Chapter 2
Joel
The Twin Ports haven’t changed much.
Superior still feels like the scrappy underdog to Duluth’s polished charm, but there’s something comforting about that. The streets are a little quieter here, the buildings a little rougher around the edges. It feels more real—less like it’s trying to impress you.
Which is good, because I’ve had enough of trying to impress people.
I park my Jeep outside Club Nocté and kill the engine, staring up at the venue like it holds the answers to questions I’m too scared to ask.
It’s a good spot, though. A regular stop for touring acts who are in the know—intimate but not claustrophobic.
It’s the kind of place that could give you momentum if you play it right.
But let’s be honest—I didn’t come back just to play it right.
I came back for Anna.
That thought lands like a punch to the gut, but it’s the truth. Eighteen months since I last saw her, and I still haven’t figured out how to fix things with her.
The envelope didn’t help. That much is obvious. If it had, I wouldn’t be here, trying to convince myself that proximity might be the key to earning her forgiveness.
I run a hand through my hair and sigh, leaning back against the headrest.
Knowing her, she’s probably still furious. And I can’t even blame her. I was stupid and thoughtless. But if I’m going to make this right, I can’t keep avoiding her—or the consequences of what I did.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder, Ethan’s name lighting up the screen.
Dinner. My place. 7 PM. You’re coming. I need adult conversation.
I snort, shaking my head. Classic Ethan. He’s never been big on subtlety.
Fine, I type back, hitting send before I can overthink it.
Hopping out, I shove my phone into my back pocket and grab my guitar case from the backseat.
The cool September air hits me the second I step out of the Jeep, sharp and bracing like a wake-up call I didn’t ask for.
The sign above Club Nocté’s door flickers faintly in the twilight, its neon casting a deep red glow on the cracked pavement beneath my boots.
This place is the kind of venue that makes you work for it, where the magic isn’t handed to you—you have to earn it.
I shoulder my guitar case and step inside Club Nocté, the steel door closing behind me with a heavy clang that echoes in the dimly lit space.
The hum of the place is almost palpable—low conversations, the muted thrum of a soundcheck in progress, and the faint clink of glassware from the bar.
The energy here is grounded, intimate, and alive in a way that makes you feel like you’re part of something bigger the second you walk in.
At the far end of the bar, a man I assume is London St. James looks up from a laptop. His sharp features are illuminated by the glow of the screen, and the easy confidence in his posture tells me he’s in charge.
“Ah, Joel Price,” he says, his voice smooth but with an unmistakable edge of enthusiasm. He closes the laptop and strides toward me, extending a hand. “London St. James. Good to finally meet you.”
“Likewise,” I reply, shaking his hand.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” London says, nodding toward the guitar case slung over my shoulder. “She won’t admit it, but Myles wouldn’t shut up about getting you on our stage. I’m glad it worked out.”
“Me too,” I say, glancing around the space. “This place has a good vibe.”
“Appreciate it,” London replies, his smirk widening. “We work hard to keep it that way. Nocté’s about creating moments to remember, not just music.”
Before I can respond, the door to the back room swings open, and a woman with bright purple hair cropped on one side and longer on the other strides out, clipboard in hand. She’s dressed in a fitted black tee, cargo pants, and combat boots, her sharp gaze locking onto me immediately.
“Myles,” London says, gesturing toward her, “meet Joel Price.”
Myles narrows her eyes at London before turning her attention to me. She steps closer, her movements quick and deliberate, like she’s always in control. If I didn’t know London was the manager, I would have pegged her for the gig instead.
“So, you’re the guy Tess wouldn’t stop raving about,” Myles says, leaning against the bar with her arms crossed. Her multicolored eyes flick over me, sharp and calculating, but there’s the faintest glimmer of something else—approval, maybe. “She says you’re good. Guess we’ll find out.”
“I’ll try not to disappoint,” I reply evenly, matching her gaze.
She raises an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “Oh, you won’t. If Tess is right—and she usually is—you’ll kill it. But I’ve got a reputation to uphold, so I’ve got to give you the whole ‘don’t screw it up’ speech anyway.”
I chuckle, relaxing a fraction. “Consider me properly warned.”
“Good,” she says, straightening up and grabbing a rag to wipe down the bar. “Saint doesn’t take risks on people unless I nudge him, so don’t make me regret it. Not that I think you will.”
She says it casually, but the confidence in her tone carries weight. It’s not every day someone with her presence lets slip they already believe in you.
“Saint?” I ask, confused.
Myles tips her head at London and keeps wiping.
“Ah.”
London, who’s been watching the exchange with a faintly amused expression, steps in. “Myles likes to put people in their place, but trust me—she doesn’t waste her time on people she doesn’t think can deliver.”
“Noted,” I say, nodding toward her. “Thanks for sticking your neck out.”
