“Garage is yours,” he said.“We’ll join you.”
Vic didn’t wait for more.He walked straight to the kit in the corner, sat down, and grabbed the sticks.His hands were already raw from clenching them so hard on the drive over, but he didn’t care.
The first crash of the cymbals felt like a scream.
Benny plugged in his electric, and Bear wandered in a minute later, drawn by the noise.No one asked questions; they just fell in.
They played for hours.
Vic drove them mercilessly.He started with heavy, punishing grooves, slamming the kick drum like he could drive the memory of Bonnie’s rejection into the floor.Benny answered with raw, snarling riffs.Bear laid down a thunderous bass line that vibrated through Vic’s bones.They moved through originals, covers, half-formed ideas—anything to keep the momentum going.
Sweat poured down Vic’s face, soaking his shirt until it clung to him like a second skin.His arms burned.His shoulders screamed.But every time the memory of Bonnie’s panicked eyes flashed behind his eyelids, he hit harder.Faster.Louder.
“I can’t do this.”
Crash.
“We had a deal.”
Boom.
He couldn’t exorcise her.She was in every fill, every accent, every desperate push of the beat.So he played harder.The kit became a weapon, the sticks extensions of the pain he couldn’t outrun.
Bear and Benny stayed with him, matching his intensity, feeding off it.Lucia watched from the couch, her expression growing more concerned as the hours passed.They took short breaks only when Vic finally relented long enough to chug water, sweat dripping from his chin, shirt completely drenched.
By the fourth hour, his hands were on fire, but he barely noticed.
Bear finally took charge.
During a brief pause while Vic reached for another bottle of water, Bear stepped right up to the kit, towering over him, and got in his face.
“Enough.”
Vic blinked, chest heaving, sticks still raised.
“You’re bleeding, kid,” Bear said, voice low and firm.“Look at your fucking hands.”
Vic glanced down.
His palms were raw.Blisters had broken open hours ago.Blood smeared across the sticks and dotted the snare head.He hadn’t even felt it.The physical pain had been nothing compared to the one in his chest.
“Shit,” he muttered.
Benny set his guitar down and crossed the room.Before Vic could protest, Benny pulled him into a tight bro-hug, one hand gripping the back of his neck.
“I’m worried about you, man,” Benny said quietly, voice rough.“We all are.You don’t have to carry this alone.”
Vic closed his eyes, letting himself lean into the hug for a moment.The contact hurt and helped at the same time.
“I know,” he whispered.“I just...I need a couple of days.Gonna go check on Grams.She’s been on her own too much lately.”
He pulled back, wiping sweat and a little blood from his hands onto his already-ruined shirt.
“I’m not quitting,” he added, looking between Bear and Benny.“Not by a long shot.Grams’ house has always been peace to me, and I think I’m overdue for a dose of peace.”
Bear clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.“Take the time you need.Door’s always open when you’re ready.”
Benny nodded.“We’ve got your back.Always.”
