“Trey Bishop,” Jax said.“Bass and moral compass—when he’s not three sheets to the wind.”
Trey grinned wide and lifted his beer in greeting.“Welcome to the shit show, brother.You any good at keeping time when these two idiots start racing each other?”
“I’ve handled worse,” Vic said, already liking the guy’s easy vibe.
He set up a steady heartbeat with the kick, and they locked in immediately.Trey’s bass sound was fat and warm, grounding everything.Vic felt the low end settle into his bones like it belonged there.
Last was Nova Reyes, perched nearby on a speaker cabinet tuning a keyboard.Vivid purple hair, multiple facial piercings, and a no-bullshit expression.She looked younger than the rest—maybe mid-twenties—but carried herself like she’d already survived three lifetimes in the industry.
“And that’s Nova Reyes,” Jax said, voice softening just a fraction.“Keys, backing vocals, and the only reason we haven’t killed each other yet.”
Nova looked Vic over coolly.“You’re the session guy Meg keeps raving about.Please God don’t suck.”
Vic chuckled.“I’ll do my best.”
When they finally ran the full song, the chemistry wasn’t perfect—they were still feeling each other out—but there was power here.Real power.The kind that came from four people who didn’t give a fuck about being polished, only about being loud and honest and alive.
By the end of the first rehearsal, Vic was grinning behind the kit, sweat dripping down his back.The itch under his skin had quieted.
For now.
***
The next two weekswere a blur of sweaty clubs, long drives, and the kind of raw energy Vic had been craving.
Their first gig together was in a dive bar in Murfreesboro.The crowd was small but rowdy.Vic drove the set like a freight train, pushing the band harder than they’d expected.During the bridge of “Graveyard Shift,” he threw in a massive tom fill that made Jax spin around mid-verse with a wild grin.The place erupted.
After the show, in the cramped green room that smelled like old beer and victory, Nova bumped her shoulder against his.
“Not bad, Montrose.”
Trey handed him a beer.“You made us sound better than we are.”
Jax just laughed and slung an arm around Vic’s neck.“Told you we got fire.”
The second gig was bigger—a college town outside Knoxville.The room was packed with kids who knew every word to the songs.Vic felt the shift happening in real time.His playing was getting tighter with theirs, more instinctive.During the final song, he stood up behind the kit for the last chorus, sticks flying, feeding the crowd everything he had.The roar that came back nearly knocked him over.
That night, lying in another cheap motel bed, Vic stared at the ceiling and felt the familiar itch stir again.Not strong yet—just a whisper.
This is good.But is it enough?
***
Fifty shows.
Vic stood behind the kit as the house lights dropped, the roar of the Louisville crowd hitting him like a physical wave.
Klatmatch Ends was finally hitting their stride.Bigger rooms, better money, radio starting to bite at their offerings.Jax had been on fire tonight.Riley’s guitar work had been vicious.Nova’s keys gave the whole set that dangerous shimmer.Even Trey looked happy.
Vic let the number settle in his bones.Fifty nights with Klatmatch Ends, and tonight they weren’t just another opener—they were the final band before the headliner.The last chance for the audience to lose their minds.
He rolled his shoulders once, feeling the familiar burn of muscle memory, then brought the sticks down on the snare.Hard.Sharp.Deliberate.
One...two...three...four...
The bass drum followed with a thunderous stomp that vibrated through the stage floor and into the chests of the first three rows.The crowd answered instantly—hands in the air, a hundred bodies already moving.Vic grinned behind the kit, feeding off it like oxygen.
Jax strutted to the edge of the stage, mic in hand, voice raw and hungry.“How we doing tonight, Louisville?”
