In Your Dreams (Falling #4)

by Ginger Scott

  My chest collapses with the sinking of my heart because I know she didn’t bring it up because my life was imploding.

  “I’m all right, Murphy. You should call Noah,” I say.

  Her eyes flit up to me briefly as she moves to the small chair behind my board where she likes to hide. She scratches nervously at her head, then folds her arm across her body, her eyes not quite making it back to mine. “He’s in Nashville, and I’m not so sure I want to relocate on another whim,” she admits.

  “Noah isn’t John,” I clarify quickly. Whatever her apprehension, I’ll find a remedy.

  There’s a worry line in her forehead, and I know it’s because I’ve taken steps away from her. I’ve created distance, and she can tell I’m doing it on purpose. If I touch her, I’ll beg her to stay, because I will miss her. Weak and selfish is in my nature, and I need to fight against it. She can’t make a decision based on us—I’ll fuck that up, and then she’ll be left with nothing. She needs to make a decision based on her heart, and I know she wants this. I read it in that notebook. You don’t write songs like Murphy Sullivan’s without hope that they’ll touch someone who hears them.

  “I’ll think about it,” she says, a faint smile on her lips as her eyes will me to drop it. It’s a lie to get me to quit asking, to get me to come close again.

  I hold her stare until she has to look away. But I watch longer, taking in every single nervous tick and habit she has until she has no choice but to give in and she locks on me again.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about his offer?” I ask, my fingers tight around the cords in my hand, hoping that she says she kept it from me because she’s afraid of taking a risk. I can work with that; I can fill her with confidence again. But if she’s staying for another reason—because of me—

  “You sent him to see me,” she says.

  “I did,” I say.

  “Why?” she asks.

  Because you deserve it. Because I believe in you. Because I didn’t get it right for you the first time, and I have a history of messing up your life.

  Because I love you.

  I think it all, but I don’t say it. I’m afraid if I do it will only make her want to stay here more. She’ll think I’m only trying to make amends, and she’ll dismiss it all as a kind gesture, something sweet for us to build our love on. She’ll stay because of me, but she can’t give up that much. So I shrug and look down again.

  The silence drags on. She fills it with my worst fears.

  “Maybe in a few months, when things aren’t so…crazy,” she says, suddenly on the other side of the table, close enough that her hands reach forward and cover mine. I want to let her soothe me, to just say “okay,” but I glance up and know—if I let her now, it will never stop. I will take and take.

  “He won’t wait forever,” I say, my eyes on her hands. I work hard to keep my tone even, taking a step back to break our touch. I pull my headphones on and turn the other way, because I know if she looks into my eyes she’ll see the truth—that I’m just as afraid of her leaving. Time is her enemy though—my girl needs to be backed into a corner, otherwise she’ll always choose limbo and stay here with me, playing at Paul’s and teaching for pennies while I fill in the role my father vacated and peck away at my own dreams slowly on the side. We’ll both stall, and she’ll never get the spotlight she deserves—the one that is literally waiting for her to stand in it.

  I ready my playlists and ignore her while noticing every single breath she takes. It kills me, but I decidedly act, as Houston would say, more Casey than normal. The club begins to fill, and I say hello to people I barely know. I talk to anyone who passes by that I recognize, showering them with my time and attention, giving them what Murphy desperately wants so that it will eat away at those feelings that are tying her to me. At one point, I see her look to the side and run her palm under her eye, and I feel sick, but I keep putting her last so that way I can put her first.

  When the lighting switches, I go to work, and Murphy excuses herself to the restroom. I nod. I don’t say a word. I watch her walk away and hate every pair of eyes that falls on her body in the crowd, but I give up the right to be jealous. I surrender it all—and by the time she comes back to my booth, the reason why she escaped in the first place clear with the remnants of red puffiness in her eyes—I’m resolved.

  Welcome to the asshole, Murphy. The one who loves you. He’s sorry, but it’s for the best.

  “Hey,” I nod in her direction, urging her to step closer to the board. She bounds up next to me, anxious and full of hope. I crush it in a breath as soon as her eyes ask me “what?”

