In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(61)
“He loved it, Murphy. I knew he would. And he wants to get you in to the studio fast. He was going to call himself, but I…” I pause, thinking the truth. But I’m a selfish prick, and I wanted to be the one who got to make you happy—just once.
“Thank you, Casey,” she says, taking a step toward me and throwing her arms around me.
The girl who doesn’t like to hug pulls me close and buries her face in my chest, and I memorize the soft feel of her hair on my neck and chin. My hands grip for a second, holding the fabric of her shirt as my eyes fall shut and I breathe her in. I let go and step back after only that second, though—that’s more than I deserve—and I push my hands in my pockets.
Murphy brings both hands up to cover her mouth again, but she can’t hide the smile in her eyes.
“So you’ll let me know? If you’ll make it in tomorrow?” I say, taking a step or two in the opposite direction, my keys in my hand.
She nods yes.
“I’ll be there,” she says. “I’ll get someone to cover, and I’ll…I’ll be there.”
“Eight…if you can,” I say.
“I can,” she responds.
With tight lips, I smile and nod before holding up a thumb. I spin and move toward my car, looking over my shoulder to give her one more congratulations, but she’s already moved into her driver’s seat and shut the door. She’s already pulling out and rushing home—to her beautiful family, who will embrace her and fill her head with positive thoughts about how this is only her beginning.
I stop at my car door and watch her pull away, satisfied that she has this new start, as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, na?ve to think it’s her.
It’s Christina.
It’s my nightmare.
He’s asking for you. You have to come.
I sit in the parking lot behind Paul’s for three hours and try to think of a way to tell her no.
Because I’m a selfish prick, and I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.
Chapter 12
Casey
She texted me that she’d be at the studio by eight, so I arrived at seven. She showed up at seven-thirty. Somehow, I knew she would.
“So the paperwork…is it…I don’t know…a lot?”
She’s polished off an entire pitcher of water in the conference room. I refilled it, and she’s pouring her second glass from this round. When she finishes that one, I slide the pitcher away from her, moving it to the far end of the table, and her eyes flash up to me.
“You’re going to drown,” I smirk.
She smiles with tight lips and pushes her glass away, falling back in her seat.
“I’m nervous,” she admits.
“I know. Don’t be,” I smile.
I’ve purposely remained two seats away from her, careful not to be too close. I don’t want her to have a reason not to trust me, or for her to get some crazy notion that I’m going to swoop in and take this from her, too. I don’t want to mess this up, but I also know she doesn’t want to be left to do it alone.
I’m not na?ve enough to think that John will involve me to a large extent in any projects with her. But when I spoke with him yesterday, he mentioned several times how much he liked the mix and what I’d done. A few weeks ago I would have seized that opportunity and come in guns blazing with ideas for other things I can do. But now I don’t want to make this so much about me as much as I want to make it about her.
“All right, let’s get this deal done. Murphy Sullivan, yeah?” John says, stepping in and looking at the papers that his assistant just placed in front of him rather than the girl the papers are about.
Murphy stands and moves her hand toward him to shake, but I hold my hand up and wave her off. As much as she doesn’t like to be hugged, John Maxwell does not like to be touched. He’s a brilliant producer and an enormous name in the business—but it’s not because of warm fuzzies. He’s cutthroat when it comes to getting his artists the airtime they deserve. Murphy—she needs cutthroat in her corner, but I’m not sure she’ll realize that.
She looks at me confused, but I shake my head and smile, winking, my signal for her not to worry.
“I really like your sound, Murphy,” John says, flipping through the standard boilerplate contract, checking with a pen next to the places that already have his name signed. I’m sure he has a person that does that.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice soft. I can hear her struggle.
John isn’t easy. Most of his artists are men—the kind in the news for hopping through celebrity girlfriends they swoon with their guitars. So, *s. Yeah, I fit right in.
“Murphy…look…” he says, finally dropping his pen and leaning back in his chair, his hands folded behind his head with his winning smile atop his perfect, crisp, white shirt collar. The man is success in a suit, and this is the move he makes when he wants something. I’ve seen it. It’s how he got me. He wants her on his label. He wants her bad.
“I’m not going to kid you or waste your time. You have something…” he stops, leaning forward with an arm on the table as his mouth ticks up. “Unique. You’re unique. And I…” his eyes squint, “don’t come across unique very often in this business.”