The Only Song (Only You)

5. Jaxon

Chapter 5

Jaxon

I prepared for tonight like always. Slim-fit black suit. KT tape covering my shoulders, forearms, and back. Some pain-relief pills in case I might get a flare-up. I fucking hope I won’t.

Orchestra mates mingle around me and I’m hyper aware of the fact that the seat beside me is still vacant. The orchestra is full and when I glance around in search of my would-be partner, I don’t see anyone but Smith scowling at me from the stand behind. Arrogant prick is always upset about something.

But it’s when I peer over his shoulder, I realize I’m not prepared for tonight at all.

No. Nothing prepared me for this. For her. Because I had no reason to expect her to be here, and yet… That familiar click of heels. That sweet scent of rose and vanilla. That silky, almost sultry voice excusing herself through the stands.

My heart pounds in my ears with every step she takes forward. She commands the room simply from her poised stance—shoulders back, chin high, lips in a tight smile.

I’m instantly reminded of my conversation with Xander the other night.

“Karma’s a bitch, and you’d be stupid to mess with her.” My best friend always had a way with words. It was his way of talking me out of voting Sadie off the orchestra. But my vote was only one of four, so likely mine wouldn’t even be the deciding vote. Ultimately, it’s up to Bert, the conductor.

Still, Xander was right in saying that voting her off would be wrong—not just because of karma, but also because I would be robbing her of the chance of her first ever tour, all because I don’t want her to find out the secret of what happened six years ago.

“This might be your last tour,” Xander said. “But are you going to be the reason that she doesn’t get the chance for it to be her first?”

God, I hate it when the broody grump is right.So, I voted her in. And now she’s coming in my direction. To the empty seat beside me.

Sadie Love is my stand partner.

Everything around me has filtered into white noise as I focus in on trying to steady my breath.

“Tanner. Good to see you again.” It doesn’t sound like she feels good to see me at all. The very opposite, in fact. Her tone is as icy as a glacier ready to sink the Titanic.

Me, I’m the Titanic.

I let out an exasperated sigh and meet her glare with my own. But all I feel when her hazel eyes clash with mine is that fiery competition again. In unison, our shoulders tense. Backs straighten. Eyes narrow. I wonder if she remembers it too—that the last time we were paired up together was six years ago. Somehow, it feels like yesterday.

“Sass,” I rasp. She winces at the old nickname. But if she doesn’t want to say my name, then I won’t say hers.

“Good. You’re both acquainted,” Bert interrupts. Neither of us breaks our staring contest now that we’ve started. Frankly, I couldn’t stop staring at her if I tried. She’s stunning. And so long as she keeps staring at me, I get to keep tracing the outline of her lips. The apple of her cheeks. Her button nose?—

And this is why I can never work with Sadie Love.

Is she talented? Yes. Is she capable? Yes.

Is she distracting enough with how gorgeous she is? Absolutely.

And I can’t afford distractions where this tour is concerned. I need to be focused.

Sadie breaks contact first and nods to the conductor. “Sorry. There was a last-minute change and I only found out about the rehearsal twenty minutes ago. I got here as fast as I could.” She smiles sweetly, her voice coated in a softness that unlocks an ache in my chest, knowing that sweetness will never be directed towards me.

The conductor nods absentmindedly. His eyes focused on the giant music score before him.

While we wait for his cue, Sadie quietly plucks her strings to tune them. When she shuffles beside me, her heel kicks at my foot. Instinctively, I kick her back.

“What?” I hiss.

“My side is quite tight, Tanner.” She glares in my direction. “Care to share?”

“Over my dead body, Sass.”

“Graphic and unhelpful.” She shoots back with enunciation that could cut stone. “Just for tonight, can you act like a professional?”

“I am one.”

“Then move your fucking foot so I can open my legs.”

My eyes squeeze shut as I swallow hard over the thought of Sadie and her “open legs”. A flash of hot skin, soft breaths, and sweet moans from that night crash through my mind. Instantly, I shut the memory down.

When she shifts again, I make space, too busy covering up the sudden bulge in my pants. This is fucking ridiculous.

“The symphony has been distributed to all of your stands,” Bert drawls. “We’ll start with the first movement of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5. then proceed with the rest of the concert repertoire.”

Bert continues on with his usual spiel at the start of every rehearsal. How he shows his beats, a brief history of the music and the era, what he expects from us, when our breaks will be—the list goes on. I’ve worked with him before, so I don’t bother to tune in.

Instead, I risk another glance in Sadie’s direction. She’s attentive to his every word, like a new puppy in training, her hazel eyes wide and lips slightly parted. I try not to notice how her black knit sweater hugs at her curves, tucking into her equally tight black jeans. The only contrast to her midnight outfit is her ivory skin and flaming red hair. Even the wood of her violin is a hue so deep and dark it looks near-black. One look at her violin and there’s no mistaking who it belongs to. No one else owns a violin like hers.

She’s mesmerizing. All her movements are graceful, especially when she plays. She nibbles at her bottom lip when she thinks, which I can’t figure out if I find annoying or endearing. And all this inadvertent ogling only reinforces why I can’t have her as my stand partner.

I sigh to myself. Her audition was perfect. She was perfect. Like always. She should have made the first cut. Maybe then, I could’ve asked for her to be assigned in a stand behind me. Where I don’t have to see, smell, or hear her. Her foot nudges mine again and my dick twitches. Where I don’t have to feel her especially.

I make a mental note to speak to Bert. I’ll need to convince him somehow. As Concertmaster, it’s important I trust my stand partner. Not to say Sadie’s not trustworthy, it’s more I can’t trust myself. To not sneak glances at her. To not want to lean into her. To not wonder how her open legs would be like if it were open and over my hips. Or my face.

