In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(63)
My father’s voice is in my head.
John’s team and I have different ideas of what my scope is. John wanted me for his club; that much is clear. He wants my local buzz to put Max’s on the map. He wants my allure to bring in local talent. In the few years I’ve been working this circuit, I’ve cultivated a nice little list of friends. They give me beats, make riffs for me to use in my mixes. I heard him throw my name around with a few other guys he was trying to work on this morning, something about building the Maxwell brand to include more than just folk bands and reformed-country-stars turned pop stars. I’ve been tasked with scouting YouTube and putting my signature on things to show artists how their sound can transform, be relevant.
Relevant. That’s John’s favorite word. It’s how he hooked me. He said I was relevant and my eyes bugged out like Tweety Bird caught in a trap. An exciting trap—laced with sexy women and expensive cars and dollar signs. So far, all I’ve gotten in return is a key to use the studio equipment after hours and a used vehicle that loses about a can of oil every two days.
Murphy is relevant—John said it when he called me after hearing her demo, and I know she really is. It kills me that I wasn’t in that room with her today, that Gomez is going to get to mold her sound. But that’s my ego thinking that I’m the only ear that understands, that my hands are the only ones capable of building the right levels—that my taste rules. This isn’t about me, so I block all things Murphy and her record deal out of my head as I pull up outside Houston’s house, my belly hungry and my heart craving that feeling of home.
Christina hasn’t messaged me again; our siblings have taken over the dirty work. Hourly updates laced with just enough guilt to repeatedly make me feel like shit. My father is getting thinner. He’s refusing to work with the nurses. He doesn’t want to take pain meds. He’s questioning what’s covered by insurance. He hid this from us all for months. Now it’s too late. Mom is crying. Mom is constantly crying. And all she wants is me to come to the house.
It’s that last one that stabs. This rift has never been between my mom and me. It was never meant to be, but I can’t fathom how my presence in that house can possibly be good for anyone. I would be like shredded paper thrown on a candle. The flames would come fast and indiscriminant.
“Well, if it isn’t my boyfriend’s other child,” says a familiar voice. I smile hearing it, but I hide it from her because f*ck if she knew I actually liked her. Paige leans halfway out the backdoor, her arms crossed over her chest and her hip slung against the frame. I forgot that she would be here tonight—one more piece of evidence of how self-absorbed I am. I think the date has been circled on the calendar hung in Houston’s kitchen for weeks. This date was important to him.
“Well, it’s nice to see that your little stint in California hasn’t made you go all soft,” I say, stepping up toe to toe with her. “You know there’s still time…”
“Time for what?” she asks, her mouth tugged up in that irritated face she makes—that I get out of her. Maybe I should send her in to deal with my sisters—she can handle herself.
“Time to tell Houston the truth—that you were just using him to get to me. Come on Paige, I mean…all this? You know you want a taste of Mighty Casey,” I smirk.
Paige doesn’t hate me…anymore. She doesn’t necessarily like me, either. She tolerates me because she’s in love with my best friend. That fact makes her all right with me. And picking on her is a wonderful distraction. She couldn’t have come back to Oklahoma at a better time.
“You think you’d spend less time walking around in your boxers in front of me,” she says, and I narrow my gaze, waiting for the zing. It’s coming. “Because now we both know there is nothing mighty going on…well…”
My frenemy waves her hand about an inch away from my crotch, not intimidated or offended in the least. I look down and let out a chuckle as I step up and past her on my way into the house.
“Oh, I’ve missed you Paige,” I say. I mean it. I honestly think I have.
“That makes one of us.” She doesn’t miss a beat.
“Uncle Casey!” Leah shouts, running to me from the sofa where she’s playing with what looks like a pair of Paige’s shoes. Her feet fall out of the purple heels quickly and she scurries into my arms so I can lift her against my side.
“Hey, princess,” I say, twirling her once and walking her with her feet propped atop mine until we’re back to her spot on the sofa.
“Paige brought me a new pair of shoes. She said she doesn’t want these any more,” she says, putting her feet into them and scooting toward the coffee table and television. I chuckle and part my lips, but Paige puts her hands on my shoulders behind me, pinching with enough force to get my attention.
“Don’t you dare make a streetwalker joke about those shoes. She loves them,” she says.
I shake my head and smile, because she knows exactly where I was going.
“I think you have a little more growing to do, but they look nice,” I say instead, making both Paige and Leah’s faces glow.
“Are you joining us for dinner, Case?” Joyce asks, busy in the kitchen.
“I will never say no to you, Joyce. Not ever,” I smile, settling into the deep cushion and lying my head back with the weight of the day.