Chapter 8 Axel
Axel
Islip into Pike’s Perk forty-five minutes before Open Mic Night officially begins.
The late afternoon sun spills in through the windows, lighting up the café in honeyed tones, softer than the harsh glare I remember from morning shifts.
Most tables are shoved aside, opening space by the front window for performers.
Sadie doesn’t see me yet. She’s crouched by the wall, taping extension cords with brisk, precise movements. A half-assembled stage light lies at her elbow, cables coiled like sleeping snakes beside her.
I hang my jacket on the coatrack, then start gathering empty cups. It feels good to move, to be useful without fanfare.
“Those go in the gray bin,” Saul’s deep voice rumbles behind me. He’s pointing at a plastic tub near the counter.
I nod and carry the cups over. “Thanks. Anything else?”
He eyes me for a beat, then jerks his head toward the stacked chairs. “Six rows, five chairs each.”
“Got it.” I roll up my sleeves and begin setting them out in neat rows. The routine is second nature; my busboy days at The Place flash back with each careful placement. When I’m done, I grab a rag and wipe down tables until they gleam.
“Volunteering now?” Rowan emerges from the back room with a box of sound equipment, her tone teasing.
I shrug, keeping my back to her. “Just offering a hand.”
Her eyes flick to my arms, then soften. “Well, don’t let me stop you.” She sets the box down near Sadie, who still wrestles with cords. “Your helper’s here.”
Sadie looks up. Our eyes meet, and I catch that flicker, surprise, maybe something gentler, before she smooths it away.
“Hey,” she says, brushing dust from her knees. “I didn’t see you come in.”
“Thought I’d come early,” I say, keeping my voice casual. “Extra pair of hands?”
“We’ve got it.” Her words are brisk, but her gaze slides over the organized chairs and clean tables.
From behind the counter, Finn calls, “Looks like someone’s been busy, unlike some people.” He glances at Mateo, who shrugs without looking up.
Sadie exhales and turns back to the cables. “If you really want to help, I need someone tall to hang string lights.”
I cross the floor slowly, careful not to crowd her. “Sure. Where?”
She hands me a strand of warm white bulbs. Our fingers brush, light, accidental, and I swear I feel a spark up my arm. I step back before I can overthink it.
“Above head height, around the perimeter. Hooks are in place.”
I lift the strand. Sadie’s cheeks color, her breath catching. I notice but say nothing.
I climb a small stepladder and secure the lights. Below me, I see Sadie checking microphone levels, clipboard in hand. She moves with that exacting focus I admire. Every detail matters.
When the last bulb clicks into place, I slide down. Sadie is kneeling by the stage, fingers fumbling through a snarled bundle of mic cables.
“Need a hand?” I crouch beside her, keeping a respectful distance.
She glances up and tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “If you can sort this mess, be my guest.”
Our hands hover over the cables, almost touching again. She pulls back first, cheeks tinged pink.
I dive in, untangling one loop at a time. She watches, and in the hush between us, I feel something shift, charged silence, like the calm before a storm.
“Thanks,” she says, voice softer than before. “You didn’t have to come early.”
“I wanted to.” I tie off a knot and straighten the cable. “I like being useful.”
She studies me, curiosity in her eyes. “You’re good at this.”
“Cable management, one of my hidden talents.” I grin, but the warmth in her gaze pins me silent for a heartbeat.
“No, I mean… this.” She gestures around the room, as though encompassing everything we’ve done. “Helping without making it a big deal.”
I catch my breath. Something in my chest loosens, like a knot I didn’t know I’d been hauling around. “Maybe I just like the company.”
For a fraction of a second, our eyes lock. I feel the quickening of her pulse, matching mine. Then I look away, pretend I’m focused on the cables.
“Where’s the little one tonight?” I ask, voice steady.
“Upstairs with Rowan. She’ll bring her down later if she’s up for it.” Sadie’s tone softens.
