In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(75)
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The first time I came to Max’s, I was with Casey—from the very beginning. I was here before the lights were off, which is a lot like getting to see a haunted house before all of the creepy things take over. Things are different in the light. In the dark—things are scary.
Sam and I walk in through a set of elaborate double doors, passing a line of beautiful people who I’m sure assume we’re part of the staff, because as beautiful as my friend Sam is tonight, she’s still not supermodel hot. The people in line? All supermodel hot. Even the men.
I let Sam take over. She gives our names to security, asks a hostess—who yes, is supermodel hot—where the VIP booths are located, then leads me by the hand through the thick crowd of hot hotness grinding together in one mass sexual motion along the dance floor. I bump into no less than thirty people, and I utter sorry’s and excuse me’s the entire distance to the private booth lifted a few feet higher than most of the other rows and nestled next to the best view I’ve ever seen of downtown Oklahoma City.
I collapse into the leather, crawling on my hands and knees until I’m so deep into the curve that I have an entire six-inch-thick table made of glazed redwood between me and every other person in the club right now.
“You look like the wild woman they find in the forest who has lived her life among the animals and is frightened by the city,” Sam laughs, sliding into the booth next to me.
“That’s because that woman? She’s my people,” I pant.
A waiter glides by our table and drops off eight water glasses, and I drink through two of them in the time it takes Sam to place an order. She adds a cosmo to the order for me, as well, then slides her water glass my way as the waiter leaves.
“At least you’ll get to see what the restrooms look like if you keep that up,” she jokes.
“I saw them last time. They’re nice. Kind of plain, but,” I stop talking to guzzle water. Drinking is sort of like singing—it distracts the millions of synapsis misfiring in my brain and lets me remain calm. The only flaw I’ve found is that at some point, I have to stop drinking, and the panic is usually still there waiting.
“Damnit. You were right, I owe you twenty bucks,” a perfect-ten of a blonde says as she slides into the opposite end of our booth. My mouth is agape, and I’m about to bolt from my safety zone when Houston steps up behind her and holds out his hand, which Barbie’s twin slides a folded-up twenty into.
“I told you she was real,” he chuckles. “Murphy, meet Paige—my girlfriend.”
“Nice to meet you,” Paige says, reaching to take my hand. Her shake is firm—like a business deal—and her eyes continue to scrutinize me. I was already acutely aware of every square inch of my basic make-up, hair and outfit, but it all suddenly feels tighter under her inspection.
“My friend tricked me into coming here. I have nicer clothes. Not that this dress isn’t nice. It’s actually really nice. It’s Dior. I got it at that little bargain shop in old town, right down the street from the arena, and I was so surprised to see it there because, I mean usually there aren’t expensive things mixed in with all of the vintage stuff, but this one was, and when I found it, I was like score! And it really only goes with boots, so that’s why I’m wearing boots, and…hmmmmm….”
My eyes shut tightly, I let my face fall flat against the table, forehead against the wood and mouth firm so I can try to see if wishes come true and I can zap myself out of this place and time.
I look up slowly and peel one eye open and then the next. Paige is looking at me with the exact horrified expression I sort of expected. Clearing my throat, I smile with tight lips and do my best to start over, sliding my hand her direction again, this time shaking with the same firmness she gives.
“I’m Murphy,” I say, meek and demure. “I’m not great with crowds, and stress usually makes me stutter. However, you seem to have the opposite effect on me, and I deeply apologize for that assault with words and nonsense I just unleashed.”
Her horrified expression melts into something kinder, and her smile is accompanied by a sweet, raspy laugh as she brings her other hand up to cover the top of mine in a gracious shake that somehow calms my chest.
“Murphy,” she smiles, looking to Houston as she lets go of our hold and points to me with one waggling finger. “I like her, Houston. If Casey f*cks this up, I’ll punch him.”
Houston pulls my new ally close to his side and kisses the top of her head, and I can tell by the way he dotes over her—the small gestures like his fingertips along her bare shoulder and the gentle casting of his eyes over her face while she speaks—that Paige is someone special. I’ve been approved by her, and that alone has made the moving sea of people around me feel less threatening.
“Hey, you all made it!”
Casey’s familiar voice pulls me to sit straight up in my booth. I’m wedged in the very middle, which means I can’t reach him, and I inwardly kick myself for blocking my body in.
“Nice to see you again, Casey,” Sam says, a tone to her voice that denotes her eyebrows are wiggling teasingly. I can’t see her face, but I know she’s doing it by the small chuckle Casey gives before his eyes land on me.
I love seeing him in his element. He’s wearing a dark hat with a flat brim, a black long-sleeved tee and black jeans. The only thing that doesn’t fit the shadow is the white scarf around his neck tucked under the headphones he has resting there. When I talk to him on the phone tomorrow during his drive to his parents’ house, this is how I’m going to imagine him.