The Only Song (Only You)

16. Sadie

Chapter 16

Sadie

I fucked up. Not only did I wake up almost straddling Jaxon, my cheek on his hard bicep, his soft breath brushing my face. But now every time I close my eyes, I can’t stop seeing where my thigh was touching his morning wood. It’s scorched in my brain so much that I spilled my iced coffee. On myself. A full cup. Soaking me wet like I entered a wet t-shirt contest and I’m even wearing white .

The one time I wear white, and this happens.

I’m thankful Jaxon’s left already because I can’t imagine how awkward it would be to see me like this—nipples peaking through my thin bralette under a coffee-stained white t-shirt.

God, how embarrassing.

My phone alarm goes off on the other side of the counter and I curse at the reminder that I’m late to calling Sloane. I’m also running late to rehearsal. I had the best sleep I’ve had in ages, now I’m running late. I really shouldn’t be surprised.

With a light flick of my fingers, I toss the plastic coffee cup into the stainless steel sink as I rinse my sticky hands clean. My phone buzzes again.

“Shit, shit, shit ,” I curse, shaking my hands, water droplets dripping onto the floor as I round the counter and jam the snooze button on my alarm with a wet finger. I swipe my hands down my pants since I can’t find a napkin or paper towel and these pants are ruined anyway, then instantly tap to call my best friend. I think I said I’d call about twenty minutes ago. Hopefully, she’s not pissed.

“Fucking finally ,” Sloane groans in greeting on the other end of the line.

“Wait!” I cry out, pulling the phone away to put her on speakerphone. I don’t have time to find my headphones. Besides, I need to change out of these wet clothes.

“Are you kidding?! I’ve been waiting for you for forty minutes already!” she cries.

Shit, was it that long?

“Sloane, I’m having an emergency!” My voice trembles, whether from my cold clothes or the embarrassment, I don’t know.

“So why did you call?”

“Because I said I would! But now—” I gasp when I realize I spilled the coffee in my pants too. Like it dripped from my stomach straight into my panties and fuck . The front of my panties is soaked. Does lace stain like cotton? If it does, I’m pissed ‘cause I love the pair I’m wearing. I don’t even know why I put it on. It’s not like anyone’s going to see it. Not like Jaxon would.

What a fucking morning.

“Sadie!” Sloane practically yells. “Don’t just stop talking like that! I’m your best friend! You’re not going to tell me what’s going on? Why are you video calling me right now?”

Her face fills my screen. Sleek black hair tied up in a high ponytail, cherry red lips and a mean cat eyeliner.

“Don’t best friend card me right now. Of course, I’m going to tell you!” I snap back, frustration and embarrassment getting the better of me. I keep my video off as I collect my thoughts, Sloane’s brows only drawing in confusion. “Just… please , don’t laugh at me.”

She stays quiet, but her face shows everything. Her lips roll over her teeth, dimples popping, dark eyes sparkling in anticipation.

“What did you do?” she asks slowly, visibly biting her tongue as she tries to contain her grin.

“I need your help. And I need you to not laugh.”

“Okay…?”

Fuck it. Here goes.

I tap the video camera on. Sloane’s hand flies up to her mouth, eyes crinkling at the edges, a small snort escaping.

“Nonono. Do not laugh at me right now. I am going to be late for this dress rehearsal. Sloane, help me!” I cry, my voice at a decibel only dogs can hear.

“What the fuck happened?”

“My clothes were thirsty and decided they wanted some of my iced coffee,” I deadpan. “I spilled my drink, of course!”

Because of course I did. Because I’m a klutz. Because I couldn’t stop thinking of Jaxon and I sleeping in the same bed, the secrets we shared last night, his voice a tender caress over places in my heart I didn’t even know were sore.

How hard his cock was in those fucking gray sweatpants.

Fffuuuucckk.

Not only that, my mind was so distracted by the fact that tonight is the first night of our deal where he’d train me for the solos after rehearsal. But after spending a night together in the same bed, I don’t know how I’ll stay focused alone again together in a room.

“Oh, Sadie. No, honey. Tell me what really happened,” Sloane says with a sly grin.

