In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(45)
I whisper that last part.
Maybe he said okay. Maybe he said fine. It doesn’t matter what his response was, because I made my way into my room without having to crack an eyelid until I flung myself face first into my mattress and screamed into my pillow with a mixture of frustration, humiliation, and call-your-best-friend euphoria.
Appears my song was slightly prophetic, only I had a few things wrong. We’re not in his dreams. My dreams, however, and Casey Coffield, seem to have collided.
Casey
If she only knew how many times I drove by her house this week. Monday’s excuse was that I had a dinner meeting in Archfield and was just stopping by. There was no dinner, and my car never stopped, because I’m a chicken shit.
On Tuesday, I drove by earlier in the day, because I didn’t have work at the studio. I was up late at the coffee house with Eli playing chess the night before, and that always makes me feel mature and quixotic. I thought I’d just drive right to her house and talk about what happened, like grown adults. I never made it past the stop sign on her corner.
Wednesday was another concocted excuse, something about needing to rerecord that night to fix something on her demo. I only made it halfway to her town from the city before talking myself out of that bad idea; it would have plagued her self-esteem.
I was ready to try again yesterday, but then John told me he’d take my samples home Friday, so instead, I rushed home and spent all night making sure everything was perfect on her song.
I really have a gig tonight. And the thought of having her see me in my element gives me this mental edge that, for some reason, I need around her. I didn’t hesitate once on my way to her house, and ringing the doorbell even came easy. Her mom seems to like me, so I felt like a rock star all the way to the point when Murphy’s piercing grays hit my system. If she hadn’t fallen first, I’m pretty sure I would have found a way to make a fool of myself. Instead, she was just as rattled by me as I had feared I’d be by her.
None of that means I have the advantage though. I don’t, and I know it the second she walks out of the hallway bathroom wearing this dark gray, skin-tight dress and flat sandals with ribbons that wrap up her legs; I’m not quite sure where the ribbon ends. Normally, her look is a little bohemian. And there’s still some of that right now, her hair loose and draped over one shoulder—a bare shoulder. This look is sexy though—and it’s taken everything about tonight out of my hands. Hell, I might even just hand my board over to her and sit back and watch. She could play complete crap and the dance floor would devour her just because of those legs.
“Should I drive separate? That way you don’t have to come ba—”
“No,” I cut her off. No, you do not need to drive separate. No, you are not leaving early. No, you are not dancing with some shark-fiend-* while I play sexy tunes for him to grind against you to. There are a million no’s that roll through my brain right now. I cover them all with that two-letter word.
She blinks at me, and all I do is grin.
“All right then,” she rolls her eyes.
Good. Settled. All of the no’s agreed to. I know that’s not really the case, but I’m not going to let any of those other things happen either, so she may as well just give in.
She steps into the living room, and I follow her, waving to Lane who sits up on his knees to say hi to me. She kisses her parents while Lane and I chat about our favorite part of the movie, and then she brushes my arm to let me know she’s ready to leave. I look down convinced she’s turned my arm to ice. I’m magically fine, though I haven’t a clue how—because I swear she froze my arm with that touch.
We get to my car, and I remember to open the door for her—the only tip Houston would give me for tonight. He said if I could just get through that, it would be a miracle.
Asshole with little faith.
I get in, and my eyes go right to her legs. She catches me, and I grin sheepishly.
“Yep, you caught me staring at your legs,” I say, looking back to the steering wheel as I shift into drive. I know she’s blushing, but at least I’m not now.
I blush. Dudes blush. It isn’t cool on a guy, though, because we also sweat when we blush. And unless we’re swinging an ax or doing pull-ups on Instagram, sweat on a guy isn’t hot. It’s disgusting.
“You said club, so I thought I should wear something a little more contemporary,” she says, the corner of her lip tucked in her teeth when I glance toward her. I will myself not to look at her legs again before I turn back, but I’m weak—I look. And I’m sweating up a shit storm.
“You look nice in anything,” I say, looking at her one more time with a tight-lipped smile. She’s blushing again, too, so at least we’re even.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
“So this club,” I start, giving over my focus to the road. “Let me give you the rundown of what to expect. I’ll be working in the middle, and the entire space is floor-to-ceiling windows with dance space and a bar on one end. It’s part of John’s brand, actually—it’s called Max’s. He hired me to host his opening first, before I got on with the studio. He had heard good things about me, and came out to one of my gigs at Ramp 33. I didn’t know he was there, which…shoot, good thing!”
“Why’s that?” she says, her body turned a little to face me. She’s genuinely interested, which is something I’m not used to when I talk about this stuff. Even Houston’s mom sort of glazes over and responds with “uh huh” and “how nice.”