Chapter 12
Joel
The club is alive with energy, buzzing with the anticipation of a sold-out crowd. The sound techs are running cables, the lighting guys are testing strobes, and Mark, the stage manager, is barking orders like he’s leading an army.
And I should be in it—feeling the electricity in my veins, the familiar rush of performing.
But all I can think about is this morning.
That moment.
That fucking moment.
Her wrist under my fingers, pulse fluttering just once before her mom interrupted. The way her lips parted, like she was about to say something—but didn’t. The way something unspoken cracked between us, and for the first time, I had no idea what she was thinking.
Hell, I forgot what I was thinking.
For a split second, if I didn’t know Anna was Anna, I would have sworn there was something else in her eyes. Something I shouldn’t even entertain.
But no.
That’s not possible.
Anna would rather slide down a banister of razor blades into a pool of alcohol than admit to even tolerating my existence—let alone being attracted to me.
Still.
I keep replaying it. The feel of her skin. The way she didn’t pull away. The way my brain short-circuited because suddenly, all I wanted to do was push that button again.
And now, standing in the middle of soundcheck for my fucking opening show at Nocté, I can’t get my head straight. She’s all I could think about all damn day and it’s bleeding into my night.
Mark snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Hey, rockstar. You planning to check in with the rest of us anytime soon?”
I blink. The mic is in my hand, the band is waiting for me to run through the set, and I have no idea how long I’ve been standing here like an idiot.
I scrub a hand down my face. “Yeah, yeah. Just—late night.”
Mark narrows his eyes and huffs. “That’s not what this is.”
I let out a staccato laugh. “What? You got mind-reading powers?”
Mark folds his arms, unimpressed. “Please. I’ve seen performers run on nothing but Red Bull and bad decisions. I’ve seen them drunk, hungover, jet-lagged, and fresh off a breakup. But you?” He gives me a slow once-over. “You’re in la-la land, Price. Where the hell did you go?”
I roll my shoulders back, grip the mic tighter. “I’m right here.”
Mark snorts. “Sure you are. You’ve just been staring into the void like it owes you money.”
I glance toward Myles over at the bar, half expecting her to jump in, but she just arches a brow, looking equally entertained and unimpressed. Great. Now I have a damn audience.
“I’m fine.” It’s a lie, and we all know it.
Mark sighs through his nose, muttering something about musicians and their melodramatic bullshit before waving to the band. “Alright, let’s run it again. Try not to sound like you’re thinking about your grocery list this time.”
I flip him off before adjusting my stance, nodding at the guys to start from the top.
The first notes hum through the club, deep and familiar. I roll into the song, the chords flowing through my hands like muscle memory. The mic is hot, the sound balanced.
And yet…
It feels off.
I go through the motions, hitting every note, every beat, every moment I’ve practiced a thousand times before. But there’s no fire behind it. It’s flat, and I hate that I know exactly why.
She’s not gonna be here.
There’s no way in hell she’ll be here tonight.
She’d rather chew glass than deliberately walk into my opening night, especially if she thought I expected her to. Had I asked, she’d probably have made some smart-ass remark about how there aren’t enough earplugs in the world to endure my set.
And yet, something in my chest sinks at the fact that she’s not here.
Because it means she doesn’t care.
Or worse, she does care—and that’s exactly why she stayed away.
By the time we finish the run-through, Mark gives me a slow clap. “Well, that was soulless. Congrats. You’ve officially become a pop machine.”
I sigh. “Jesus, Mark. You’re a pleasure, you know that?”
He shrugs. “Don’t Jesus me. You’re the one phoning it in. Fix whatever’s broken before you get up there for real.”
I roll my eyes, but he’s right. I gotta get my shit together.
* * *
The house lights drop. The roar of the crowd rips through the club like a thunderclap.
This is it.
This is what I live for.
The band starts up, the first heavy pulse of the bass rattling the floor beneath my boots. I step onto the stage, and for a second, I forget everything.
Because when the lights hit, when the music kicks in, when the crowd starts moving, screaming, reaching—I usually become someone else.
Someone untouchable.
Someone who doesn’t care that Anna isn’t in the room.
But tonight?
That someone doesn’t show up no matter how much I try to summon him.
The set goes fine. Technically, I kill it. The energy is high, the sound is tight, and the crowd gives me everything I want from them.
But it still feels empty.
Every lyric, every riff, every moment that should hit like a rush just feels like an echo of what it should be. Like I’m watching myself perform instead of living in it.
No matter what I do, my brain keeps looping back to this morning.
To her.
To that fucking second where I felt something I shouldn’t have—something I thought I stamped out when I was seventeen.
Backstage, after the set, I peel off my jacket and toss it onto the couch in the green room.
I expect a moment to myself to collect my thoughts, but Myles strides in, arms crossed, looking half-amused, half-unimpressed.
“Tessa said you’d be good,” she says, tilting her head. “And you were. Technically.”
I let out a slow breath, already on edge. “But?”
Myles shrugs. “But it felt a little... I don’t know. Off? I thought you’d have more, like, rockstar energy.”
I roll my shoulders, avoiding her gaze. The last thing I want to do is to have tonight’s performance get back to Tessa. Thank god she and Ethan weren’t able to make it tonight. “Sorry, I just wasn’t feeling it. A little distracted, I guess. Tomorrow night will be better.”