I roll my eyes. She knows me too well, so I let the words slip from my mouth. “I slept with Jaxon Tanner last night.”

“You what? ” Her image blurs as she’s shoved her face so close to the phone all I see are the freckles on her nose before she pulls back.

“Shit. No, I mean, we slept in the same bed last night. Not… slept together.” I shake my head. This is a clusterfuck. I’m a clusterfuck. And yet all my mind can think about is his long fingers laced through mine. The steady whoosh of his breath as we fell asleep. The scent of cedar wood and mint all around me.

Sloane’s brows pinch. “You were in the same bed, and somehow, you didn’t climb the man?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a lie.”

“I’m not lying.”

“C’mon, you can tell me.” She wiggles her eyebrows. I glare in response.

“Sloane...”

“Is he big?”

The tent in his gray sweatpants fills my mind. Fucking hell . “I’m hanging up now.”

“No, wait!” Sloane stifles another laugh and I have to give her credit for not bursting outright yet. I know she’ll have a fit of giggles later. We probably will together once I’ve gotten over the embarrassment and gotten to rehearsal, hopefully on time. “Okay, okay I’ll stop. Do you have something to change into?”

I swallow. There’s the catch. Laundry was my plan for tonight, which is why I was going into rehearsal wearing white instead of black. It doesn’t take much for Sloane to parse the answer from my expression.

“You don’t have anything to wear,” she says plainly.

“Yeah, I don’t think my silk black pajamas are appropriate,” I groan as I stare down at my stained shirt. I’m not even going to bother trying to wash this out, it’s going straight in the trash. Unlike my thoughts that no matter how hard I try are still stuck on Jaxon.

She snorts. “I bet Jaxon would feast at the sight of you in those pajamas.”

Technically, he did last night. I saw the way his dark brown eyes trailed down the length of me, heated and molten, like he could see right through the fabric at how much I ached to touch him. Or for him to touch me. I practically stood in the doorway clenching my thighs together when I asked him why he was sleeping on the floor. But I wasn’t going to tell Sloane that. She has enough ammunition on me already.

“You don’t have anything casual?” she asks, tapping a finger on her bottom lip. Jaxon’s sweater still lies on the side of the bed since the night he lent it to me, but I’m not going to rehearsal dressed in that .

“It’s a dress rehearsal. We need to come… dressed.”

Her eyes widen as if I just gave her the clue of the century.

“What?” I ask warily. I know that expression all too well and there are usually only two outcomes: a brilliant idea or an incredibly stupid one.

“Do you have my dress you borrowed?” she asks excitedly.

Yup. It’s a stupid one.

“Sloane…” My teeth clench. I can already see where this is going, and it’s already a no.

“Do you have it or not?”

“Yes, but?— ”

“There. That’s what you’re going to wear. We’re like the same size, honestly it’ll probably fit you better than me. I don’t have enough boobs or ass for that dress.”

I pinch my eyes shut, envisioning the amount of looks I’m going to get. The look from him. “I am not showing up in that dress.”

“Why not?”

“Sloane. It’s a dress rehearsal.”

She looks at me blankly and blinks twice. “Yes. You can wear my dress. For your rehearsal.”

“No, that’s not what I—” I cut myself off, scrunching my hair in frustration. “I don’t have time to explain to you what dress rehearsal means!”

“I did theater in high school. I know that means you wear what you’re going to perform in and you, honey, are performing in that dress. Just put it on and then convince me after why you can’t wear it.”

I hesitate, staring at her face, chestnut brown eyes sparkling with excitement. I glance at the time and it shows I’m cutting it really close to the start of rehearsal. God, I can’t be late.

“Fine,” I groan. “Don’t hang up.”

“Oh, honey. I’m not going anywhere.” She smirks playfully, and I roll my eyes before leaving my phone on the counter to dig in my suitcase for her dress.

With each article of clothing I sift through, my mind drifts to Jaxon’s eyes raking over me in my silk pajamas. This dress feels no more appropriate, but I have nothing else to wear that’s close to the dress code or clean.

My fingers wrap around the soft material, and I groan as I reluctantly hold up the fabric.