I nod, handing her the last sorted cable. “All set. What’s next?”
She gives me a marker and a roll of tape. “Label these: vocal mic, guitar, keyboard.”
Her fingers graze mine as she passes them over. I catch her breath in the silence that follows. Neither of us comments, but it’s there, electric and undeniable.
For the next twenty minutes we work side by side, labeling cables, adjusting lights, shifting chairs. Our movements fall into an easy, unspoken rhythm. I slide a chair into place right as she reaches for it. She hands me another cable before I ask.
“I think that’s everything,” she finally says, stepping back to survey the room. “They’ll start arriving soon.”
“Nervous?” I nod toward her clipboard, knuckles white around the metal edge.
She exhales, a small laugh escaping. “A little.”
“It’ll be great,” I promise, voice warm. “Virginia Dale’s finest amateur performers, all under one roof. What could go wrong?”
She truly laughs this time, and her smile lights up her whole face. I feel a warmth in my chest, as if I’ve glimpsed the person she is beneath the perfectionism.
The café door swings open and a flood of open mic hopefuls spills in. Sadie’s easy grin snaps shut, replaced by the crisp efficiency I know so well.
“I need more cups from the back,” she says, already pivoting toward the narrow supply hallway. “We’re going to need them.”
“Want a hand?” I offer, tailing her down the corridor that runs past the kitchen. She pauses mid-step, then glances at me. “Actually, yes. And ice.”
We slip into the tiny closet nook where the overhead light hums low and the ice machine rattles in the corner.
It’s like a secret alcove, cut off from the buzz of arrivals.
Shelves creak under boxes of cups, napkins, and lids.
The air smells faintly of coffee grounds and something floral—her shampoo, maybe—clinging to the air.
Sadie stretches up, pale arms lifting a sleeve of cups from the top shelf.
Her shirt hikes just enough to bare a sliver of skin at her waist. I pretzel myself around a stack of boxes to reach the ice bucket, but all I can think about is how the warmth from her back presses against my arm.
Heat prickles up my neck, tight and sharp, like my body’s suddenly two sizes too big for this closet.
Her hair brushes my shoulder as she turns to drop the cups into the bin.
“So,” I say, scooping ice, “do you ever get onstage yourself?” My voice sounds too loud in the hush.
She snorts, her chestnut lashes flicking. “Me? No. I leave the spotlight to the attention-seekers.” She jabs a finger at the cups. “That’s your department.”
“Ouch.” I press a hand to my heart. “You know I signed up to play tonight, right?”
I catch that tiny flicker of surprise in her eyes as her shoulders shift. “You did?”
“Guitar and vocals. Just a cover.”
She studies me, head tilted. “I didn’t take you for the performing type.”
I laugh, but it comes out softer than I expect. “What type, then?”
Sadie turns back to the shelves, cheeks dusted pink. “Charming-your-way-through-life type.”
“Is that what I’ve been doing with you?” I step closer under the pale bulb, almost brushing her side. “Charming my way through?”
Her breath catches; I feel it on my neck. I’m keenly aware of the faint rustle of her shirt, the soft pulse at her throat, the slight give of her perfume, coffee and something floral, something sweet.
“If so,” she murmurs, voice low, “it’s not working very well.”
I lean in, too close, close enough to see tiny amber flecks in her brown eyes, to track each rise and fall of her breath. “No? Then what would work better?”
Sadie’s gaze dips to my lips, then darts back to mine.
The air between us feels like static. Heat slams low in my gut.
She’s so close. One move and I could have her against the wall, my mouth claiming hers.
I want to cross that space, feel her melt for me.
Instead, I hold still, every muscle taut with restraint.
A muffled clatter from the café startles us both. Sadie straightens, reaching for a stack of lids. “We’d better get these out there before the show starts,” she says, voice steady but softer than before. I swallow.
“Right,” I whisper, stepping back. I can still feel her warmth lingering on my arm. We exit together, the tiny door clicking shut on what almost happened.