Yeah, this isn’t going to work.

A throat clears from above me and I realize the conductor’s attention is wholly on me. I’d been staring at our music stand too long, lost deep in my thoughts.

Sadie kicks my foot again, more like a nudge this time. When my eyes meet hers, she raises her brows and mouths, “Come on.”

Hurriedly, I lift my violin up to my shoulder and nod to the conductor to confirm I’m ready. On his down cue, music erupts, and the rehearsal begins.

I’m thrusted back in time to six years ago. In this same music hall. With the same stand partner. The air about Sadie was as sweet and melodic as the Romanze she practiced beside me as a warm-up. When seated together like this, be it with her or any other stand partner, you’re all the other can hear. It’s a setting so intimate where you speak in your own wordless language through markings on music to glances and hand gestures only the two of you know.

You are each other’s audience of one.

A good stand partner will adapt to your style. A great one will complement you.

Otherwise, you fall apart.

And Sadie has always had the power to make me fall apart.

Bert’s baton slices through the air, signaling for us to stop.

As he speaks to the brass section, Sadie asks, “Do you have a pencil?”

“What?”

She rolls her eyes. “I want to put a marking down. I need a pencil.”

My jaw ticks. Not with annoyance, but with impatience. Impatient that I’ll be seated next to her for hours and I can’t think straight. “Aren’t you a teacher? Shouldn’t you be stocked up on those?”

“For fuck’s sake, Tanner.”

I smirk. She’s always been mouthy. The way her cheeks redden has me feel oddly victorious that I can get such a rise out of her.

“If that’s your way to beg, you’ll need to try harder,” I say, turning my gaze back to the music stand.

A low groan slips through her lips but it’s quickly drowned out by the trombone section practicing their phrase.

“Are you trying to get me to say please?” she grits.

“Manners are important, Sass.”

She scoffs. “I knew you’d be an ass when I’d see you next. Did fame blow up your ego?”

People always expect this of me as if I were the one to name myself the Perfect Pitched Prodigy. I didn’t. But social media went on a rampage and the name stuck.

I’ve had my share of stand partners over the years. James always ran late. Susanna would turn pages a half-page too early. But with Sadie, in college, things were perfect—unlike how they are now. We respected each other, even if we were a little overly competitive. She’d always had a sassy mouth, and I’d always acted aloof. In truth, I revered her. I just chose not to show it. It spurred her to always see me win and a selfish part of me always liked seeing her second, not because she couldn’t be first, but because she was with me . She kept up with me. She wasn’t afraid of me. She didn’t fall back to the other stands for poor performance. She’d take the challenge, and it almost felt like we were a pair. Where one goes, the other does too. I never saw someone try as hard as she did.

Then it all fell apart.

It started with the recital. Worsened by me turning my back on her later that night. And the drama in the days after.

I reach into my pocket to pull out a pencil. “Here.”

“Thank. You.” She snatches the pencil while I try to hide a smile. I straighten my shoulders and try to shake off feelings I haven’t felt in years. Warm. Excited. Alive.

But it comes crashing down with the realization that this is only the first of many rehearsals I’ll be stuck with her. This tour is intense with four-hour rehearsals, four days a week. We practice for four weeks before the concert weekend in which we perform two shows a day, three days in a row. We do this for each city hitting Chicago first, then Los Angeles and ending in New York.

My body needs to be ready. My mind needs to be clear. Sadie needs to switch stands immediately.

We have two more weeks before we fly off from San Francisco to Chicago to practice in the concert hall on location. Two more weeks before I start my longest trip without Mason to help me rehab. This’ll be the true test to see if I can continue performing at this caliber after the tour is over.

This is how I’ll find out if I can still be a professional violinist.

Nerves simmer within me at the thought. While the pain isn’t so bad during practice or performances, it’s the soreness and tension that comes after that breaks me. The frightful flare-ups in the moment. I refuse to believe that this will be the end, no matter what Mason or the doctors say about my condition because I’m not giving up on being a professional violinist. I’m not giving up on being a Concertmaster.

The conductor cues the violins at the ready, preparing us for our entry. In my periphery, Sadie rolls her shoulders back and holds her chin high. Her red hair flicks behind her shoulder as she rests her violin on her collarbone while counting the conductor’s beats.

I lift my own up but stall as I hear the faint rattle of pills in my pocket. I mentally curse at forgetting to leave them in my case before rehearsal. Sadie glances in my direction, but says nothing.

It rattles in my pocket again.

Shit . They’ve gotten loose in my jacket.

Sadie outright glares this time before whispering through clenched teeth. “What is that?”

“None of your business.”

“It is if it’s going to throw us off cue. I doubt Beethoven wanted a rattle during this section. Get rid of it.”

“Always so bossy,” I mutter, just loud enough for her to hear.

“I am not bossy.”

“Sassy, then.” I flash her a smirk that she rolls her eyes at. Still, she’s right. I need to get rid of the noise. The conductor cuts the music right before our entry to have the woodwinds repeat their section again. It gives me enough time to pocket the bottle in my pants. I’m hoping they’ll rattle less there until I can hide them in my case. It haunts me to even have these—it makes my condition feel more permanent.

But I can’t think about this right now.

Especially not when Sadie is scribbling a messy, wavy line almost blocking the notes. It looks like borderline graffiti and it makes heat crawl up the back of my neck.

“What the fuck is that?” The question slips before I can help it and comes out much more aggressively than I intended. She glares back at me, unperturbed, ready for the fight.

This girl will be the death of me.