The response was deafening.
Riley’s guitar growled into the opening riff of “Graveyard Shift,” and Trey locked in on the low end like they’d been playing together for years.Nova layered shimmering keys underneath, giving the song that eerie, dangerous edge that had been getting them radio play in three markets now.
Vic drove the whole thing.
He was in the pocket—deep, relentless, unstoppable.Every fill was tighter than the last, every transition seamless.The power he’d always chased was here in full force, flowing back and forth between him and the sweating, screaming mass of bodies pressed against the rail.A girl with bright green hair at the front caught his eye and threw up devil horns with both hands.He answered with a wicked grin and doubled the intensity on the toms.
This was what he lived for.
The set flew by in a blur of sweat, crashing cymbals, and Jax’s snarling vocals.They closed with their biggest song to date—“Bleed Out”—and when Vic brought the final beat down, the entire venue seemed to shake.The roar that followed was primal.
Jax spun toward him, sweat dripping off his face, eyes wild with the same high Vic felt.“Montrose, you beautiful bastard!”he shouted into the mic.“We are Klatmatch Ends—we thank you, Louisville!We’ll see you again real soon!”
They came offstage riding pure adrenaline.Backstage was a chaotic mess of high fives, soaked towels, and someone already cracking open celebratory beers.Nova bumped her shoulder against Vic’s.
“Fifty shows and you still haven’t missed a beat,” she said, a rare smile tugging at her pierced lip.“We’re lucky we found you.”
He wiped sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt and laughed.“Feeling’s mutual.”
But as the adrenaline ebbed, that familiar itch crawled under Vic’s skin again.
He wandered over to the side of the stage to watch as the headliner made final tweaks to their setup.His body was still buzzing as his gaze drifted across the venue floor.
Occupy Yourself had played here last weekend.
He’d slipped into the crowd that night like just another fan—hood up, anonymous.Vic didn’t understand it, but he’dneededto see them.Needed to know how Benny was holding up.
What he’d seen had been...good.Really good.Benny looked solid, clear-eyed, and fully present.The new material they’d debuted was strong.The whole band had chemistry.
Except for one glaring problem.
They’d added yet another new drummer.
Vic had watched the guy struggle through the set.He was technically competent but stiff, never quite locking in with the rest of them.The fills were safe, restricted from flying wide.The groove was there, but the soul was missing.He could see it in Benny’s face during the slower songs, that tiny flicker of frustration he tried to hide.
Tonight, Vic leaned against a speaker stack, arms crossed, still catching his breath from their own set.Things were clicking better than they ever had.The crowds were bigger, the paychecks were fatter, the music was raw and honest andworking.
But watching OY last weekend had watered those seeds planted in his head months ago that he couldn’t quite shake.
Benny Jones was building something real.Something worth believing in.And they kept burning through drummers like they were disposable.
Vic spun one of his sticks through his fingers, the wood still warm from the set.
They need someone who can actually keep up with them.
The thought lingered longer than it should have as the headliner took the stage and the crowd roared again.
He pushed it down—for now.
But it didn’t disappear.
***
Fuck.
He knew this feeling too well.The same one that had hit him right before he walked away from a losing option.The same one that had whisperedthis isn’t enoughwhile he was crashing on Sheri’s couch.
It wasn’t the music.The band’s music was still magic.
