In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(88)

“You better,” he says.

We hang up, and I drive home in silence, because my thoughts are enough to fill my head. I coach myself while changing clothes, and I wait at the table with a sandwich ready for Lane as his bus arrives. My brother has a million stories to tell me, but I’m a selfish sister today—I don’t hear them.

What if my song hits number one?

What if John Maxwell offers me a huge deal?

What if they want me to sign on the line right then—without showing contracts to my father?

I need a manager. I should have an agent.

Am I good enough for this?

That last question plays constantly, even though it’s the one worry Casey tells me is completely unjustified. I’ve let my nerves stand between me and so much for so long, but I’ve always really wanted this. And now that I’ve had a taste, I’m hungry. I’m starving to be a success.

John Maxwell.

Grammies.

American Music Awards.

Bands I f*cking love.

I stop at the coffee shop on my way to the freeway, and order a large. I don’t drink caffeine normally—the stimulant sort of works against me and the whole stuttering thing. But I think I need to give some power to the strongest version of my personality, and this is the only way I know how. I’m so ratcheted up with coffee by the time I pull into the Maxwell lot, I run over the parking hump and my bumper scrapes the brick wall between the lot and the road.

“Shit,” I mutter to myself when I get out and look at the new texture on what used to be smooth chrome.

I close my mouth and shut my eyes, straightening my posture for a deep breath, then open my sites on the large double doors in front of me. I walk in through the front this time, and the receptionist guides me to the familiar room in the back. I brought my guitar and my book, just to be prepared, but as I amble through the hallway and knock into the walls, I feel more ridiculous than ready. This is not how big girls take meetings.

Gomez is waiting in the room along with the assistant I recognize from last time. I think her name is Cara.

“Murph,” Gomez says, walking around the table with open arms. I ready myself for the hug and am instantly grateful for my guitar and heavy purse so it’s cut short. “Oh, we’re not going to need you to play today,” he laughs, and I’m red with embarrassment.

“I know. I have somewhere to go after this,” I lie.

“Where you headed?” he asks, and I want to kick him for being nosey. Nowhere, shit, I was just saving face!

“My aunt’s,” I say quickly, my eyes flitting around the room, looking for the most opportune seat. My second lie was worse, so I don’t look up again, because I swear if he starts asking me questions about my aunt I’m just going to grab my things and run, probably taking out chunks of drywall on my awkward exit.

John comes in after a few seconds, and as scared as I am, I’m relieved to let him take over the conversation.

“Murphy,” he smiles. His hair is a blend of black and gray, and he wears tinted glasses that make me think of gangster movies and Robert de Nero.

“Nice to see you, John,” I say, immediately debating if I should call him Mr. Maxwell. Casey’s voice echoes in my head: You’re the one they want. John it is, then.

“Would you like some water?” he asks, holding up a hand and calling Cara to his side.

“I’m okay,” I say. Honestly, I would love water, but I also have to pee badly as it is from the large coffee jolt. I think adding any more would be self-abuse at this point.

He smiles and whispers his request to Cara, who excuses herself from the room to fetch whatever he asked for. God I hope it’s not coffee.

“Do you know why we brought you here?” John asks, leaning back in his seat. His feet fold on top of the table, and I smirk because I remember Casey’s imitation of him.

“Not entirely,” I say, breathing in through my nose for strength, “but I’m hoping it’s for a major record deal.”

Might as well come out guns a blazin’.

John’s harsh features fall into a smile quickly, but he remains silent. His hands move from behind his head to his lap, and I watch as he folds his fingers together and cracks his knuckles, almost for his own amusement.

“We’d like to pair you with one of our new artists,” he says, and my head starts to spin instantly. I’m sure I don’t mask my expression well. I think I’m still smiling, but I can tell by the way his lips purse and Gomez fidgets that I probably look forlorn. I’m just glad I don’t look pissed, because that’s also brewing in my belly.

“Pair me,” I reiterate.

“Yeah, like what we did with Johnnie Walker,” he says.

I pull in my brow and look to Gomez.

“Yo, I don’t think she’s heard it yet,” he says.

I part my lips, about to protest, but I think better of it and wait for them to call Cara back from wherever she went so she can fetch Gomez’s laptop. Coffee comes, and I give in and pour a glass, the taste bitter and my bladder almost as pissed as I am. Cara’s back again in minutes with the laptop, and soon Gomez is turning it toward me, a sound file beginning to play.

The start is familiar—the same as it was in the club more than a week ago. But then suddenly it isn’t my song any more. It’s nothing of what I heard, heavy beats taking over the melody completely and some rap artist who I am now picturing as Porky the f*cking Pig tossing out lyrics that are anti-feminine and just plain abrasive.