She studies me for a beat, then shakes her head. “Well, London’s thrilled. Packed house. Drinks flowing. The club made a killing. So, don’t sweat it too much.”
I don’t respond. Because none of that means anything when I feel like I just played a set on autopilot.
Myles watches me a second longer, then exhales through her nose. “Anyway, I came back here to let you know we’ve got a space for you and the crew for the after-party in the Upper Tier.”
I glance up at that. “Upper Tier?”
She nods but shifts slightly, like she’s choosing her words carefully. “Yeah. The VIP area upstairs.”
But there’s something in her expression—just a flicker of hesitation before she shrugs it off.
I catch it, though. Evidently, all this time around Anna has my subtle expression antennae up. Super.
“You got something against this Upper Tier?” I ask before I can stop myself.
She quickly shakes her head. “Nah. Just... it’s not usually used for this. But tonight, it’s all yours, rockstar.”
That gets my attention. “Not usually used for what?”
Myles waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it.”
Okay. That’s weird.
But before I can press, she jerks her chin toward the door. “You coming?”
I hesitate, because something about this whole thing feels off. I just don’t know why.
But I need a drink before heading back into the lion’s den that is Anna’s place.
I need something to take my mind off her—that touch—before I lose it completely.
“Yeah,” I say, grabbing my jacket. “Let’s go.”
The moment I step inside, I know something is a little different.
The club’s main floor was electric—wild and loud, full of people riding the high of the show. Drinks were flowing, people were dancing.
But this?
This is something else.
The lighting is lower, casting a golden glow over plush seating. The air is thicker, the music softer—a deep, slow bass vibrating under conversation.
And the people?
Sure, they’re drinking and chatting to each other. But they’re also doing something else that makes the hairs on my neck stand on end.
They’re watching.
And not in the ‘Oh, there’s the rockstar’ way, either. But I can’t seem to put my finger on it.
There’s something about the way bodies lean too close, linger too long. The way laughter rolls under hushed voices, like there’s an inside joke I’m not part of.
Don’t get me wrong,I’m used to post-show flirting. The occasional groupie trying to stick around. But this? This isn’t that.
I settle at the bar, ordering a whiskey, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve walked into something I wasn’t supposed to see.
I lean toward the bartender. “Upper Tier always this... quiet?”
The guy smirks as he slides me my drink. “Quiet? No. Can’t say it’s ever quiet.”
I lift a brow, but he’s already walking away.
Great.
I take a sip, scanning the room.
Some of my crew is already here, sprawled out on couches, laughing, drinking. A few industry people mingle, doing the usual handshake networking bullshit.
But beyond them—there’s a vibe that says I’ve stepped into another world, and I’m not entirely welcome. Odd.
Then, I hear it in passing.
Whispers.
Little things, caught in flickers of conversation.
“London must really like this guy if he roped off the rooms for the night.”
“Yeah, well, can’t exactly have rockstars walking in the middle of…”
“But it would be so fun to have an actual rockstar to…”
The voices fade, but I get the idea.
And now that I get it, I can’t un-get it.
I shift my weight, frowning slightly, finally noticing the velvet rope sectioning off the hallway at the side of the lounge. A guy stands at the entrance—not a bouncer, exactly, but definitely there to keep people out by the looks of it.
I don’t have to guess what’s behind those doors.
And I definitely don’t mean VIP bottle service.
As I watch, a couple approaches the rope. A woman—elegant, poised, confident in a way that suggests she knows exactly how this works—leans in close to the guy at the entrance.
He nods, lifts the rope, and lets them through.
They disappear down the hall.
I should look away.
But, like an idiot, I don’t.
Because the guy’s hand slides down her back, fingertips grazing just under the hem of her dress as they approach one of the closed doors.
He presses her against it. Murmurs something against her lips.
She laughs—soft and knowing—right before the door clicks open and they disappear inside.
The hallway door shuts.
And just like that, it’s cemented.
This Upper Tier isn’t just a VIP lounge.
It’s a playground.
And now, my brain that was already spinning out is a fucking traitor.
Because instead of shaking it off and moving on, all I can think about is Anna.
No.
Nope.
I grip the glass tighter.
Because it shouldn’t be like this.
I shouldn’t be standing here, surrounded by the unmistakable vibe of sexual debauchery, and thinking about her.
About how her pulse kicked under my fingers this morning. About how, for a fraction of a second, she didn’t pull away.
But my brain? It makes the connection anyway.
Anna.
Sex.
Fuck.
I toss back the rest of my drink.
I need to get out of my own head. Now.
I scan the room for a distraction, but all I can think about is why the hell I’m tying Anna to any of this. She’d think I was cracked.
I exhale slowly, fingers tightening into a fist as the thought creeps in.
What would that pulse feel like under my tongue instead of my fingertips?
For the briefest of moments, I envision running my tongue up the tender side of her neck.
The idea shouldn’t hit the way it does.
It shouldn’t sink into my skin, heat low in my stomach, making my body react before my brain can shut it down.
But I let it linger for just a second—long enough to feel it. To picture it.
Too long.
I grit my teeth, spinning around to face the bar, so no one can witness what the thought is doing to my lower half.
I exhale sharply, setting the glass down as a decision settles over me. It’s a bad fucking decision, but a decision nonetheless.
Somehow, I need to push that button again to see if the attraction was really there. I need to know if I imagined it.
Because if it’s not there?
Then I’m completely fucked.