Chapter Fourteen
Nyxx
Ana’s been calm all afternoon, her flute case propped open beside her, pages of sheet music fanned across the bed. The air hums with half-finished melodies. Late sunlight slants through the window, gilding the dust motes—and her hair—when her phone buzzes.
She glances at the screen and freezes. “Artistic Administrator from the Philharmonic,” she whispers, then pastes on a bright voice.
“Clara! Hi—how are you?”
I set my guitar aside. Every inch of Ana’s body says this is important.
At first, her tone is light, almost chirpy. Then, as whoever’s on the other end keeps talking, the brightness drains out of her.
“I see… yes, of course.”
A pause.
“There was a video?” There’s panic in her voice now. “It wasn’t a performance, just… something spontaneous.”
Her shoulders inch higher with every word. Her breathing goes shallow, clipped.
“Yes, ma’am,” she says softly, and hangs up.
The phone stays in her hand as if it’s turned to stone.
“What happened?” I ask.
Her smile is paper thin. “The Philharmonic is ‘disappointed in my recent behavior.’ They got a call from the International Philharmonic Exchange Committee. The board thinks the video made them look bad. They’re postponing my audition—indefinitely.”
I wait, knowing the aftershock’s still coming.
“They said I looked ‘unstable’ and ‘tarnished the orchestra’s reputation.’” Her laugh cracks. “Because I played in a public square wearing your T-shirt.”
The same T-shirt I still see in my dreams—soft black cotton slipping off one shoulder, smoky eyes, hair wild from the wind, her music catching fire under the summer sun. Unstable, my ass. She looked alive.
Ana’s voice wavers. “That audition was going to be my big break. My one chance to go on the European tour. Now it’s gone. All of it—because I dared to look like a woman instead of a marble statue.”
She presses a hand over her mouth, as if she can’t trust the sounds coming out. “They’ll never see me the same again. I can already hear the whispers—the board, my colleagues, my parents…”
The phone buzzes again. She flinches. “Of course,” she mutters, and shows me the screen. “Mother.”
Her voice drops into careful politeness as she answers. “Hi, Mother.”
I can’t hear the other side, but her face tells the story—eyes glistening, lips trembling, breath quickening.
“Yes, I’ve heard about the video.”
Pause.
“No, I didn’t plan for someone to record it.”
Another pause.
“I know what people are saying.”
Her free hand fists the hem of her shirt. “Of course I care about the Philharmonic’s reputation.” She stays silent for a long minute, just nodding her head. I can only imagine the shit her mother is spewing. “I am sorry.” The last word breaks, barely a whisper.
She ends the call and just stares at the phone, shoulders shaking once before she folds in on herself, chin to chest, a silent sob she swallows before she gives is sound.
I crouch in front of her, careful not to crowd. “Breathe, Ana.”
She pulls a ragged breath through her nose and lets it out like it hurts.
“Good,” I murmur. “Now let’s get you out of here. You’ve had enough judgment for one day.”
Her gaze flickers to mine, raw and wet. “Where?”
“Creek,” I say, rising and offering my hand. “You, me, water, stars. No committees, no critics.”
A tremulous smile ghosts across her lips. “You’re impossible.”
“True.” I squeeze her hand gently. “But I’m also right. Come on.”
The moon is huge, hanging low and full in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the forest. Ana keeps pace beside me, sputtering now and then like an engine that can’t quite decide whether to stall or roar.
The words come in bursts—snatches of disbelief, outrage, and half-formed jokes she doesn’t finish.
Every emotion has sharp edges tonight. By the time the sound of the creek reaches us, though, the fire’s burned down to embers.
She just walks, quiet, spent, like she’s run out of anger and fuel in the same breath.
I think she’s over her initial shock, though I imagine other emotions will bubble up, perhaps tomorrow.
I can barely take my eyes off her as we make our way down the winding path to the creek. Her hair, usually yanked into a tight bun, spills in loose, golden waves around her shoulders. She looks… free. So different from the woman who measured every breath to a metronome.