  “You’re not putting off Noah because of us, are you?” I ask.

  Her expression switches to puzzled and afraid. Her eyes dart to my work, to the lights and screens and people beginning to crowd around us, the space we’re losing.

  “I’m just not…I’m not…not ready,” she says, her stutter stronger than I’ve ever heard. She grinds her back teeth and flexes her jaw in frustration. “It’s not a good time.”

  “Bullshit,” I say, making the word harsh and disgusted, as if I’m tired of her excuses. She winces. I die a little more.

  She inhales, the deepness of the breath lifting her shoulders high as her head falls to the side and her hair tumbles off her shoulder. I think about reaching up with one finger and brushing the rest away. I think about touching her.

  I don’t. I can’t. I shouldn’t.

  “Your father just died, Casey. It hasn’t even been a week. We can talk about this later. It doesn’t have to be now. It can wait,” she says.

  “My father died, Murphy. Mine. Not yours,” I say sternly. My brashness makes her cringe.

  “Fine. Okay, fine!” she says, her hands fisted and shaking at her sides. I can see she’s growing angrier, her eyes tearing a little in mixed emotions. Good. Get angry. Don’t pick me, Murphy. Do not feel loyal. Be greedy.

  “You should go to Nashville,” I say, praying she’s mad enough that she’ll just say yes and leave. Wounds are better when they’re fast. But nothing is that easy.

  “I don’t know,” she shakes her head, looking down, more tears replacing the ones she just dried.

  “Don’t stay here because of us. Noah Jacobs is not going to wait forever. And I’m not worth it, Murphy,” I say. She takes a step into me and her lip quivers.

  I take a step back, but it only makes her completely fall apart.

  “I don’t want to leave you!” she admits, her hand cupping her mouth fast. Hearing her say it out loud is both beautiful and tragic all at once. Her eyes come up to meet mine, and she shakes her head, begging me to ask her to stay, and god…I want to. I can’t bare it any more, and I touch her, grabbing her wrists, placing her fists on my body and running my hands to her shoulders, up her neck, under her eyes. I swipe away fast-falling tears, and she shakes her head, afraid.

  “This is your shot. A real shot. Take it,” I say.

  She shakes her head no. I nod mine yes. She collapses to my chest, and I hold her to me, rocking her slowly as my lips whisper “go” in her ear over and over. We remain like this for long minutes, and she never gives in; neither do I.

  When I have to play through another mix, Murphy retreats to the corner again. She’s wearing her anxieties, their colors showing up all over her body—the grays deeper, her cheeks redder, her lips paler.

  I fill my chest with the club’s dirty air and change the mood, letting sex and music meld into one, the thump deep and hard and felt in my bones. I set everything just right, and make sure I have time before smirking at my girl and luring her to me with the call of my finger. She leaves her things under her chair and comes to me quickly. The control I have over her isn’t good, and it’s the problem.

  It ends now.

  I lead her willing body down from my platform and into the crowd, and pull her to me close enough that I feel the curve of her ass against my body. I lower my head into her neck and taste her one last time, breathing d
eep to remember her perfect scent. If I do this right, I’ll need this memory in order to sleep again.

  My hand starts at her thigh and runs up her leg, fingertips snagging the bunched silkiness of her dress on the way up. Her arms rise above her head automatically, and I follow the line, fingertips grazing the insides of her arms, and my mouth humming just behind her ear. I am temptation—Eve’s apple here for her to eat. I am nothing but a trap.

  “Go to Nashville,” I say, and she shakes her head again.

  “It’s too long. We’d never make it,” she says, her eyes on mine as she turns into me, and I circle my arms around her bare shoulders and tiny frame.

  Thing is, if it were only going to be a few months, I would bet on us and convince her she’s wrong. But I know better. When Murphy leaves, she’s not coming back. She might not believe in herself, but I do. She’s going to be huge, and our run ends here in this club. Now. Because my life—at least for the foreseeable future—is here, with my mom, keeping that promise I made and seeing it through. Then keeping the one I made to myself and finally taking one of those leaps I talk so much about to other people.

