By the time noon rolls around, I’ve already walked around the block twice, reorganized the liquor inventory, and cleaned the espresso machine myself—which Ineverdo.
My phone buzzes with a message.
Ty: You busy tonight?
Hunter: Always.
Ty: That’s a lie.
Hunter: Not in the mood to hang.
Ty: It’s not a hang. It’s a recovery mission.
Hunter: ???
Ty: Mont du Marquette. Back room. Chill vibe. No pressure. Could be fun.
Hunter: That is the absolute last place I want to go in a million years.
Ty: Which is exactly why we should go. Full circle, bro. Just us, no drama. I’ll buy the first round.
I stare at the screen.
Mont du Marquette.
The fucking origin story.
The mask. The girl. The voice. The photo. The kiss that rearranged my molecular structure.
“Full circle,” I mutter.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I need to face the ghost ofThor the Truckerand get my head on straight again.
Maybe it’s just a distraction.
Or maybe—God help me—I’m hoping to see her.
* * *
We pullup to the old brick building, the neon glow ofMont du Marquettebuzzing in the humid air. People are already lined up outside. The bass inside is low but thumping.
I grip the steering wheel, hesitate for half a second longer.
“You sure about this?” I ask.
Ty shrugs. “Nope. But I already paid the cover.”
I laugh under my breath and get out of the car, throwing on my ridiculous mask that makes me look like a character out ofScream.
As we walk in, memories hit like static electricity. The dim lights. The velvet curtains. The scent of clove and bourbon in the air. That piano note of tension strung tight across the room.
We make our way toward the back, where the private lounge is quieter. Lower ceilings. Leather chairs. A dark mirror behind the bar that reflects flickers of candlelight.
Ty leans in. “Gonna say hey to someone real quick,” he mutters. “Be right back.”
He slips through a side curtain, and I’m left nursing my drink. Trying not to feel haunted.
Just then, a voice hums from the other side of the partition. It’s one of those weird in-between walls—a decorative panel with gilded slats, offering a bit of privacy but still letting conversation bleed through.
