In Your Dreams

by Ginger Scott

  “Mine was still worse, though,” she says, her voice light and unsteady.

  “I swear you’ll like it. Please, just listen…wait…” I stop my begging. “I win?”

  I’m all awkward and flustered, and I hate feeling this way. This chick is like my antidote, only the opposite of an antidote. I guess that makes her my poison. Shit.

  “Give me the damn song, Casey,” she says, her mouth a hard line. I don’t question her, and I slap my phone into her palm, my eyes on her while she pushes her headphones into the jack on the bottom, pulling them around her ears. Her lip ticks up, and I catch her working to hide it under a different expression. But I catch it—it’s there. She wants to hear this song, and she’s playing me, too.

  Let her play. I know she’ll love what she hears.

  She holds my phone out for direction, and I swipe to the app and open the file—the one I love best. I can tell by the small flickers in her eyelids that it’s playing, and I can tell she’s reached the best part when her gaze moves up in short ticks to meet mine. The volume is loud—I did that on purpose. She can’t hear me, and she can’t hear the sounds she’s making. Her breathing changes, and it hitches when she gets to the best parts—my favorite a tiny break in her voice where I cut out everything in the background completely, just to leave her sound out there bare and vulnerable. If I hadn’t heard it a thousand times in editing, it would give me chills right now.

  Damn, it still does.

  Her bottom lip pulls loose from her teeth with a tiny puff of air, and her eyes sweep shut. I’m standing in front of her and I feel like I should touch her, hold her hand or dance or…I don’t know. I also feel a little voyeuristic—like I shouldn’t be watching. She’s listening to herself, but she’s also hearing me—the real me. She’s hearing what I’m capable of. The reason I found courage to tell my father no, the reason I let my family down to choose my own path, the reason I don’t care how much it disappoints them. This girl is the key to everything I want to do. She’s barely swaying in front of me, her eyes closed and my phone clutched in her palm, my dreams held right along with them.

  “I know you like the song, Murphy. Please just trust me,” I whisper. I know she can’t hear me, but her eyes fly open and match mine. My fingers twitch, and I press my thumbs against each fingertip one at a time trying to work out the sensation.

  A full minute passes, and I know the song is almost over as she moves her hand up to the cans of her headphones, cupping them and sliding them down against her neck. Her eyes blink slowly, her gaze off to the side, and her lips not giving away a damn thing. She’s an enigma.

  She’s beautiful.

  If my music had a physical form, I think it might just be her.

  “This label, or studio, or whatever it is,” she says, eyes flashing to mine. She knows what it is. She’s pretending to be aloof. I’m going to let her.

  “It’s both. John Maxwell—he’s both. He’s…he’s big,” I answer fast.

  “And you work there?” she asks, her expression still unchanged.

  “Yes, Murphy. I work there,” I answer, suppressing the inner voice adding that I’ve been there for three days, and so far have sat in on one very intimidating meeting and have pulled tapes and samples from old hard drives in a dirty basement.

  “Okay,” she says.

  I nod, not really sure what okay means. Okay, you can pitch my song, play my demo, make her famous? Or, okay, good for you for getting a job Casey, now get the fuck out of my house?

  “When will you know?” she asks, her mouth moving slightly upward. It’s almost a smile. It’s enough of a smile.

  “I’ll pitch it this week. And then we’ll just see,” I say, my heart beginning to pound on adrenaline.

  “Alright,” she says, her voice breaking with a small giggle. That sound—it’s her getting excited. That’s her giving me a shot, her own hope on the line.

  “Alright,” I repeat, my right side of my mouth leading my left one into a full cheek-aching grin.

  “Oh my god,” she breathes out, bringing her hands to cup her mouth, my phone still held in them.

  “You can call me Casey,” I say, causing her to roll her eyes. It also makes her relax, her shoulders falling back into place. I reach to her hand, and she gets stiff before realizing I’m reaching for my phone.

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry,” she says, handing it to me.