“You doin’ okay, princess?” I grin as she shoots me a mock glare.
“I thought I told you to call me Ana.” There’s no bite to her words—only warmth.
“Old habits die hard,” I shrug, guiding her over a root. “How about queen?”
She snorts. “Don’t push it.”
We’re halfway down the trail when my phone buzzes for the second time. It’s a video call. The guys never ring twice unless it’s blood or gossip. Ana tilts her head.
“Take it,” she says, brave voice not quite hiding the pinch at the corners of her mouth.
I thumb it open. Three faces crowd the screen—Duke, Saint, and Crash—our chaos hydra.
“Nyxxy,” Duke sings. “Is the hermit alive? Blink twice if you’ve been domesticated.”
“I bet anything he has conditioner in the house,” Saint says. “That’s a cry for help.”
Crash squints. “Is that… are those trees? Are you feral now? What happened to neon lights and bad decisions?”
“I’m on retreat,” I say. “Composing.”
Duke leans so close his eyeball becomes the moon. “Rumor says you’re doing a duet with a classical princess. Which is hilarious considering you play everything by ear.”
Ana laughs—soft, surprised, like the sound startles her. It’s the first real laugh I’ve heard since those phone calls, and for that alone, I could kiss Duke.
“Tell them hello,” I murmur.
She waves, queenly and mortified. “Hello.”
Saint’s brows hit his hairline. “She’s hot. Also, she looks like she color-codes her planner. Does she know what you’re like?”
Duke whistles. “He’s punching above his weight, boys.”
“Bye,” I say, stabbing the screen. The path returns to crickets and creek hush. Ana’s smile has wilted at the edges.
“They were teasing,” I say. “They tease everyone.”
She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “I’m just… not used to being a rumor.” A beat. “Or a punchline.”
I stop walking. “Hey.” When she looks up, I make sure my voice is clean as a vow. “They don’t get a vote on us. You do. I do.”
The night feels closer, kinder. She nods once, the kind of nod that sounds like a page turning.
“Okay,” she says. “Walk me to the water. I imagine it’s pretty in the moonlight.”
The sound of water grows louder, tumbling and alive. She slows when the creek comes into view, moonlight glittering off its surface.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I say, watching her instead. “You ready for some therapy by submersion?”
Her brows draw together. “Submersion?”
I kick off my boots and grip the hem of my tee—this one has a line of rats circling the band name and trailing under the arm and onto the back of the shirt. “You know… immersion therapy. The full-body kind.”
Her mouth opens. “Wait—you mean—”
“Skinny-dipping,” I finish, deadpan, tugging the shirt over my head. “Don’t worry, it’s a proven treatment for creative burnout.”
Her eyes widen, equal parts scandalized and intrigued. “You could have warned me.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I grin. “Besides, you can keep your clothes on if you want. Or just wear your dignity. Dealer’s choice.”
She folds her arms, but the corner of her mouth twitches. “You’re impossible.”
“True,” I say, yanking off my jeans. “But I’m also right. Nothing clears your head like cold water.”
She hesitates, studiously avoiding looking at anything south of my eyes. I can almost hear her inner good girl arguing with its wild counterpart. Then she straightens her spine.
“No, I want to do this properly,” she says, her voice firm despite the slight tremor in her hands as she reaches for the buttons of her blouse.
I turn away, giving her privacy. “I’ll go in first, okay? Join me when you’re ready.”
I walk slowly to the creek’s edge. I’m no exhibitionist, but I want to give her plenty of time to sneak a peek at me. My ass, I’ve been told, is one of my best features… might as well flaunt it.
The water is cool against my skin as I wade in, gasping slightly at the initial shock. When I’m waist-deep, I turn back to the shore. Ana stands at the water’s edge, arms crossed over her chest, looking equal parts terrified and exhilarated.
“Come on in,” I call softly.
