In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(20)

“Can I get a water?” I ask at the bar, guzzling it down the second the waitress rests the glass on the napkin, my other hand never leaving my pocket and the proof.

I give Steph a nod as she walks down from the stage, and I step up to the stool for my set for the night. I adjust the mic and fix the strap of my guitar around my neck. I close my eyes briefly with my back to the crowd—to Casey—and draw in a deep breath through my nose.

You’re special. Damn it if he doesn’t make me believe it just a little.

I smile as I turn around, even though it’s fake and plastered on. I’m hiding my nerves with extra work tonight. Sometimes, the act is harder.

“Thanks for coming out tonight,” I say, the sound of my own voice in the mic just as startling to my ears as it always is. My eyes settle on my muse—though I swore he wasn’t, he barged his way into the role, just like he does with everything. Green PF Flyers on a boy who demands my attention.

The crowd grows quieter, and I clear my throat lightly. Let’s see how brave I can be.

“This one’s called ‘In Your Dreams, Casey Coffield.’”





Chapter 5





Casey


“Dude, I think maybe you need to quit stalking her at this point,” Houston says. I have the phone tucked between my cheek and shoulder, and it’s giving me a cramp, but I need to lock my car.

I finally claimed my new Craigslist chariot—a 1989 Volkswagen Rabbit. It’s hideous; the locks are old-school push buttons that require keys in holes and shit. It smells like a lawnmower when I drive. I f*cking love it.

“This is the last time I show up on her unannounced; I swear,” I lie. If she turns me down after hearing the sample I made her, there’s no way I’m quitting. In the few days that have passed since I gave her that thumb drive, I’ve mixed two more versions of the song about me.

Houston thinks I have a God complex because I like that I’m the hook in the song, but that’s not it. Her voice is meant to be the center of everything. She’s like one of those singers where you hear them on some awards show one day acoustically and your mind is blown. I like the mix I made last the best, and I want her to hear it. I raced over here the second it was done rendering, and I dumped it on my phone. Houston just happened to catch me leaving my apartment on my way.

“Good luck, man. I have a feeling you’re going to need it,” he chuckles just as I knock twice on her front door.

“You’re supposed to believe in me, *,” I grimace to myself.

“Oh, I believe in your talent. It’s the dumb shit you do in your free time I’m not on board with,” he laughs.

“Ha ha,” I say, crudely before hanging up in time for a guy—maybe he’s a boy?—with messy blond hair and glasses to swing the door wide open.

“Who are you? Are you selling something? We don’t take sol…solis...we don’t want it.” He fires questions right out of the gate. I can tell by the slight lisp and trouble with his speech that he has some kind of disability.

“I’m Casey. I’m friends with Murphy?” I say tentatively. His face lights up the second I speak my name, though.

“Casey Coffield?” he asks.

Shit, she’s really made me famous. At least, in her circle.

“That’s me,” I smile.

He begins laughing, clapping his hands a few times and pushing the door the remaining few inches so it’s opened completely.

“Murphy is working on her face in her room. Come with me. I’ll take you to her,” he says.

I quirk a brow, but my new friend is letting me in, so I don’t question him out loud. I shut the door behind me and think about how he might have let just about anybody in if they said the right name, and it makes me worry a little about Murphy’s safety.

“Murphy!” I think this is her brother. I recognize the way he’s yelling; it’s how I used to call out my sisters’ names.

There’s no answer, so he pushes a door down the hallway open and steps into what must be her room, judging by sheets of music scattered on the floor, an open guitar case and stench of nail polish. I’m a few steps behind him when he starts swaying back and forth and giggling. I understand why when I step through the doorway, too.

Her purple hair is twisted in knots on either side of her head, and there’s a small white bandage across her nose. But that’s not what has me rapt. She’s literally bouncing where she sits, her head bobbing like a drum to whatever beat is pumping loudly in the headphones she has looped under her chin and pressed to her ears with both palms. She’s in a musical nirvana, and it’s both sweet and familiar. Every now and then, she mouths a sound, but never a lyric. She’s into the music of whatever this is—not the words.

We both watch her for a solid twenty seconds before her eyes flutter open at the floor. Her head moves just enough to catch our shadows, though, and she jumps to the center of her bed, bringing her knees in and tossing the heavy headphones at us.

“Lane! Oh my god. Casey! What is he doing here?” Her eyes widen in a flash, dashing between the two of us, and then she freezes, her eyes crossing as they take in whatever the hell is on her nose. She slaps her hand over her face, cupping it.

“Get out!” she shouts, standing, and shooing at us both.