you are,” just to keep my guard up and my gates drawn, when he adds one more little piece of information.

  “Casey Coffield told me I should stop in here tonight…I see why,” he says, stepping back and leaning to sit on the table.

  Casey. Who isn’t here. I must appear confused, because Noah chuckles silently and folds his arms over his chest and looks at the tips of his boots.

  “You didn’t know I was here,” he says.

  I shake my head. “I don’t even know who you are,” I say, drawing my lips in tight. My chest squeezes as stress begins to chip away at my temporary bravado. Shit, I bet he’s important. I’m two-for-two today.

  He reaches into his coat again and pulls out a well-worn pack of gum, slipping out a stick and then stretching his hand forward in an offer to me.

  “No thanks,” I say, truly baffled.

  “I’m quitting smoking. I’m on four days now, and bars…” he raises his brow and looks around. The man is enormous, at least six-foot-four. “Bars are hard,” he grins, unwrapping his slice of spearmint and popping it in between his teeth.

  “I’m sorry. Is Casey…is he coming?” I say, awkwardly resting back on the table behind me and knocking my guitar case to the ground. “Damn,” I mutter under my breath, pulling it back upright and catching Noah’s amused expression.

  “I guess he’s not,” he says, his mouth working at his gum like an addict. I’d say he has a long road ahead of him in the whole quitting smoking thing.

  “Oh,” I say, still confused. I look down at his card in my hand. It’s simple, but the paper is nice and the print is classic. Noah Jacobs and a phone number.

  “I can call him. If you were supposed to meet him here? He has some family things going on, but I’m sure he would have been here if he could have…” I start to defend my guy.

  I stop when I notice him laughing silently and scratching at his stubbled chin.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologize. I’m not quite sure what for, but it feels warranted.

  “Murphy Sullivan,” he says my name again, pushing from the table to a complete, towering stand. He nods through a smile as he squares with me, and I struggle to make myself taller. “Casey didn’t come, and you have no idea who I am…do I have that correct?”

  My lungs are empty, but I manage to utter a “Yes.”

  “Good,” he says, pointing to the card in my hand. “That’s…well…that’s real good, Murphy.”

  “Okay,” I say, not completely on board with his assertion of the last few minutes of our talk. Not sure how anything over the last twelve hours is really good, let alone everything that’s happened since he said my name. “How?” I say, surprised to hear my thoughts out loud. Too late now.

  He chuckles. I’m glad I amuse him.

  “That means Casey is a man of his word—he’s got no juice in this,” he says, waving a hand up to the stage and then at my guitar. “And…it means you were that good without even trying.”

  I take in a quick, sharp breath, then freeze.

  “How do you feel about Nashville?” he asks.

  I don’t feel about anything right now, but I manage to utter a decent response.

  “I like it. My cousin lives there. The weather’s sketchy, but…” Okay, less than decent, but a response.

  He smiles, pulling out his pack of gum and adding to the distraction in his mouth with one more piece.

  “That’s where I work, Murphy. And I’m bold and aggressive. And I don’t compromise on people,” he pauses, eyes closing in and his mouth curving fondly. He isn’t a sexy man, but damn can he play the part. “Call me…soon. I’d like you to come to Nashville.”

  He pats his hand along the top of the chair nearby, then takes a few steps backward, his eyes still on me as I try to piece together his card and Nashville and then…oh my god…

  “Let’s make a record. Me and you. And let’s make it sound…just…like…that,” he points to the stage, where I was, where I had the most fun I’ve ever had playing my songs.

  His back is to me a blink later, and within two more, he’s out the door. I don’t move from the place my feet are glued for at least ten minutes, only half listening to Steph talk about what she’d like to play next week and ask if I’m signing up again for Saturday. I tell her I will. Only, when I pull my guitar to my body and gather my things, I walk in the opposite direction of the comfortable and easy yellow notebook. I don’t write my name, because I’m not so sure I’ll be here next week.

  “Bet you’re glad I made you smile up there, aren’t you Murphy girl,” Eddie says, coughing mid laugh as I pass him at the door. Our eyes meet and I question him with my look. Eddie knows who Noah Jacobs is, and I’m going to find out soon.

  As soon as I can figure out where the hell Casey is.

  Casey

  Ending a life is complicated.

  That sounds so flippant. As if I’m not really here for any of this. I’m making it analytical. That’s what my sisters are saying, at least. Of course it’s complicated. It’s souls and debates and choosing sides and respecting wishes and…I volunteered to be the judge. I was the only name on the ballot.

  He knew this needed to be me. As pragmatic as the rest of them are, they come at things with arguments for their own personal theories. As unloving as our relationship may have been, I still come at my father’s death with feelings—his feelings, my sisters’ feelings, my mother’s. I choose what is right based on his wishes, and then I work like hell to make it
okay with everybody else.

  It’s exhausting, and it’s killing me…and it isn’t even really time for the hard choices yet. That time is coming. It looms around the corner, death rearing its ugly head, crooked fingers begging me forward and asking permission to take.

  Take, take, take!

  I sent everyone away. My sisters weren’t helping, and my mother wasn’t coping. My parents’ room has become an ICU in a matter of hours, and there are people coming and going on a constant basis. I simply sign forms. I think that’s my only role in life now—to sign forms on behalf of my father.

  Don’t listen to Annalisa. She’s not mature enough to handle this.

  That was the last text I got from my middle sister, Myra. Their bickering and opinions keep coming even though I sent them away. The noise is nonstop—they’re like hyenas. None of them wanted this job, though. They want it by proxy—like a fucking senate that will spin its way out of responsibility if I make the wrong move in the end. This will become my legacy—the choice I live with.

  Only it’s not. My father was very specific. I’ve read everything, and there is a very precise moment that is going to come when my father is going to want everyone to just stop.

  Going to want. Even having that thought guts me, because he doesn’t want anything. His brain activity is the great barometer for everything that comes next, and as with all other things in this nightmare journey, those results are in the long list of things I’m waiting for—even though I already know that my father is gone.

  My mother took two Xanax and is fast asleep now in my old room. I haven’t been to my apartment for actual sleep in so long, I forget what my bed and sheets feel like. And thinking of them only makes me crave Murphy, because the few hours I have been there have been with her. She was probably looking all over for me tonight. I wasn’t there, and that kills me. I haven’t even had a second to breathe, and I knew she’d be on stage at some point over the last two hours. On the off chance that my plan worked, I didn’t want to interrupt. This had to be about her, and only her. In fact, it’s probably best that I wasn’t there at all.