  “Don’t be. You’ve made my day, Murphy Sullivan,” I smile. Our eyes lock briefly, the awkward pause making her cheeks turn red. I can’t see myself, but I think I might be red, too.

  “No pressure,” she giggles again, stepping closer to her door. I know I should leave. I’ve gotten what I came for, but now that I have it…

  “Dinner,” I blurt as I reach her door. “I…I was planning on grabbing a bite when I left your house, if you’d like to come. We could talk about the song, oh…and I should probably get a better recording of the original to mix. We should meet in the studio, maybe tomorrow. Or at my place—I have equipment. That might be faster—”

  “I’m not interested in you, Casey,” she cuts in, her rejection swift and harsh. I’m at a loss for words. The paddles are back on my chest, but this time it’s not for explosions and fireworks. This time, I think I just died. I’ve never really felt foolish before. My dad—he’s made me feel small; he’s made me feel scared, or like a screw-up. But right now—I feel like an idiot. “We’re just partnering on this song. That’s…that’s it,” she stammers out.

  Her eyes flit from me and dance around the room. She swallows away about a thousand pounds of tension as she takes a nervous step back.

  “Right,” I say, a slight shake to my head. The heat around my face is intense. “Uhm…I only meant business. I want to pitch the best quality recording, and I ripped that one from the YouTube video, so…”

  “Right,” she blinks and laughs nervously. A minute ago, I thought her nervous laughter was cute, but right now—my chest still heavy with the brakes she put on me—I kinda resent it. “Recording is probably smart. Tomorrow is okay, after I’m done with class. Just tell me where,” she says.

  I think she might feel bad. I’m pretty sure I feel worse, though. Maybe I was just taken with the song and her dream. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I didn’t really feel butterflies at all.

  “What’s your number?” I ask, back to all business. I can’t look her in her eyes anymore. And I can’t really smile. I’m shit at faking it.

  She hesitates, and the battle she’s having with herself in front of me over giving me her number is making my palms sweat. You’d think I was some goddamn creeper praying on teens at the roller rink.

  “Murphy, this is business for me too. Frankly, you’re not my type. So quit thinking I’m out to get you in bed and just give me your damn number,” I say, regretting it the second I see her eyes tear up and widen in a flash. I open my mouth to fix it, but then my brain kicks in, knowing it’s better leaving that line in place—despite how tactlessly I drew it. I shut my mouth and keep the million I’m sorrys begging to spill out tucked deep inside. I say one in my head, though, to the sad gray eyes that now look like they regret ever saying yes to me at all.

  “Right,” she swallows. “Here,” she says, taking my phone back into her now trembling hands. She types her number nervously and sends herself a text.

  “Good, now you have mine, too,” I say. She nods, but won’t fully look at me. This is what Houston was talking about when he said too much Casey. Though, the voice that came out of me…it kind of sounded like my father’s.

  “I’ll call you when I’m done with class, and you can give me directions, or whatever,” she says, turning from me, flitting her hand over her shoulder as if our meeting again is no big deal. A voice in the back of my head tells me to rush over to her and grab her hand before she can take it away. My feet stay put.

  In a matter of seconds, I’ve given this girl all the confidence in the world and stripped her of it just as fast. What a fucking asshole
. I’m not even sure how to write this one down on my personal list of flaws. But I know it’s at the top.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” I say, trying to sound softer. As if that can some how make up for my bad reaction to what was probably just her being nervous.

  She nods, her lips tight. She’s gone back to giving me nothing. But she hasn’t changed her mind. This dream is bigger for her too, whether or not she wants to admit it. Our dreams are bigger than butterflies, so whatever it is that just happened—it’s probably for the best.

  “Great, I’ll see you tomorrow then,” I say, backing out through her door, patting the frame once. I pause waiting to see if she looks my way one last time. She doesn’t. My chest burns a little.

