In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(6)

“We’re all full. If you want in, see Cherry at the door before tonight’s performance, and she’ll let you know if anyone cancels,” he says, hanging up as soon as he’s done.

Rude.

But…informative.

If that’s Paul, I think maybe he and I could be mates.

“Houston!” I shout, leaning just enough that he can see me several aisles away through the open door of the back room. Chuck leans out of his office and furrows his brow at me. “Good afternoon, Chuck. Pleasure seeing you,” I say, saluting the grumpy old man. His heavy gray brows lower as his glasses fall down the slope of his nose, and he grumbles something as he walks back into his office.

“This is not your home, Case. You can’t just yell out for me like I’m in the backyard and you’re calling me in for lemonade or whatever. Jesus, you’re lucky Chuck tolerates letting you hang out here.”

“Uhm, he doesn’t tolerate me. But I don’t care. And…lemonade?” I chuckle, pulling my hands behind my head while I laugh at my friend.

“It was a bad analogy. What do you want?” he huffs.

“First, it was a terrible analogy. Maybe your worst,” I say, and he starts to leave, so I move right into the real reason I called out for him. “What are you doing tonight?”

He pauses and turns around, squinting.

“Depends,” he says.

“I have a gig. But this thing,” I say, twisting my computer and tapping a pencil end at the screen where the video is still paused. “I guess there’s open-mic or something like that tonight, and maybe, I was thinking, if you weren’t busy, you could…”

“You want me to ask my mom to babysit Leah, so I can go spy on some mystery girl who hates you so much she wrote a song about you?”

Yes, he gets it!

I nod.

He sighs.

“Please?” I say, leaning forward with my head in my hands, my lips pouty. His brow lowers more and he makes a sick face. This method isn’t working.

“I’ll pay you,” I say. His brow raises a tick. “I’ll give you half of tonight’s paycheck. It’ll be like when you have to come assist me with my equipment, only instead…”

“Instead, I’ll be stalking some Internet obsession,” he fills in.

“Exactly,” I say.

He leans back on the doorframe, and I know that means he’s considering it.

“I’ll have to borrow my mom’s car, because well…you’re borrowing mine, remember?” I didn’t think about that.

“Yeah, you’ll need to do that,” I agree. Better to just agree with his plan rather than open room for argument. He opens his mouth for a second then shuts his lips tight in a line. His eyes are closing. He’s on the fence.

“Five hundred bucks,” I lie, feeling my gut burn a little because I’m getting fifteen hundred tonight, and I promised him half. I hold it in, and eventually he agrees. I’m an *, but I need the cash.

“What do you want me to do when I’m there? You want me to talk to her or…I don’t know, get her number?” he laughs.

I don’t.

“Just listen, maybe record more of her set. And if there’s a contact card or something, or she’s selling CDs? I don’t know…pick something up. I just need to get more info, and if I don’t know her—she’s talented, and maybe she’s the first artist I could help or maybe…” I trail off, twisting my computer back around and slamming it closed.

Houston watches me for a few seconds, but eventually nods and laughs out an “a’right” before going back to his work. There’s something alluring about this chick, but I know it’s probably just the fact that she somehow knows me or there’s a really f*cked up coincidence happening. But she is talented. And I do want to get into recording and producing. I didn’t get a chance to break the news to my mom today, because of my father, but starting Monday, I won’t be a student at McConnell any more. I’ve officially withdrawn. I know the fact that I’m walking away with only a semester left on my degree for some pipe dream will disappoint both of my parents, but it feels right. And maybe there’s some small part of me that sees the fantasy playing out to an end where I get to show my family how successful I am—and they’re proud.

John Maxwell heard me at one of my shows a few weeks ago and liked what I was mixing with some of his artists, so I’m taking an internship with his label. He said he was looking for ways to bring more of his indie folk vibe into the clubs, to reach the younger crowd with some of his quieter artists, and he thought I might be up for the challenge.

Quiet isn’t exactly what I do, but there was no way in hell I was passing up on a job with John Maxwell. Plus, it pays a little, too. And I can learn how to deal with quiet.

Mystery girl—she’s quiet. Yeah.

I pull my phone out to watch the video one more time and notice the message notification from my sister’s call earlier. I stare at it for a few seconds and consider putting it off, but she’ll just call back, so I press PLAY and settle into the metal chair, ready for my reprimand.

“Case…hey. It’s Chrissy. You’re probably in the car, or work or…whatever. Listen, you need to call me. Case, it’s Dad. He…he has cancer. And he doesn’t have long.”