  Closing my eyes, I feel her one last time. I guide her hands into the air and move my body against her hips, my hands finding her waist when I know she’s lost to the dance, the sway taking over. We move together as one song shifts into another on my playlist, and from one heartbeat to the next, I step back, leaving nothing but our fingertips connected.

  Her mouth parts as her head falls forward and her eyes land on mine. In a blink, what was moments ago a look of hunger, turns to lament.

  “Go,” I say.

  “I won’t,” she says.

  I grimace and look down at my feet, searching for a better way to do this, but there just isn’t one. The more I beg the firmer she is about staying. Stubborn meets stubborn.

  “I’ll make you,” I nod, not bringing my gaze up to hers completely.

  “You can’t,” she says, and I laugh sadness. I’m sad because I can. I could walk up to the brunette grinding against her friend two feet away, high on ecstasy, and kiss her until Murphy hated me to the core. But I’m too selfish for her to hate me so much and for so long. I only want her to hate me a little.

  “I just want what’s best for you, Murphy. You’ll regret not trying,” I say, one last attempt.

  Her head shake comes fast and her smile seems so sure.

  “I’m happy where I am,” she says, falling back into me. I take her because I’m weak. I hold her for the rest of the night and let her believe she’s won. I kiss her and memorize every curve and scent, and I don’t ask her to go again. She’ll only say no.

  But I will make her go. And she’ll hate me a little…at first.

  I can live with that.

  Murphy

  Not a single call.

  No visits.

  When I go to his apartment, he’s never there, and I can’t bring myself to drive to his mother’s house. They’re mourning; he’s mourning. That’s what I’ve told myself for days. I pictured it finally hitting him, the weight of everything, and then I only wanted to find him more. I started calling, and those calls were unanswered. They were unreturned.

  They were unwanted.

  Those terrible thoughts continue to mix in with the good ones and battle for dominance. One minute I believe he hates me, the next…I hate him.

  I don’t leave messages. He can see it’s me. I have nothing to say, really, other than “Stop!” He’s shutting me out. He said he would make me leave, and I didn’t believe him, but I’m at a crossroads, and for the first time since falling in love with Casey Coffield, I’m considering choosing something else.

  I let the week play out. I drove to the club, knowing he’d be there. But when my name wasn’t on the list of guests to enter early, I knew. I think I knew the last time his lips were on mine days ago that he was saying goodbye. But I just kept saying “No.”

  I’m not sure when no changed to yes, but it did.

  The only thing I’ve gotten from him is a single text.

  Go. We won’t survive it if you don’t.

  I texted back the opposite—over and over. He never replied again.

  The phone rings twice before someone answers, and I’m shell-shocked and afraid sitting in the parking lot of my school—the one I just put in my notice at. Somehow, I speak anyway, and I don’t stutter—not once.

  “Hi, it’s Murphy Sullivan, and I’d like to take you up on your offer. I can be in Nashville in two weeks.”

  His response is warm and melts like butter. “I can’t wait for our future, Miss Sullivan. I suggest you bring your lawyer along to make sure we do this right.”

  My eyes fall closed and my chest deflates; I’m not scared, but I’m also not happy. This feels nothing like it did the first time. I only wish I could talk to Casey about it.

  But then I wouldn’t be doing this if he were here.

  Chapter 19

  One Year Later

  Casey

  “Your sisters are going to be the death of me. Really…truly. I can’t take them. And I can take anything. But they’re constant. They never go away. And oh my god, their opinions—which, hello! Are like, maybe the worst opinions in the history of perspectives ever…”

  I chuckle to myself as I carry the last box to the back room of what is now officially my business office. Paige has been a godsend, which I will never say out loud. More than her design skills—and ability to bargain with the property owner to get me something I could afford—she has been a defense against my siblings.