With a heavy sigh, I slip the dress on, then quickly run to the bathroom mirror to see how it fits and I’m speechless.

It’s stunning.

Sheer black long-sleeves. Sweetheart neckline. Smooth material that cinches at the waist where the tips of my red waves reach.

But there’s a catch.

The skirt isn’t a particularly long skirt, nor is it flowy like most dresses a violinist would wear. It’s short, with a high slit on one thigh, and stops just under my ass.

It’s a party dress, not a performance dress.

I bound back to the kitchen to where I left my phone, Sloane perking up at the sound of my footsteps.

“Sloane, I can’t wear this!”

Sloane gasps in glee at the sight of me. “You. Look. Hot !”

“I need to look professional !”

“Jaxon’s gonna love to see you in this.”

I feel my face flush. Jaxon cannot see me in this. Ugh.

“I really don’t think I should wear this.” I tug at the short edges of the skirt as if it might lengthen.

“Well, I’m not going to force you, but you are running out of time, so it’s either you change and arrive late or you leave now, hot as fuck, and get to your rehearsal.”

“I hate you so much.”

“I love you. You’re welcome.” She winks with a happy grin. “Now go. Text me Jaxon’s reaction. You look gorgeous .”

I stifle my groan, hanging up the phone and packing the rest of my belongings in a bag. When I sling my violin over my shoulder, I subconsciously pull at the bottom of the skirt, afraid of it riding up.

God, I can’t believe I’m wearing this. This is a stupid idea.

Yet all I can think about is if Jaxon will like what he sees.

I climb up the narrow stairs to the stage, one hand grasping my violin and bow, the other covering my ass on the way up. There’s no one behind me, but I’m still panicked as if someone might see up my skirt anyway.

I never wear tight dresses or have my legs exposed in orchestra. This was the most ridiculous idea. I should’ve changed, but I couldn’t risk being late. I can’t believe Sloane convinced me to wear this.

When I reach the top landing, I force in a deep inhale to steady my nerves.

Here fucking goes .

Whatever calming breath I attempted is snatched away the moment I break through the heavy velvet curtains and halt. There’s no stopping the way my heart races, the electricity at my fingertips, the anticipation making my throat dry. When I close my eyes, I see Jaxon. His golden tan skin. Dark hair messy on his pillow. Lips looking so soft and kissable in the morning sun.But when I open them and see the orchestra, I’m reminded why nothing can happen between us.

We’re performers. Professionals. Partners.

We can’t afford drama and gossip in our careers. It’ll only make the following months insufferable, and we’ve only just begun.

With a steadying breath, I step forward and immerse myself in the atmosphere. Blinding stage lights beam above us, bright and hot as a cloudless sun. The air is a little thick with all the bodies onstage, orchestra members taking their seats, tuning instruments, practicing bars, or chatting amongst themselves as we wait for the start of rehearsal.

To my right, rows upon rows of ruby velvet seats stretch before us. The concert hall may not be a world renowned one, but it’s still a two-level auditorium that seats roughly two thousand on the bottom level and another thousand above.

Thousands.

I’m not accustomed to playing at this level and I hate how my mind instantly jumps to how Jaxon is. Tens of thousands have come to see him perform.

Am I jealous or am I nervous?

I shake my head of the thought as my eyes pan to my left. The stage is deeper than meets the eye and the ceiling above us stretches higher than we can see. It reminds me that no matter where your seat is as a spectator, the stage looks large.But as a performer? The stage is beyond large.

We’re tiny specters in its depth, over a hundred of us filling the space and still leaving some. What we see, hear, and feel is tenfold what the audience will experience. Its architecture is built to project and amplify sound beyond the microphones and speakers lined at the front of the stage.

It’s our own world here. And I hate to admit that Jaxon was right. As thrilled as I am to be onstage again, I’m terrified to perform.

As a violin teacher, I’ve spent many days in the front row watching my students in their recitals, spending the week teaching them how to keep their nerves calm, the right posture to have, ways to communicate with their accompanist. It’s all ingrained in my head from when I used to be a performer.

