25. Sadie
Chapter 25
Sadie
M y tired eyes scrape over the music we’re to rehearse today as I unpack my violin at the edge of the rehearsal studio. Sharing the bed with Jaxon seemed like a good idea, but with how sleep deprived I feel, I think I’ll go back to sleeping in my own bed tonight.
Maybe that’ll keep any sex dreams from happening again, too.
I chuckle to myself as I trace Jaxon’s markings scribbled all over the bars and my brain connects his handwriting to his fingers. The way I dreamed of them pushing me over the edge, fucking me until I soaked them and god, is this the last thing I should be thinking about before rehearsal. It doesn’t help that I’m still in his sweater since I was running out the door late.
I unclip my bow from my case to run my rosin across the hairs. The white, sticky residue wafting off it in a cloudy white haze as I wave off the excess with a sharp flick. I glance around, feeling the weight of eyes on me, but no one is paying me attention. I just think they are. Stupid dream.
When I crawled back into bed last night, Jaxon’s arm sleepily tucked me in closer to him. For a moment, I let myself imagine it was real. That he wanted to tuck me into his chest. That this wasn’t just some vulnerable night we shared and found comfort from the loneliness by sharing the bed together. That I’m not afraid of him turning away and disappearing unknowingly.
My heart tugged in my chest when I saw how peaceful he looked. So content and relaxed. Heavy arm across my stomach. Warm, tan skin. Midnight black hair pressed against a white pillow. His lips looked so soft I wanted to kiss them. I almost did. He looked the opposite of how he was at dinner and that’s all I wanted for him. It’s barely been six months since Sloane and I have lived apart and I yearn for her. I can’t imagine what six years alone, pushing away family, seeing friends sparingly, might feel like.
When I woke up, the bed was empty. Only a blueberry muffin and coffee on the counter with a note that said, don’t be late, sleeping beauty. And I was bolting my way out of the room because I was running late.
I place my bow down gently and lift the soft velvet cover from my violin to unstrap it from my case. A quick brush of my fingers across the strings tells me it only needs a light tuning, unlike when it was in my ragged old case before. I don’t know how I’ll thank Jaxon for this gift.
I switch from kneeling on the floor to cross my legs instead so I can tilt my violin up to tune my strings. The open strings swiftly transform into my dream of Jaxon hauntingly, the sound of his voice ringing in my ears.
I stop playing, curious to see if it would make the dream stop.
It doesn’t. And based on the way my pussy clenches, I don’t seem to want it to.
A trumpet flares a high-pitched note in the background that snaps me from my thoughts and I scramble up from the floor to start making my way to our stand.
The sun shines through a large window that casts a white, blinding rectangle across the studio floor. It separates the far wall from the orchestra like an imaginary ridge to be crossed. As I pass through it, my vision whites out and when I crest the imaginary threshold, my stomach drops. I freeze.
Someone’s in my seat. My thoughts begin to spiral. Who’s in my seat? Why are they there? Have I been replaced? Where’s Jaxon?
The conductor walks to his box in my periphery, tapping his baton against the music stand in an annoying tick that aggravates my senses. Uncertainty and panic lock me in place.
Where. Is. Jaxon?
“Sadie?” someone says before me. I blink and see a green-eyed, freckle-faced brunette sitting in my chair. “Take your seat.” She points to the seat beside her.
But it’s not my seat, it’s Jaxon’s. My heart is racing. A familiar dread chokes my lungs and I go from seeing Jaxon between my thighs to seeing Jaxon walking away from me.
The emptiness that followed. The cold night air on an empty porch. Six years ago.
Nothing is adding up. I figured he was just at the gym and would meet me here, but as I look across the stands of a hundred musicians, it’s clear as day. Jaxon’s not here. Maybe this is some twisted dream, a continuation from last night’s also somewhat twisted dream.
But it’s no dream.
I look over my shoulder to see if he might walk in late, nonchalantly, a coffee in hand, his black carbon fiber case slung over his shoulder in his signature black suit.
But he’s never late. The doors don’t open. His seat is vacant and mine is taken.
A murmur wafts through the orchestra stands and the conductor stops tapping his baton. He pivots, his piercing glass eyes staring into me.
“Jaxon won’t be here today,” Bert rasps. “Miss Love, as his sub, you’ll be taking his place. We’ll skip the solos for now, but please take your seat.”
I swallow thickly. The conductor extends a hand, seemingly to point at the seat, but instead points it towards me.
I tremble as I slide my hand across his rough, calloused skin and he lifts our hands in a shake.
In that instant, I’m the Concertmaster of rehearsal today, but I won’t be playing his solos. I’m just the sub. For now.
Another thick swallow, followed by an awkward silence. Eyes watching and waiting for me as I realize they’re expecting me to tune the orchestra. It’s my responsibility, but my head is still trying to wrap around what the fuck is going on.
A flame sparks in me. Indignation. Fury. Frustration. It curls through my veins as my string rings out for the orchestra to tune to.
I don’t get it. Why isn’t he here? But more, why didn’t I know? We shared so much with each other yesterday. We share a room. The fucking bed, even. I’d think he’d at least send a message or call. But I’d just checked my phone. No new messages. No phone calls.
I told him I trusted him. But now he’s left me alone.
I sit in the chair I’ve always desired, but pride or happiness don’t greet me. Malice sinks into my bones, boiling my blood at the feeling of being cast aside. Is this how he felt when I told him our kiss meant nothing?