  Like my father, they all have opinions on this risk I’m taking. They disagree with the location, with the structural integrity of the building, with the proximity to the railroad tracks. Christina didn’t like the contract for the building, but I shook her advice off. Really, this shithole in the warehouse district is the only thing I can afford, and it’s going to be the only thing I can buy for a long time. I was tired of waiting, and if I’d held out for the ten years it would take for me to save for the type of property my sister found acceptable, I would no longer be relevant to the music industry.

  Relevant.

  I shake my head and clear that word. John Maxwell called me relevant, but last I read, he was being sued for plagiarism by at least twenty-seven artists from other labels. Murphy’s name wasn’t one of them, but only because the law turns a blind eye to what he did to her song—crooked and unethical, but legal on the dotted line.

  “I sent them home. I did. I just told them to get out,” Paige says, leaning against the arched doorway to my office space and holding one shoe while she stretches the arch of her foot on the floor. There’s a smudge of cream paint on her cheek, and I motion my hand to it.

  “You’ve got a little something,” I say, and she wipes her hand on her face, only making it bigger. I laugh and scratch at my neck, shaking my head. She scowls and marches to the file cabinet drawer where her purse is stored, pulling out a small makeup mirror to see for herself.

  “Shit, Casey. That’s paint,” she says.

  “I told you…”

  “You told me I had a little something. A little something is like an eyelash or a crumb, not fucking latex,” she says, licking her thumb and rubbing the drying smudge on her skin.

  She exhales and lets her hand fall to the side, dried paint and a red cheek now left behind. “Are we done here for today?” she sighs.

  I chuckle and nod. “Yeah, I think I’m going to spend some time getting files set up. The sound guys are coming tomorrow for the equipment installs, and I want to have everything ready so they can bust that out in a day…” I say, realizing she’s now standing at the door with her purse pulled tightly over her arm, staring at me.

  “So we’re done. I can go,” she confirms, clearly not interested in my evening plans.

  “Yeah, you can go,” I smile.

  She spins before I’m even done speaking and holds her hand up over her head.

  “Bye,” she th
rows in.

  I hear her heels click down the hallway and the door opens and closes with the sound of a small set of bells tied to the handle. This is the first time I’ve been here alone. It’s not the old gas station, but it also doesn’t cost a million dollars and come with underground oil wells that would need some serious time, money, and attention. I looked at fifteen, maybe twenty different properties, and this one was dead last. I almost crossed it off the list. But then the address caught my eye.

  Murphy Lane.

  I’ve never been big on reading into symbolism, or maybe I’ve never slowed down long enough to pay attention. This street, though—it was too obvious to ignore. I drove up with my realtor and something settled in my chest.

  The street is ordinary, and, according to the Coffield sisters, it’s “horribly unsafe.” But I disagree. My mother did, too. There isn’t a lot of traffic, sure, but there’s a certain peacefulness here. There’s a distillery next door to me and the two large warehouses across the street are up for sale. There’s been some talk about converting them into music venues, and I’ve even reached out to one of the owners about lending my time there if he decides to go the club route.

  When I saw this space, I saw a neighborhood on the verge. My sisters pointed out that neighborhoods have people, but my mom was quick to defend, saying this one has ghosts. My sisters pounced on that, but I got what she meant. There’s a spirit about this place. I’m here at just the right time.

  I pull a few files from the last box I carried in and set them on my desk. I don’t have much yet, only some prospective contracts to work with a few people on demos and some editing work to remaster for some small labels who learned about me from Noah, but it’s a start. I have to work out my advertising plan, and it’s going to need to be thin on dollars and fat on creativity. But so far, the grassroots word of mouth has been paying the bills along with a few weekend gigs every month.

  My mother brought my father’s painting by this morning. I kept it turned around against the wall in the corner of my office, not wanting it to become a conversation piece for the rest of my family just yet. My sisters won’t know what it is, though I’m sure they’ll recognize it’s of our mother. The symbolism is deeper for me, though, and that’s why she gave it to me. It’s like righting my father’s path and making amends for the passions he missed out on, though I’ve come to terms with the fact that in his own way, he was very happy and satisfied. I just wish he could have been proud. My mom says that somewhere he is, but I doubt that. And it’s okay.