Vic’s chest felt tight.He’d come home looking for peace, but the quiet had started to feel like drowning.Every creak of the floorboards reminded him of his father.Every silence reminded him of everything he’d lost—and everything he was still running from.
His phone rang again.
He picked it up without checking the screen, grateful for the distraction.
“Montrose,” Meg’s voice came through, crisp and no-nonsense, the same tone she’d used since she first started booking him years ago.“I’ve got a few full days of tracking at Blackbird Studios next week, and my usual guy just bailed.You free?”
Vic sat up slowly, swinging his legs off the couch.Blackbird.The familiar smell of the studios, the hum of creativity, the chance to lose himself in someone else’s music for a while.It sounded like salvation.
He looked over at Grams again.She stirred slightly but didn’t wake, her breathing steady and shallow.The quiet pressed in on him from all sides—the kind of quiet that gave his thoughts too much room to spiral.He gave way too much thought to every failure in his past.The way the road had started to feel like the only place he knew how to exist.
“Yeah, Meg,” he said, voice low but decisive.“I’m free.”
“Perfect.Three days, possibly four if the last session runs long.Mix of country, indie, and one pop thing that’s going to pay well.You still okay bouncing between styles?”
Vic let out a short, tired laugh.“That’s about the only thing I’m good at these days.”
Meg paused, her tone softening just a fraction.“You sound like you need the work.”
“I do,” he admitted.“I’ve been home less than two weeks, and the walls are already closing in.Grams is happy I’m here, but I need to move.Need to play.”
“Understood.I’ll send the schedule and studio details.Get some rest before you come in.You sound like hell.”
He rubbed a hand over his face.“Feel like it too.Thanks, Meg.Seriously.”
“Anytime, kid.You’re one of the best I’ve got.Don’t make me worry about you.”
She hung up.
Vic sat there for a long moment, phone still in his hand, staring at the half-finished crossword in Grams’ lap.The quiet felt a little less suffocating now.There was structure on the horizon.Purpose.A place where he could pour everything ugly and restless into the music and walk out lighter.
He stood quietly, careful not to wake her, and headed to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee.The familiar routine grounded him.By the time the pot finished brewing, he already felt clearer.
A few days at Blackbird.A few days of being useful.A few days of not sitting here wondering if he was becoming exactly what he’d always sworn he wouldn’t—another man chasing ghosts in an empty house.
Vic poured himself a cup, took a slow sip, and let the warmth settle in his chest.
He wasn’t running away.
He was just pausing, just refilling the tank.
***
The studio work feltlike slipping back into an old, comfortable rhythm.Eight- to ten-hour days behind a beautiful kit in a world-class room at Blackbird, laying down tracks for three different artists.No drama.No egos screaming at each other.Just music—pure, focused, and honest in a way that roused something deep inside him.
He moved easily between styles now, shaping his playing like clay to fit whatever the song demanded.One moment he was laying down tight, punchy grooves for a slick pop-rock demo; the next he was giving a gritty country track that loose, swinging feel that made the bass player give him a welcoming nod.It was satisfying work.Lucrative too.But on the fourth straight day, Vic found himself craving fresh air and a moment away from the constant hum of headphones and talkback.
During a short break that afternoon, he wandered out to the small courtyard behind the studio.The late-spring sun felt good on his skin after hours under artificial lights.He leaned against the warm brick wall, tilting his face upward, and let out a long breath.
A woman was already out there, sitting on the low brick wall with a take-out coffee cup and a notebook balanced on her knee.She looked up when he stepped outside.
Mid- to late twenties, curly auburn hair pulled into a messy bun with a few rebellious strands escaping, freckles scattered across her nose, and sharp, amused green eyes that seemed to take him in all at once.Not the usual studio groupie type.She wore faded jeans, an old band T-shirt that had seen better days, and scuffed boots that looked like they’d actually been worn on real stages.
“Drummer, right?”she asked, tilting her head with a small smirk.“I heard you through the walls.You hit hard.”
Vic chuckled and leaned against the opposite wall, crossing his arms.“Guilty.Vic Montrose.”
“Harper Ellis.I’m doing backing vocals on the pop-country thing in Studio B.”She grinned, a quick, genuine flash of teeth.“Don’t worry, I’m not here to collect autographs or underwear.”
