Chapter 2
Elise sat on an equipment case in the back room of the Timber Wolf and tried to remember the last time her hands had shaken this badly.
Not from fear. She'd played enough rough bars to know the difference between a drunk grabbing at her and a real threat. This was something else—the slow-burning fury of watching ten years of work get threatened by a man who thought talent was inventory he could manage.
The whiskey Maren had poured sat untouched on a road case beside her.
The prospect—Roughcut, they called him—leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, filling the space without crowding it.
The redhead behind the bar had followed them back here, and now she was watching Elise with the sharp assessment of a woman who'd seen trouble walk through her door before.
"Start from the beginning," Maren said. "How does Wennberg's thing work?"
Elise laughed, and it came out brittle. "You want the version that makes sense or the version that's true?"
"True."
"Okay." She pressed her palms flat against her thighs, steadying herself. "Wennberg owns five venues across the Range. Bars, music halls, a couple event spaces. Between them, they book maybe eighty percent of live music north of Duluth."
"That's a lot of stages," Roughcut said quietly.
"That's all the stages." Elise met his eyes. Brown and sad and patient—the kind of patience that came from somewhere deeper than waiting. "If you want to play the Range circuit, you play Wennberg's rooms. His schedule. His cut."
Maren's expression hardened. "His cut?"
"Twenty percent off the top of any booking.
Plus a 'promotional fee' that's another ten.
Plus whatever he decides to dock you for sound equipment rental, even if you bring your own gear.
" The words came faster now, years of swallowed frustration spilling out.
"He calls it the network. Like it's some kind of service.
Like he's doing us a favor by letting us play. "
"And if you book outside the network?" Roughcut asked.
"You don't." Elise shook her head. "That's the thing.
Independent venues are terrified of him.
Bar owners who book acts without Wennberg's blessing wake up to electrical fires.
Liquor license complaints. Parking lot assaults that drive customers away.
" She gestured at nothing, at everything.
"I've watched it happen. A place in Hibbing tried to go independent three years ago.
They lasted four months before the owner sold. "
The back room was quiet except for the muffled thump of the jukebox through the walls.
"So what happened tonight?" Maren asked. "Why's Kovich coming after you specifically?"
"Because I played Babbitt." Elise reached for the whiskey and took a long swallow. It burned going down. Good. "Three weeks ago. Independent venue, open booking. The owner's new—didn't know better, or didn't care. I needed the gig and the money was clean, so I took it."
"And Wennberg found out."
"Wennberg finds out everything." She set the glass down harder than she meant to. "He's got eyes in every bar on the Range. Someone saw my name on a poster and made a call, and now I'm blacklisted from every stage he controls."
Roughcut shifted against the doorframe. "For one gig?"
"For the principle." Elise's voice went flat.
"I've been his most profitable booking for two years.
Regular rotation through all five venues, merchandise at his approved vendors, the whole thing.
He's made more money off me than any other act on the Range.
" She stood up, restless, pacing the narrow space between equipment cases. "And I was going to leave."
Maren's eyebrows rose. "Leave?"
"Minneapolis showcase. Six months from now. A real producer, a real venue, a shot at actually building something outside this frozen circuit." The words tasted like hope and fear in equal measure. "Wennberg knows. Everyone knows—I haven't exactly been quiet about it. And he can't let me walk."
"Why not?" Roughcut asked.
"Because if I make it out, everyone else sees it's possible.
" Elise turned to face him. "Every musician he's got locked into his network starts thinking maybe they don't need him either.
Every bar owner who's been paying protection money for a decade starts wondering what would happen if they stopped.
" She spread her hands. "I'm not just a booking to him.
I'm an example. And he's going to make sure I'm the right kind of example. "
The room went quiet again.
Roughcut was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read.
Not pity—she'd learned to recognize pity from a thousand post-show drink offers from men who wanted to help her with her equipment and help themselves to everything else.
This was something different. Assessment, maybe.
The careful attention of someone calculating weight and pressure and exactly how much force a situation could bear.
"You mapped his operation pretty clean," he said finally. "The venues. The pressure points."
Elise blinked. "I've been living inside it for ten years. I know which owners are scared and which ones are secretly waiting for someone to give them permission to fight back."
"Which venues are Wennberg's directly and which just pay his fee?"
"Three are his outright. Two pay to stay in the network." She frowned. "Why does that matter?"
"Might not." Roughcut's voice stayed level, thoughtful. "Might matter a lot."
Maren pulled out her phone. "I'm calling Permafrost."
"The president?" Elise's stomach dropped. "Look, I appreciate the help tonight, but I don't want to drag your club into—"
"Kovich walked into my bar." Maren's voice was steel wrapped in patience. "He threatened a performer under my roof while I was working. This stopped being your problem the second he opened that door."
She stepped out into the hallway, phone already at her ear.
Elise stood in the sudden quiet, arms wrapped around herself. The adrenaline was fading and exhaustion was flooding in behind it—the bone-deep tired of a decade spent fighting for every stage, every dollar, every mile of Minnesota highway.
Roughcut hadn't moved from the doorframe.
"You don't have to stay," she said. "Prospect duties probably don't include babysitting musicians."
"They include whatever needs doing." He said it simply, without ego. "Right now, this needs doing."
She studied him. The massive frame that moved like it was apologizing for taking up space. The scarred hands that looked like they could crush rebar. The way he held himself—contained, careful, as if he was constantly calculating how much damage he might accidentally cause.
"Roughcut," she said slowly. "That's a hell of a road name."
Something flickered in his eyes. "Earned it."
"How?"
"Made a lot of rough cuts. In the ground, mostly." He shrugged, and the movement was somehow gentle despite shoulders that could block doorways. "Dozer work. Excavation. Before."
Before. The word hung in the air between them, carrying weight she recognized. Every musician had a before—the life they'd left behind to chase something that probably wouldn't love them back.
"What are you going to do with her gear?" Maren asked, reappearing in the doorway.
"Load it." Roughcut pushed off the frame. "Her van shouldn't be sitting alone in the lot tonight. Not after Kovich made that exit."
Elise opened her mouth to protest—she'd been loading her own gear for ten years, she didn't need some prospect treating her like she was fragile—but Roughcut was already moving past her toward the storage room, handling her amp with the same impossible care she'd noticed earlier.
Like it was made of glass.
Like everything he touched might break if he wasn't careful.
Maren caught her expression and smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. It was the smile of a woman who knew something Elise didn't yet.
"Permafrost is coming in the morning," Maren said. "You're staying here tonight. We've got a back room with a lock, and nobody's getting past me to reach it."
"I can't just—"
"You can." Maren's voice brooked no argument. "Because Kovich wasn't making threats. He was making promises. And until the club decides how to handle this, you're under Savage protection whether you like it or not."
Elise watched Roughcut carry another case toward his truck, headlights cutting through the parking lot darkness.
She'd spent ten years handling everything alone.
Tonight, alone felt like a luxury she couldn't afford.