  I can hear the television on some travel show in the living room as I pass, her brother repeating things, almost as if he’s making a mental list of the many places he’d like to go. I wonder what life is like in this house when it’s full; when her parents are home, too? I bet there’s even more of this feeling—of family. I wonder if it’s always felt so beautiful, and full of simple joys. I wonder if that feeling will come back for Murphy the second I leave.

  I hope so. I hope I’m not stealing it from her by taking her voice. I’ll give it back when I’m done. I swear it; I’ll give it all back.

  I’m not sure how much of me I’m going to lose in the meantime, though. That’s the thing—if she were my type, I’d know exactly how this all plays out. Instead, I haven’t got a clue. But I have a song. And I’m going to get it in John Maxwell’s ears if it kills me.

  Chapter 6

  Murphy

  “You should bring coffee. Stop somewhere and pick up one of those drink carriers and bring in two black, one caramel, and one light,” Sam’s voice echoes from the phone in my lap. I don’t have Bluetooth, but I hate holding the phone when I drive—even for my best friend.

  “How are you the expert on this? Why would I bring coffee? And what’s with that list of flavors? What if there are five people there?” I ask my barrage of questions with my forehead wrinkled. I glance at the directions on the Post-it that is stuck—scratch that—has just fallen from my dashboard to the passenger side floor.

  “Uhm, I’m a secretary? Hello! I do this for the ad execs here at the paper every Wednesday before the big meeting, and I always only get four. My boss says they are for the four most important people in the room.”

  Sam has been working as an assistant at the Oklahoman since graduation. Her degree is in finance, but she really doesn’t know what to do with it. I feel like coffee delivery might be selling her skills short, but she’s happy, so I keep my mouth shut.

  “Right, well…I’m not so sure I want to set the precedent that I’m here to bring them coffee—no offense,” I throw in.

  “Whatevs,” she says. “But you’re going to wish you had coffee.”

  I drive in between the iron gates in the back of a two-story building made of tinted glass, the undercarriage of my car scraping the curb as I roll in. Always making an entrance.

  “Sam, I’m here. I gotta go,” I say, hanging up after her short “Kay” and tossing my phone into my open purse in the passenger seat.

  I have a feeling Casey is the only one who knows I’m coming here. It’s after five, and I bet when Grammy winners have an appointment at John Maxwell’s studio, they get a late morning timeslot—and reserved parking in the front. I pull up to a bunch of guys in blue overalls, smoking. I think it’s probably the cleaning staff.

  “This is nuts,” I whisper to myself.

  For a second, I consider backing out—a three-point turn, as if I came in here just to flip around—but Casey swings open the back door and heads right to my car. Pulling away will look really strange now. And he’d probably just chase me on foot.

  Deep breath.

  “Hey,” I say, opening my door. He takes over, swinging it wide and reaching for my hand. I look at his palm and let out a small laugh.

  “What? I can actually be a gentleman, you know,” he says.

  I glare at his lips, the way they purse and smile only on one side. He gets a dimple when I tease him. I have to admit…I like it.

  “Fair enough,” I shrug, taking his help. His hand is warm and it covers mine completely. The full touch startles me a little, and I stumble as I climb boot over awkward boot out of my car. Casey catches me by my elbow, and my face slams into his chest. That’s warm too.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I…I’m a little nervous.”

  I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut.

  “It’s fine. Everyone’s gone,” he says.

  I knew it!

  “Oh, are we…allowed to be here?” I ask, my stomach thumping with the beat of my heart. I’m not good at breaking rules. I play by the book. I’m a book player.

  “Relax, I got permission,” he sighs. “That’s why it had to be late. They have someone coming into the other studio all night, and they’re booked tomorrow completely, so this was our only shot.”

  “Oh, good,” I say through a whoosh of air.

  I move to the trunk and pull out my guitar, looping the case over my shoulder, then grab my purse from the passenger side and follow Casey to the door. He holds up a badge against a small metal plate that beeps to let us in; then he holds the door wide for me.

