In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(16)
“Look,” he swallows, glancing down, then up at me again, a slender smirk to his lips. It’s charming. It’s goddamned charming. I shake my head because I think of all the times he’s probably gotten his way with this single expression. Well, it’s not working with me. Nope…
“I’m working with John Maxwell,” he starts, and that little bit…well that’s different. John Maxwell is famous, and he makes records. My kind of records. I take a short breath and let him finish.
“I do a lot of recording, mixing and studio stuff. I think I can help you. The YouTube hits—I can turn that into a million, two million—more. I know I can. I’ve heard you. You’re…you’re special, Murphy. Just…here, take my card.”
He fishes into his back pocket and pulls out a bent business card that looks like he ran it off of a home computer. I glance at it and run my thumb over his name and number, looking up again at the sound of his voice.
“I’m just like you. I’m trying to find my place in this business, and I just think we can help each other,” he says, his head falling against the frame of my doorway. I laugh out of reflex.
“You are hardly like me, Casey,” I say through the laughter. His mouth twitches at the sound of his name, and his eyes snap to mine. I don’t think I ever really looked at them when we were younger, and I wonder if they’re different now, or if they were always so perfectly symmetrical and dark. I still don’t trust them, but I concede—they have a certain something.
He sighs slowly, his mouth tugging up on the corner in an acknowledging smile.
“Yeah, in most ways…we’re probably different,” he says, his gaze drifting to the side before coming to me again with a little more softness.
“But in this way,” he gestures toward my guitar—his fingertips landing on the case I’m holding between me, the door, and him—and tapping. It’s almost as if he touched me, the tender way his finger runs along the side of the case then falls away. And damn, the eyes come to me again. I’m being seduced. I flex my legs and arms again and straighten my posture, digging in. I’m stronger than this. “Musically, we’re the same. And I can help you. Please, just…just think about it.”
I search his face for several seconds until the relentless pounding of my heart begins to take over, so I nod once and hold his card in front of my face so I have something sterile to look at. Right now, all I want is for him to get off my porch so I can think and feel rational.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, closing the door as he nods with a smile, taking a step back. I hold my breath, and for the briefest second, my arms tingle from that one single glance he gives me.
I lean my forehead against the door and peer through the peephole to watch him leave, and he does, maybe even a slight skip to his step. He’s hopeful, and I have a feeling he might also be persistent.
This visit. Him finding me. His interest. It’s all selfish. It’s all exactly what I expect from Casey Coffield. But, and I hate to admit it, it also felt really nice to hear him say I’m special.
Chapter 4
Casey
“So, let me get this right. You didn’t get your car today, and instead, you wrecked mine,” Houston says, his hand doing that rubbing thing it does on his forehead.
“I’d hardly call it wrecked,” I say, kneeling in his driveway, pointing toward the deep scratch. I squint because the scratch looks less awful when I do that. I suppose I can’t ask him to squint when he looks at it. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll pay for it.”
“Oh, I know you will,” Houston says.
I’m going to find a way to fix both of the dents—Murphy’s and Houston’s. I just don’t want to talk about it, because I’m not sure when I’ll be able to afford it, and I don’t want to have a looming deadline. I hate blowing expectations. I do it a hell of a lot. My debt to Houston is probably un-repayable. Sometimes, I lie awake at night and think about all the things I owe him, only to get up the next morning and take so I can owe him more. I’m like an addict for his kindness.
I follow him inside, where his mom and daughter are busy at the kitchen counter baking cookies. Leah’s a sweet kid. She calls me Uncle; sometimes I wonder if I’ll like my real nieces and nephews as well as my pretend one—when my sisters finally have kids.
“What are we making in here?” I say, startling Leah where she stands on the chair next to Joyce, Houston’s mom.
“Uncle Casey!” Her arms ring me, and I lift her from the chair to swing her around before putting her right back in place. My heart melts every time. This…this unconditional love that comes from every direction of this house—it’s why I come here.
“We’re making homemade cinnamon rolls for the church, but I imagine there may just be a few extra left behind,” Joyce says with a wink.
“You spoil me, Joyce Orr,” I say, kissing her on the cheek and dipping my finger in the frosting as I leave. She swats my knuckles. Damn…she’s fast.
“Everyone spoils you,” Houston says, sliding his school bag into the small nook by their front door. I make a mocking face to him, whispering his words in the voice I put on when I imitate him, which doesn’t faze him. Probably because he’s right—everyone spoils me.