As a soloist, it’s different. You can’t hide behind music stands or partners—you’re front and center. Everyone’s eyes are on you. The spotlight will either make you or break you .

And I can’t say I feel as confident as I used to be.

Gotta fake it till you make it.

Yeah. I’m really going to have to fake it.

I resume walking to my seat and the closer I get to the edge of the orchestra, the louder the click of my heels on the hardwood floor. It’s almost as if it echoes endlessly in the vast, empty auditorium, ricocheting off the walls until I feel it—everyone’s eyes drawn to me and this little black dress.

Click. Click. The sound reverberates. I approach the back of the brass and violin section and at least eight heads turn in my direction.

Click. Another head whips up. Smith from the stand behind us. A dangerous lust glints in his eyes. I want to rip the smile off his face.

Click . I pass two more stands. Almost at the front row. Everyone I’ve passed can see the way this dress hugs my ass, and I feel objectified from a distance, in silence, in the heads of others. Ugh.

Click, click, click. The murmurs still, dying out like a concerto with an open ending, its melody unresolved.

Finally, I see him. He’s the last to turn his head towards me.

Jaxon.

Inky dark brown eyes widen as muscle feathers in his jaw. His lips part in surprise and same as the night before, his eyes rake up and down slowly, memorizing me in a way that blossoms heat over my skin as if he were touching me wherever his gaze drags. When his eyes finally meet mine, his Adam’s apple bobs in a hard swallow and I’m feeling breathless.

His face goes through about ten different emotions before it quickly slips into a mask of indifference. Ever the professional.

“Hey,” I murmur with a quick smile, pinching my legs together so I don’t accidentally flash the cello section, but also because the way Jaxon looked at me shot a pleasurable zing straight between my thighs. This is going to be a long rehearsal.

“Hi,” Jaxon rasps, staring at the music stand. I want to believe it’s to read the music, but I have a feeling he’s trying not to look at me.

I stare into my lap in frustration. How am I going to rehearse in this skirt? Opening my legs is not an option. So I go for the lady-like approach, crossing my ankles and angling them to my right side. It’s not much better, but?—

My thoughts are interrupted as the conductor makes his way to his box. Shit, I haven’t even tuned and with my violin’s track record, I’m probably two tones flat. I spin towards Jaxon, who’s definitely trying to not look at me. He’s staring at the music stand like it offended him. I hope my dress didn’t have that effect.

“Tanner,” I whisper.

“Yes, Sass?” he replies, voice still hoarse.

“I need to tune.”

He blinks at me, and I suppress a groan. I missed when he tuned the orchestra earlier and the conductor is almost at his stand. I know with the way the heat’s risen under these scorching spotlights that none of my strings are in tune.

“I need. To tune,” I repeat sharper, not trying to be harsh, but he seems to be in a daze. His eyes blink rapidly at my words and when he finally looks at me, it’s my turn to be dazed. Because the way Jaxon is looking at me is not professional. It’s a look of hunger, want, need. His eyes dip to my lap where my violin rests on my thigh, barely covering the high slit that exposes most of one leg, and my breath quickens.

“Jaxon.” I know that’s all I have to say to get his attention. His name. “Please play your A-string for me.”

He clears his throat. “Sorry. Here.”

When he leans in close, I momentarily forget that I’m meant to match my string’s tune with his. My brain jumps instead to wanting to match something else, like my lips, our hands, our legs together. I clench my thighs tighter as the throbbing between them swells.

“Thanks,” I mutter, panting. When did it get so hard to breathe in here?

He simply nods and when I finish tuning the rest of my strings he asks, “Why is your violin never tuned?”

“It’s my case.” I shake my head. “I need a new one. The constant change in temperatures keeps messing up my strings. ”

He eyes me then, his expression unreadable, but before he can respond, the conductor calls out before us, waving his baton. “Everyone ready?” Murmurs of agreement wafts over the stands. “We’ll start with the Michael Jackson medley. Let’s go from the top.”

Jaxon and I exchange another quick glance and I pretend that I didn’t catch his eyes flicking from my bare legs by his knee back up to my face. The heat in his eyes is no less than before and I ache in wonder. Is this all it takes to unravel him?