“Fuck,” she muttered and moved around the van, pressing her forehead against the cool metal of the driver’s door.Her ears were still ringing, but not from the music.From the way the crowd had thinned out by the fourth song.From the polite smattering of applause instead of the roar she used to get.From the knowledge that tonight had been mediocre at best, and that was on her.
She’d carried the whole damn thing on her back again.
Her fingers ached from gripping the neck of her guitar too hard.Her throat felt raw.And her pride—God, her pride was shredded.She hated this part.The comedown after a show that should’ve been better.The moment when the adrenaline drained and all that was left was the naked truth.That her band was good, but not great.And she was the only one who seemed to care enough to be pissed about it.
Leo wandered over, still loose and unbothered.“You good, boss?”
“No.”She didn’t sugarcoat it.Never had.“You were dragging the tempo on ‘Devil’s Backbone’ again.And that solo in the bridge?Jesus, Leo, it sounded like you were reading sheet music for the first time.”
He shrugged, not even offended.That was the problem.No one got mad anymore.No one burned for it.“Crowd seemed fine.”
“The crowd was half drunk and polite.That’s not fine.That’s a funeral.”
She yanked the van door open and climbed in, not bothering to wait for a response.Leo just tossed his cigarette and headed for his own car.
Typical.Everyone else could clock out.She never could.
Bonnie sat behind the wheel for a long minute, staring at the cracked dashboard.The interior smelled like stale beer and the vanilla air freshener she kept replacing because it never quite covered the rest.She was thirty-one years old, driving the same van she’d bought at twenty-four, playing the same circuit of dives and roadhouses where she’d been grinding for years.
And she was tired.
Not the good kind of tired that came from pouring everything out onstage and having it given back tenfold.This was the bone-deep exhaustion of always being the one who cared more.The one who was responsible for abso-fucking-lutely everything and still had to drag everyone else across the finish line.
She pulled out her phone and stared at the screen.Three missed calls from her mother.Two voicemails she already knew would be the same old song:When are you going to settle down?When are you going to find a nice man and stop this music nonsense?When are you going to listen to your mother?
Bonnie deleted them without opening them.
Instead, she opened her contacts and scrolled until she found the name she almost never called unless she was desperate.
Meg.
The call connected on the second ring.
“Bonnie Rae,” Meg answered, voice warm but sharp.“To what do I owe the pleasure at one in the morning?”
“I just got offstage at The Hot Hearth,” Bonnie said, leaning her head back against the seat.“It sucked, Meg.Not end-of-the-world sucked, but a layer below mediocre.And I can’t keep doing even mediocre.”
Meg was quiet for a beat.Bonnie could picture her in whatever hotel room or studio lounge she was currently occupying—hair up, reading glasses on, always three steps ahead of everyone else.
“You’ve been saying that for about two years now,” Meg finally replied.“What’s different tonight?”
Bonnie let out a bitter laugh.“Nothing.That’s the problem.My drummer’s reliable, but he’s notgreat.Leo’s checked out half the time.The songs are good, but they could be better.I’m good, but I’m starting to feel like I’m the only one who still believes we can be more than a solid opening act.”
She closed her eyes.“I need something to change, Meg.Or someone.I don’t know anymore.”
Meg hummed thoughtfully.“You know I can’t just wave a magic wand and hand you a new band.But I’ve got my ear to the ground.There are some solid players moving around right now.Drummers especially.”
Bonnie’s stomach did a little flip at the word.She told herself it was just professional interest.
“Anyone worth a damn?”she asked, trying to sound casual.
“A couple.There’s a guy who just wrapped a fill-in run with Silverline Drift.Vic Montrose.He’s been doing session work in Nashville, played with Klatmatch Ends for a hot minute before they fell apart.”Meg’s voice carried a note of respect.“He’s the real deal behind the kit.Power and feel.Graceful even when he’s hitting hard.I’ve used him on a quite a few tracks.He’s steady.Loyal.Doesn’t do the rock-star asshole thing.”
Bonnie filed the name away—Vic Montrose—even as she told herself not to get excited.She’d heard plenty of “real deal” promises before.
“Sounds too good to be true,” she muttered.
“He’s had some rough patches,” Meg admitted.“Dad was a mess.They lost him recently.But the kid shows up, and he plays like the music matters.Every time.That’s rarer than you’d think.”