  “Here, let me take that,” he says, reaching for my guitar. Nervously, I grip it fast to my side and shake my head.

  “I’m good. It…it makes me less nervous to carry it. Makes me look legit, like I have a reason to be here…that’s all,” I say, my cheeks burning a little.

  “All right,” he chuckles, a slight shake of his head.

  The door shuts behind us and he slides by me in the narrow hallway, his body brushing against mine one more time. I need to quit noticing that. But then again, Casey Coffield was always good looking. He’s built like a bouncer, and I don’t think he owns a single shirt that doesn’t cut perfectly against his chest and abs. He always has a hat or a beanie hanging out of his back pocket, too—when it’s not on his head. That hair is in a constant state of tousled, and well hell, that’s appealing too.

  But this is a business relationship. He made that perfectly clear. I suppose…so did I. Which is perfect, since the very thought of Casey—and his personality and most of his circle of friends, Houston excluded—has always annoyed the shit out of me. I need to remember all of those things. The grating character traits. The way he uses his brash humor and forced charm to get his way. That’s right—he needs me. I’m in charge here. I call the shots!

  “So, let’s get started,” I say, my voice loud and confident as I step into the soundproof door of a small studio room at the end of the hallway. My guitar case scratches against the nearby console. As I turn, it knocks over a rack of headphones. I reach to catch them, snagging my purse on the arm of a rolling chair, which both opens my purse wide, spilling my things all over the floor, and has the equal effect of slingshotting the chair into the glass wall of the sound booth. It all ends with a thunderous crack—that somehow doesn’t leave behind any permanent damage.

  That’s right. I’m in charge.

  My eyes are wide and frozen on Casey, waiting for him to react. His are just as wide as he runs both hands along his stubble-covered cheeks and looks around the room that I’ve now knocked to bits and pieces.

  “I’m so sorry,” I blurt out quickly, dropping my last hold on my purse strap and moving to my knees to gather back my lipstick, hair pins, roll of Tums and…motherfuck there’s a tampon.

  “It’s okay,” he says, bending down and picking up a few stray pens and my notebook. I can’t find my keys, and I start to panic, pacing around the very small space, my eyes on the floor and my hands at my forehead.

  Casey chuckles.

  “Murphy, really. It’s fine. Stuff in here is meant to withstand rock stars and metal bands. Look, it’s all cleaned up,” he says.

  “Yeah, but my keys. Shit…I don’t know where my keys went,” I sa
y, walking in fast circles and looking in nooks and crannies as if my keys somehow took flight, grew legs and walked into a crevice somewhere.

  “Uh…Murph?”

  Casey tugs at my thumb, which is pressed against my forehead, along with my…keys.

  “Oh my god,” I roll my eyes, flickering them shut momentarily.

  I am not in charge.

  “Relax,” he says, his hand resting on my shoulder. His hand is still warm. He’s made of heat. That’s his superpower. Fire. He makes fire.

  Breathe, Murphy.

  I let a gradual pass of air drag out through my lips and nose, then inhale again slowly. I’m using the laws of biology, and my heart finally slows enough that I can hear my own thoughts again.

  “Look, I’m allowed to be here. People know you’re here. I reserved time to work on a personal project. I haven’t even mentioned your song to John yet. I wanted the recording to be ready first. So, this afternoon…it’s just me and you hanging out. It’s no big deal,” he says, punctuating it with a crooked smile. I swear his tooth just gleamed out a flare.

  Just me and him hanging out. No big deal.

  “Okay,” I say, nodding with a tight smile. It still feels like a big deal.

  “How about we set you up and get something on digital?” he asks, eyebrow ticked upward. I nod again and pick up my guitar case, resting it on the arms of the chair I just made into a weapon. I pull my guitar out and step through the glass door he’s holding open, then sit on the small stool in front of a mic, and the visual of exactly where I am makes my body flush.

  “I don’t know, Casey…” I slouch and let the strap weigh on my shoulder again.