In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(8)

“I bet,” I say, glancing over his shoulder again at my guitar. Someone is standing near it, which makes me uneasy.

“So how are you? Do you still do that theater thing? Weren’t you into that stuff?” I smile through tight lips. I’m not sure why I’m hiding it, because he’s going to see me in about five minutes.

“I…did that in high school, yeah. I studied music in college, though. That’s what I was really into. Theater was just the only place it fit in our high school,” I chuckle. My gaze falls to my lap and twisting fingers.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Houston says, leaning forward again, staring at his own hands folded together on the tabletop. He pats his thumbs together, but freezes after a few seconds, and his head tilts up toward me. “So you’re…singing here tonight?”

I nod yes, and my stomach flips, rumbling inside with the threat of a volcano.

“You…play here often?” he asks, leaning in his seat, stretching out one arm over the back.

“Lately, yeah,” I say.

He’s heard the song. There’s no way he hasn’t heard the song. Which means…

“Actually, I’m on soon, so I’m gonna…” I nod my head to the side, toward my guitar, as I stand and push my chair back under the table.

Houston stands with me, and I make an internal wish on repeat that he doesn’t hug me again—or ask me about the song. I won’t be playing it tonight. And maybe, with a little luck, he’ll just assume it’s all a coincidence and go back to wherever it is he lives and not breathe a word of this to Casey Coffield.

“Yeah, I can’t wait to see you perform. Good luck, or…break a leg? I don’t know, is that a thing with music?” he says, pushing his hands in his pockets. Thank god he’s trapping his hands. I step back more and laugh nervously, shrugging.

“I think it works here. I appreciate it. Hope you enjoy the show,” I say.

Show—there’s that word again.





Casey


Murphy Sullivan.

The club is loud, so I can’t hear the video Houston just texted me. It’s her—the mystery girl. I recognize the way she sits in that stool. I don’t, however, recognize the name. Murphy Sullivan.

I write him back a series of question marks and wait for a response, but one doesn’t come, so I give up my investigation for the next hour while I blend pop songs with seventies disco for high college kids to grind to under the neon lights.

It’s a good gig. The club is called Ramp 33, and it’s built under the Exit 33 underpass outside the airport. I played here a month ago, and was out of my mind happy when they called me again for this weekend. The pay is ridiculous, and I’m hoping they like me enough to keep me for a while so I can replace my car. I might be able to get something decent with the money I make here, so I can start saving what I get from John Maxwell. I found an old Volkswagen Rabbit on Craigslist this morning, and I may be able to swing it with tonight’s paycheck if it’s still available.

It’s almost two in the morning when I finally pack up. There isn’t anything more from Houston, so when I get everything tucked into the back of his car, I lean on the trunk and play the video again.

The song is different. It’s a cover of Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.” I’ve heard this before—a lot of people cover it. She nails it, even though it isn’t original. That break in her voice, and the cool way she hits the guitar for rhythm—it’s all there.

“Murphy Sullivan,” I whisper her name. It’s literally meaningless to me.

I dial Houston as I pull out of the parking lot, and when it goes right to voicemail, I hang up and dial again. He picks up on the fifth ring.

“You’re such a prick,” he growls.

“Yeah, I know. But I needed to talk,” I say, glancing both ways at the red light and pulling through the intersection anyhow. It’s two in the morning; feels pointless to sit here for nobody.

“Case, we can talk in, like…four hours. When my alarm goes off. And I’m up for work,” he sighs.

“Dude, I won’t be up then. I’m up now,” I say.

“I hate you,” he says.

“Nah…you don’t,” I chuckle.

He doesn’t. If he hated me, he wouldn’t pick up the phone all the time. I know I’m an * for waking him up, but I’ve literally got nobody else. Houston—he’s my family, and my chest is all tight from spending the last six hours trying not to think about the phone call from my sister. When I think about that, I think about how little it hurts, and that scares the shit out of me, because I think maybe I’m broken. Or, maybe I really hate the man who gave me life—or maybe I really don’t have a home or a family, because I’m supposed to love those things above all, right?

“So did she play it? The song?” I ask, blinking to clear away other thoughts.

“I sent you what she played,” he yawns.

“Oh,” I respond. “So that was it? Just the one song?”

“I sent you the whole thing. But I talked to her. Crazy it’s Murphy, right? So…what’d you do to piss her off?” he says through a half laugh and cough.

“Huh, I have no idea,” I say, not finishing the statement that I also have no idea who the hell Murphy is. Houston catches on to my silence though.