In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(93)

The cheering at Paul’s is usually polite. When I play the Casey song, I get the clapping and whistles, but that’s because people recognize that song now. I didn’t touch it tonight, because it’s officially retired, and yet they whistled all the same. They stood, and two people shook my hand as I stepped from the stage. Steph hugged me, and I let her. I hugged back.

That felt…that all felt amazing.

Only Casey…he missed it all.

I put my guitar away half paying attention to how I put it in the case. My eyes are busy running over the crowd, searching in dark corners—anticipating. He isn’t here. And there’s no message on my phone. I’m worried.

“Murphy Sullivan?” a man asks, his accent the thick kind that belongs to someone from a family who has lived in Stillwater their entire lives. I recognize it because my father has that accent, too.

“That’s me,” I say, looking over his shoulder, still expecting.

“That was pretty impressive stuff. Those originals—those all yours?” he asks, his hands moving into the pockets of his gray suit jacket. It seems expensive. I narrow my eyes on him, suspicious, and scan down his body—a Harley Davidson T-shirt on under his jacket, Wranglers on his legs and cowboy boots on his feet.

“They sure are,” I say, flitting my eyes to his, hand on my hip. “And they’re not for sale.”

His head cocks to the side a tick and his left eye squints as a slow smirk takes over his lips. He reaches out a hand, and I stare at it for a few long seconds before I shake. When our palms meet, I shake with a tight grasp, like that girl Paige did. When he looks down at our grip, I smile with tight lips and he nods at my nonverbal sign that this girl—she’s not going to be taken advantage of.

“I’m Noah Jacobs,” he says, reaching into his jacket front and hauling out a wallet stamped with the OSU Cowboy mascot.

I’m about to say “I bet you are,” just to keep my guard up and my gates drawn, when he adds one more little piece of information.

“Casey Coffield told me I should stop in here tonight…I see why,” he says, stepping back and leaning to sit on the table.

Casey. Who isn’t here. I must appear confused, because Noah chuckles silently and folds his arms over his chest and looks at the tips of his boots.

“You didn’t know I was here,” he says.

I shake my head. “I don’t even know who you are,” I say, drawing my lips in tight. My chest squeezes as stress begins to chip away at my temporary bravado. Shit, I bet he’s important. I’m two-for-two today.

He reaches into his coat again and pulls out a well-worn pack of gum, slipping out a stick and then stretching his hand forward in an offer to me.

“No thanks,” I say, truly baffled.

“I’m quitting smoking. I’m on four days now, and bars…” he raises his brow and looks around. The man is enormous, at least six-foot-four. “Bars are hard,” he grins, unwrapping his slice of spearmint and popping it in between his teeth.

“I’m sorry. Is Casey…is he coming?” I say, awkwardly resting back on the table behind me and knocking my guitar case to the ground. “Damn,” I mutter under my breath, pulling it back upright and catching Noah’s amused expression.

“I guess he’s not,” he says, his mouth working at his gum like an addict. I’d say he has a long road ahead of him in the whole quitting smoking thing.

“Oh,” I say, still confused. I look down at his card in my hand. It’s simple, but the paper is nice and the print is classic. Noah Jacobs and a phone number.

“I can call him. If you were supposed to meet him here? He has some family things going on, but I’m sure he would have been here if he could have…” I start to defend my guy.

I stop when I notice him laughing silently and scratching at his stubbled chin.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize. I’m not quite sure what for, but it feels warranted.

“Murphy Sullivan,” he says my name again, pushing from the table to a complete, towering stand. He nods through a smile as he squares with me, and I struggle to make myself taller. “Casey didn’t come, and you have no idea who I am…do I have that correct?”

My lungs are empty, but I manage to utter a “Yes.”

“Good,” he says, pointing to the card in my hand. “That’s…well…that’s real good, Murphy.”

“Okay,” I say, not completely on board with his assertion of the last few minutes of our talk. Not sure how anything over the last twelve hours is really good, let alone everything that’s happened since he said my name. “How?” I say, surprised to hear my thoughts out loud. Too late now.

He chuckles. I’m glad I amuse him.

“That means Casey is a man of his word—he’s got no juice in this,” he says, waving a hand up to the stage and then at my guitar. “And…it means you were that good without even trying.”

I take in a quick, sharp breath, then freeze.

“How do you feel about Nashville?” he asks.

I don’t feel about anything right now, but I manage to utter a decent response.

“I like it. My cousin lives there. The weather’s sketchy, but…” Okay, less than decent, but a response.

He smiles, pulling out his pack of gum and adding to the distraction in his mouth with one more piece.