For a heartbeat, the room falls away. Her eyes lock on mine, raw, unguarded, and I feel a pull, like I’m teetering toward her, unable to resist.
Then her phone erupts in her pocket. The spell shatters. Sadie jerks back as though slapped, fumbling for the device. The color bleeds from her cheeks before she even glances at the screen.
“Sadie?” I whisper.
She shoves the phone away, hands trembling. “I’m fine,” she blurts, her gaze darting past me. “We should… get back out there.”
“Everything okay?” I press gently.
“I said I’m fine.” Her tone cuts off any warmth; she’s barricading herself behind a wall of duty. “We’ve got a show.”
I give her space, watching her inhale like she’s trying to calm a storm inside her. Fear flickers in her eyes. It isn’t annoyance or surprise but rather something darker.
“Alright,” I say lightly, grabbing the bin of cups. “Can’t keep my adoring public waiting. I’ve been polishing my rock star moves all week.”
I air–riff an over–the–top guitar solo. She cracks, a tiny, reluctant smile, but her shoulders stay tight.
“I’ll grab the ice,” I add, hefting the bucket. “Lead the way, boss.”
She nods, a fragile reset, and steers us back toward the café floor. I trail behind, careful not to crowd her, yet acutely aware of how her gaze keeps flicking around the room.
The café buzzes now. Every seat is claimed, and clusters of patrons press against the walls. Rowan stands at the mic, welcoming the crowd and outlining the lineup. I place ice and cups behind the counter, then collect my guitar case from its hiding spot.
“Next up,” Rowan calls, glancing at her list, “Axel Slade with ‘…something good.’”
Laughter ripples through the audience. A grin tugs at my mouth as I stride to the makeshift stage, settle on the stool, and raise the mic. As I tune, my eyes seek Sadie’s. She’s leaning on the counter, every muscle alert, but her gaze is open, curious.
“Evening, everyone,” comes out quiet but steady. “This one’s by John Mayer, ‘In the Blood.’”
The first chords slice through the chatter. For a moment I close my eyes, letting the melody center me, then I start to sing. The words, questions about who we are, where we come from, whether we can rewrite our story, flow naturally.
Halfway through the second verse, my gaze lifts. Sadie has stopped pretending to work; she’s utterly still, eyes locked on me. Her lips part slightly, as if she’s hearing something she needed to. In that glance, I know she feels every line I’m singing.
For those few measures, the crowded café vanishes. It’s just us: me, pouring out the song, and her, drinking it in. The tension between us softens, charged with something tender and unspoken.
The final chord lingers as I let it ring out, then I release it gently. Silence hangs for a heartbeat, then the room erupts in applause. Head dipping, I’m stunned back into the moment.
Once I step offstage, well-wishers swarm me with pats on the back, but my gaze is already searching for her. Behind the counter, I spot Sadie, eyes bright, a newfound warmth in her expression.
“That was amazing,” she says when I reach her. Her voice sounds steady now, sincere. “I didn’t know…”
I grin, trying to play it cool. “There’s more to me than the jokes, apparently.”
“No,” she insists, tone soft. “You have a beautiful voice.”
Heat pricks at the back of my eyes. “Thank you. That means a lot coming from you.”
We stand close, the counter between us, that electric charge humming again. But I step back, giving her space.
“I should help clean up,” I offer, nodding toward the next act setting up. “Only if you want me to.”
She hesitates, then offers a small, genuine smile. “Okay.”
As she turns to help a customer, her hand drifts to her pocket, as if seeking reassurance from her phone. Her shoulders remain rigid, eyes flicking toward the door. Whatever scared her earlier hasn’t left her mind.
From my seat, I watch her, unsettled. The source of whatever’s haunting her stays out of reach, but something in me stirs, a protective instinct I can’t ignore.
Whatever she’s facing, she won’t have to face it alone.