In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(29)

I collapse in the rolling chair next to him—the match to my nemesis chair—and let out a puff. My shoulders hurt from scrunching, but I did it.

“Wanna listen?” he says, his right lip tugged up as his eyes sway to me. I nod, and he tugs my chair closer, plugging in a second set of headphones, handing them to me. I put them on and try not to notice the fact that my knee bumped into his—and just like the rest of him, it’s warm.

“I’m still going to do more layering, but here’s the general idea,” he says, his voice still loud from the music playing in his ears. “Sorry,” he laughs.

“It’s okay,” I smile.

Our headsets go silent as he drags the song back to the beginning, then I count out just as I do in the booth and wait to hear my own voice begin. I can’t look at him just yet. It feels oddly personal—both of us listening to me sing about him. Not that it’s about him, but it’s a little about him. It sounds so unreal. I don’t sound like this. This girl, the one playing back to me, is a professional. If I weren’t here to witness everything, I’d swear sleight-of-hand occurred. But it didn’t. This is just the me that Casey brings out.

He’s right about one thing. He’s good at what he does.

We get to the part with the pause—the dramatic break before the chorus—and then something amazing happens. There’s my breath. It’s so real and beautiful and raw. He left that in there…from the last take. I can’t help it and my eyes fly to his, and I’m startled when I find they’re waiting for me.

“You like that,” he smiles.

“I do!” I say, realizing I’m yelling too. We’re alone in here, though. And we both have the music playing loud in our ears.

“I was so excited when you did that. I pulled it out and was like oh yeah,” he says, lifting his feet from the floor and pushing himself to spin around once in his chair. The cord wraps around his body, so he shimmies his feet against the floor in the opposite direction to unwind it.

I giggle, and cover my mouth when I realize. He narrows his eyes on me, smirking, then pushes the arm of my chair around so I loop in a circle too, then he stands and begins wrapping more of the cord around my arms and head, crossing over my nose and eyes.

“Untangle me,” I laugh, fighting to free myself.

“Not until you admit it,” he says, spinning my chair one last time, hard enough that my headphones unplug and the sound of me singing breaks into the air of the studio. I look up and my mouth falls open, but slowly works into a smile.

“Admit what?” I ask, my hands outstretched, but only the few inches they can reach being pinned to my sides with cable cord. He’s teasing me. I’m teasing back. I’ve left the back row and stepped into the spotlight just now and it’s not scary. It’s nice.

“That you’re special. Listen to that…and tell me you’re not,” he says, resting against the small desk by the console and folding his arms over his chest.

“I’m…” I begin, a small shake of my head. My own voice hits the final notes of the song, and the beat slows. I’m the blueprint. Casey is the artist. “I’m grateful.”

His head sags to the left and his eyes blink once slowly before coming to rest on me again. Being tied up—though I know I can easily escape—and under his scrutiny, does something to me, and the longer his eyes stay set on mine, the hotter I become.

“What?” I finally ask, looking down, my neck what is I’m sure the color of a beet.

“You’re something,” he says, reaching out a leg and nudging my chair an inch or two away from him. I shrug.

“Can you untangle me?” I plead.

He lets out a heavy, exaggerated sigh.

“Oh, I suppose,” he says, unwinding me and draping the cord lightly around my body until I’m free.

When his phone buzzes on the console, I take the opportunity to stand and work out some of the nervous energy in my legs and arms. With my back to him, I shake my head one more time in disbelief.

“So, what happens now?” I ask.

“Uhhhh,” Casey begins. I turn to see him squinting at his phone, reading something. He puts it down where it was and begins shutting off controls, clearly affected by whatever he read. “I need to get time with John. Which…don’t worry. I will.”

“Okay,” I say.

He’s moved into a rather manic mode, cleaning up the studio and making sure things are shut off and put back in place, so I turn my attention to my guitar, opening my case and putting it away.

“Does he listen to things right away?” I ask, my eyes noting how agitated he’s become. He’s nervous about something. Shit…I bet we really aren’t supposed to be here.

Casey’s stepped into the sound booth now and is looking over things in there, moving the mic back in place and scanning the floor and the outlets. He rubs his chin as he stands in the center of the room, his eyes down and looking at nothing. He’s rattled. He pulls his hat off and scratches at his head before glancing up and realizing I’m watching. Only then does he force a smile back in place.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asks, but his smile isn’t a solid one.

“Nothing, was just wondering how long he takes to listen. I’m patient though…” I say as he locks up the small sound booth.