“Uh… are you supposed to… look?” That last word came out as a squeak.
“Uh… did you look at me?”
I’ve thought Ana was gorgeous from the start, but this look—wide eyes, parted lips, the picture of caught red-handed—might be my undoing. Well, this one is my favorite.
Instead of waiting for an answer, I simply forge ahead. “Did you like what you saw?”
I’m betting even money she’ll pretend she didn’t hear me. Or maybe she’ll reach down, grab her neat pile of folded clothes, and run back to the cottage. Instead, she wordlessly nods, serious, as though it’s the most important statement she’s ever made.
“That’s good, Ana. It bodes well for all the things that might come next. And, might I say, I like what I see, too.”
She startles, as though she’d forgotten that the longer she stayed on dry land, the more time she gave me to ogle her.
“Come on in; the water’s fine, if a bit cold.” I flash her a smile that I hope doesn’t look as predatory as I feel.
Ana’s a beautiful woman, no doubt about it, but there’s something about her transformation from the cold, resting-bitch-face woman I met that first night to the warm, open, doe-eyed female picking her way to the water’s edge that makes her even more enticing.
My body, cold as it may be, is certainly reacting.
She takes a tentative step forward, then another. When she’s knee deep, she pauses. “Nyxx, I… I’m not sure I can…”
“Hey.” I wade closer but am careful to keep my distance. “Remember what we talked about earlier? About putting your fear into your music? This is just another kind of performance. Channel that feeling. Use it.”
Ana closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. When she opens them again, there’s a new determination in her gaze. Without a word, she plunges forward, gasping as she submerges herself up to her shoulders.
“Holy shit, that’s cold!” she exclaims, and I can’t help but laugh at her uncharacteristic outburst.
“That’s my girl,” I say with a warmth I don’t bother hiding. “How does it feel?”
She’s quiet for a moment, floating on her back and staring up at the star-studded sky. “Incredible,” she finally says. “I feel… alive.”
As we float together under the moonlight, I’m struck by how far we’ve come in such a short time. The perfection-chasing woman I met feels like a ghost compared to this one—brave, spontaneous, willing to leap before she looks.
“What are you thinking about?” Ana asks, her voice soft in the quiet night as her hand reaches out under the water and finds mine.
I turn to face her, treading water. “Honestly? I’m thinking about how amazing you are. How you’ve blown away every assumption I had about you.”
She smiles, a hint of shyness creeping back in. “I’ve surprised myself, too. I never thought I could be this… free.”
“Freedom looks good on you,” I say, meaning every word.
Ana edges closer, her eyes locked on mine. “It feels good, too. You make me feel good, Nyxx.”
The air between us crackles with anticipation. Without thinking, I reach out, sliding a wet strand of hair off her cheek. “Ana, I…”
But before I can finish my thought, she closes the distance between us, her lips meeting mine in a kiss that takes my breath away.
It’s as though no time has passed since we were in the gazebo.
Her mouth and tongue are bold, urgent. Her arms wrap around my neck, and I pull her closer, reveling in the feel of her slippery skin against mine.
When we finally part, both breathing heavily, I rest my forehead against hers. “Wow,” I murmur.
Ana laughs softly, the sound sending ripples through the water. “Yeah. Wow.”
It hits me with the force of a sledgehammer. I’ve never been here before. I’m a rock star. I’ve had plenty of women. I’ve flirted and fucked my way across the free world with a side trip to Russia just to say I’ve been there.
I’ve never fallen before. Not for supermodels. Not for women who could use their tongue to tie a cherry stem into a knot.
But here I am in a moonlit forest with a classical flutist, the formerly prim and proper Anastasia Ashcroft, and I’m feeling all the feels I’ve written about in my sappiest love songs. I’d wait a year to have sex with her—if she asked.
I think this is the real thing—the thing I’ve been avoiding since my dad walked out on me and Mom when I was ten.
And God help me, I think I’m ready for it.