Chapter Three
Vic
Vic woke with a start, head jerking up from the pillow.He looked around and centered himself in what he could see and smell.Sheri’s place didn’t have a guest room, so he’d been crashing on her couch for the past week.He could see the tasteful wallpaper she’d told a story about the first night he’d been here.The scent of coffee wafted through the air, and he flopped over to his back, stretching out his back and legs.
I need to figure out my next steps.
“Vic,” Sheri called from the kitchen, “breakfast is nearly ready.”
He rolled his eyes in affectionate amusement.He’d told her every day that she didn’t need to feed him too.Giving him a place to lick his wounds in peace mattered more than she seemed to know.
“Okay.Smells good, Sheri.I’ll be right there.”He hit the head first, taking care not to shake those last drops anywhere but in the toilet bowl.A quick washup, and he ran a wet hand through his hair, slicking it back and away from his face.The man in the mirror looked better rested than he had in a while, and less gaunt.
“Staying with Sheri is good for the complexion.”His reflection grinned back at him.“Let’s go inhale another couple thousand calories.”
He padded into the kitchen in socks and yesterday’s jeans, the hem of his T-shirt brushing the waistband.Sheri stood at the stove flipping eggs, her dark hair pulled up in a messy knot, wearing an oversized band tee that had seen better days.She glanced over her shoulder and gave him that easy, no-pressure smile that had been his lifeline for the past seven days.
“Morning, rock star.Coffee’s fresh.Eggs are over easy with the bacon extra crispy, just how you like it.”
Vic dropped onto one of the barstools at the counter and accepted the mug she slid his way.“You really don’t have to keep doing this, Sheri.”
“I know.”She plated the food with practiced efficiency and set a heaping dish in front of him before taking the stool beside him.“But I like doing it.And you still look like you haven’t had a decent meal in months.Eat.”
“You aren’t trying to fatten me up for some nefarious reason, are you?”
“Would I tell you if I was?”She laughed.“No, Vic, you just...you can’t run a percussion engine without some good fuel.”
They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the scrape of forks and the low hum of the refrigerator.Vic’s mind, though, wouldn’t stay quiet.It kept circling back to the same rut it had been stuck in since he walked away from Dom and the van outside that venue.
He’d spent years chasing the next gig, the next crowd, the next rush of power that came when hundreds of people moved to the beat he laid down.And every time the high faded, he ended up in some version of this right here—couch-surfing with a fan who’d turned out to be a genuine friend, or in some random hotel room with a woman whose name he’d forget by the second morning.Casual connections.Easy exits.No strings, no expectations, and there was no one to disappoint when the next tour pulled him away.
It had always been enough.
That’s a lie.It stopped being enough months ago; the feeling just finally caught me in the right headspace to listen.
He speared a piece of bacon and chewed slowly, watching Sheri out of the corner of his eye.She sincerely wasn’t looking for anything from him.No autograph on her skin, no backstage pass, no whispered promises he couldn’t keep.Just for him to eat a decent breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and take advantage of her providing a safe place to land.It felt...nice.Normal.The kind of normal he’d never really had growing up with Rosie.
Sheri caught him daydreaming and arched an eyebrow.“You’ve got that thousand-yard stare going again.Spill it, Vic.What’s eating you this morning?”
He set his fork down and rubbed a hand over his face.“Just thinking about how I keep doing the same damn thing.Jumping from band to band, girl to girl, gig to gig.Every time I tell myself it’s gonna be different, but it never is.”
Sheri snorted softly, poking at her eggs.“You mean like how you fell for Dom’s whole ‘we’re gonna be huge’ speech and ended up hauling gear for a band named Domatella’s Abyss?Pretty boy with a guitar and a dream, right?”
Vic let out a short laugh.“Yeah.Exactly like that.”
She pointed her fork at him.“You’ve got a type, Montrose.Tall, tattooed, charming as hell, and completely incapable of sticking around.I’ve watched you do it for quite a few years now.You show up, you kill it onstage, you collect a few phone numbers, and then you’re gone again.It’s like you’re allergic to anything that might actually last.”