Myles shrugs, tossing the rag over her shoulder. “Thank Tess. She wouldn’t shut up about you. Said you’ve been looking for the right places to get back into the scene here.”
I nod, the mention of Tessa sending a flicker of gratitude through me.
She’s the one who suggested Nocté in the first place, her knack for connecting people kicking in like clockwork.
We’ve been texting on and off for weeks—her recommending venues, me explaining what I was looking for.
That’s all she knows, as far as I’m aware.
But Tessa’s not just a helpful busybody—she’s a strategist. She puts people where they need to be. And whether or not she realizes how deep things run with Anna, I can’t help but wonder if she had a bigger picture in mind when she pushed me toward Nocté.
London’s voice pulls me back to the present. “Mark’s already at the soundboard. Let’s get you set up so you’re ready for tomorrow.”
I nod, following after him.
The stage is cozy—intimate, even—but it’s got a presence that makes you feel like every note you play is going to matter. As I unpack my guitar, Mark glances up from the soundboard and gives me a nod.
“Joel Price, right?” he says, his voice calm and professional.
“That’s me,” I reply, tuning my guitar.
“Cool. Been looking forward to hearing you play.”
“Been looking forward to it, as well,” I reply, strumming a quick chord that rings out across the room.
Mark smirks and adjusts a few knobs. “Let’s start with the acoustic and work our way up.”
We run through the setup smoothly, Mark balancing the sound with the precision of someone who’s been doing this for years. By the time we’re done, the room feels alive, humming with potential even though it’s empty.
I pack up my gear and sling the guitar case over my shoulder, stepping off the stage as London meets me near the bar.
“You’re set,” he says, nodding approvingly. “Tomorrow night, just give them the real stuff. Nocté’s crowd doesn’t want gimmicks—they want heart.”
“I can do that,” I say, shaking his hand.
As I head for the door, I catch Myles’s eye from across the bar. She leans against the counter, a drink in hand, watching me with that same sharp gaze.
“Don’t make me regret it, Price,” she says, lifting her glass in a mock toast.
“I won’t,” I say, casting a wave as I head for the door.
* * *
By the time I pull into Ethan’s driveway, the sun’s low on the horizon, spilling gold and orange across the trees. The crisp air bites at my skin as I step out of the Jeep and grab my guitar case from the back.
“About time,” Ethan says, grinning as he opens the door. “I was starting to think you got lost on the way here.”
“I’d have to try pretty hard to get lost in Duluth,” I reply, stepping inside and shrugging off my jacket.
Ethan laughs, clapping me on the shoulder as he leads me into the kitchen. It’s a familiar space, warm and cluttered with the kind of chaos that comes from having a newborn in the house.
“Grab a beer,” Ethan says, gesturing to the fridge. “Tess is upstairs with Mina, so it’s just us for now. Anna should be here soon.”
My hand freezes halfway to the fridge handle. “Anna’s coming?”
Ethan looks at me like I’ve just asked if water’s wet. “Uh, yeah. She’s my sister. You knew that, right?”
Of course I knew that. I just didn’t think she’d be here.
Freaking Korean families. They always make a big deal about things. I’m surprised he didn’t invite his parent’s too, come to think of it.
“Right,” I say, grabbing a beer and twisting off the cap. “Got it.”
Ethan smirks, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “Relax, man. It’s just dinner. You two can manage a meal without killing each other, can’t you?”
Before I can respond, the sound of the front door opening cuts through the room.
“Ethan!” Anna’s voice is sharp, followed by the unmistakable sound of boots thudding against the hardwood. “Where is that adorable baby. I need some Mina time.”
I don’t even have time to brace myself before she rounds the corner, her hair piled into a messy bun and her leather jacket slung casually over one arm. She stops short when she sees me, her eyes narrowing like I’m something she scraped off her shoe.
“Joel.”
“Anna,” I reply, keeping my tone as casual as I can manage.
She crosses her arms, shifting her weight onto one hip. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“It’s called dinner,” Ethan says from behind me, his tone infuriatingly calm as he slowly pronounces dinner.
Her glare shifts to him, then back to me. “You invited him to dinner without telling me?”
Ethan shrugs, clearly unbothered. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Unbelievable,” Anna mutters, shaking her head. “Fine. Whatever. I’m starving and you ate all of my dumplings.” Then she slowly and deliberately turns to me, locking her cold gaze on me. “Just don’t expect me to play nice.”
I raise my beer in a mock toast, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth, despite my heart hammering in my chest. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Her eyes narrow even further, but she doesn’t take the bait. Instead, she grabs a plate from the counter and mutters something about regretting every life choice that brought her here.
Ethan just grins, cracking open his own beer. “This is going to be fun.”
Fun. Right.
If this is how the night’s starting, I’m going to need another beer—and probably a miracle if I’m ever going to fix this mess.