In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(59)

“I just need…” I start, looking out, but only seeing lights. That’s why I love Paul’s—because I can’t see people—the lights blind. Only tonight, I hear people I can’t see. It’s worse. There’s a whistle again, and my eyes fall to my trembling hands, and my guitar slips, knocking the mic stand forward. I grab it in time, but the large wailing sound of a typical sound check deafens.

My heart hurts.

I’ve battled this so many times—even in recent years. I always keep my shit together. I can defeat it. I don’t cry. I won’t cry.

“I’m…” Nothing comes next. I’m sorry. That’s what I’m supposed to say. My voice is supposed to come out charming. I’m supposed to be approachable and friendly. I should smile, but I can’t even feel my face. The words are locked away.

“Murphy,” someone says, louder than a whisper. “Murphy,” my name is called again.

I lean forward and cradle my guitar, giving myself this one second to decide to bolt or keep fighting.

“Murphy,” he says it again.

Casey. He’s standing at the edge of the stage, holding my guitar pick. I tilt my head up, hiding from most of the world behind my hair. He’s smiling. Not laughing. He’s smiling, barely and his eyes are looking for me, to pull me back.

“You dropped it,” he says, the silver pick nothing compared to the size of his hand. He holds it up between two fingers, and I take it, whispering “Thank you.”

“You’re all right,” he says before I can look away. “Just jump. You’re all right.”

My heart is pounding, so I hold onto his gaze for a few extra seconds, my hands searching for the right hold on my guitar, the muttering of people in the audience growing louder.

“Jump,” he says.

I never stop looking at him. I convince myself we’re in the studio—and he’s just played Van Halen for me, poorly. It’s a joke that happens only in my head, but it makes me smile. I find the mic and tilt it into place, and I talk to him…and nobody else.

“Sorry about that,” I chuckle. “I uh…I…”

No.

My eyes close and open for a reset. I smile, the outline of Casey’s face all I see under the hot lights above.

“I dropped my pick,” I laugh.

I will myself to charm the crowd I’ve lost, and I block out the catcalls from my friend and her friends. I focus on Casey’s smile—and the fact that he is somehow here. Even though he makes a mess out of my heart and head. He’s still here. And I lean on him.

“This is something new,” I smirk.

His head tilts.

And as much as I wanted to make this song a hate anthem about boys like him, when faced with one that’s rooting for me, I just can’t.

“It’s called ‘Tease,’ and I’ll let y’all sort out what it’s about,” I say, a playful smile making my lips twitch as I lean forward and feel the energy of the mic calling me close.





Casey


“Tease”—there could not be a better title for that song.

I’m not sure if she realizes how sexy it is, but wow! I hit record on my phone the second she said she would be playing something new. I was expecting the song I told her I liked. This surprise is welcomed, though.

The staccato lyrics spill from her troubled mouth like poetry. She’s putting men in their places—calling us all on our ways. She’s putting me in my place. And I’m going willingly. This song is her dominating me.

By the second verse, she loses herself, and I know she’s going to be all right. I lean back in my chair and just listen, my head internalizing and working out the rhythm. I can’t wait to layer this with something soulful. This song—it’s the kind of song people make love to.

My eyes open on her at that thought. My hand flexes at the memory of being splayed over her stomach, and I imagine more. By the final verse, she’s so close to the mic that I watch her love it—her tongue slow across her lips in carefully timed swipes. I am mentally begging her to lick it. This is her performing, and she is a master.

I’m her slave.

I shut off the recording when her final note ends and the applause erupts. Her table of friends is obnoxious, and I can see it threaten her peace, so I lean forward again to catch her sightline.

“So good,” I mouth slowly.

I don’t smile, but only because I can’t. The feelings she’s stirred—they aren’t the smile kind. They’re primal.

They’re probably the exact kind of feelings an * like me gives into, which is why I’m going to give her the news I came here to share, and then leave.

I suppose the news could have waited. When I think about it, it’s selfish that I’m here at all. Of course it’s selfish—that’s what I do, isn’t it? I want to tell her because she’ll be happy, and that will make me happy. So if I reduce the formula, I’m here to make myself happy. I swear it’s not that I want credit, though. It’s only that I want to give her a taste of success, because she’s worked hard, and she needs something to believe in.

And since I’ve ruined so much…

She finishes three more songs, then escapes to the edge of the stage. I wait patiently at my table near the front, nursing the small Pepsi I ordered instead of the double shots of whiskey I wanted. The loud table that’s been cheering for her—obnoxiously—stands and meets her at the bottom of the steps. Her friend, the one I recognize, is tipsy, but is genuinely proud of our girl. The guys are clueless losers—especially the one that wraps his bear-claw arms around her and lifts her from the bottom step, spinning her once before setting her on the ground. At least, I presume he set her on the ground. I had to look away.