Chapter Eighteen
Vic
Vic couldn’t get Bonnie out of his head.
She haunted him in the quiet moments—during long rehearsals when a certain groove would remind him of the way she moved onstage, hips swaying, guitar slung low, fire in her eyes.Late at night, when he lay in Bear’s guest room staring at the ceiling, the distant rumble of bikes outside the window doing nothing to drown out the memory of her laugh, low and rough after they’d worn each other out.Even in the middle of a set, when the crowd was screaming and the lights were hot and OY was locked in tight, all he could think about was how much better it would feel if she were in the audience watching him—that fierce, proud look she got when the music was right.
He kept replaying that last night in her apartment like a song he couldn’t stop listening to, even though it hurt.The way she’d looked at him when he said he loved her—eyes wide, vulnerable for half a second before the panic set in.The way her walls had slammed shut so fast he could almost hear the crash.The quiet click of the door behind him when she asked him to leave.
Every day he told himself to let it go.Every night he failed.
But even in the ache of missing her, Vic couldn’t ignore how much his life had changed in just one year.
A year ago, he’d been drifting—couch to couch, band to band, chasing the next gig like his father had chased every high.He’d been sleeping on Sheri’s couch, licking wounds, wondering if he’d ever find a place where he actually belonged.Klatmatch Ends had imploded.Silverline Drift had been safe but empty.The music had still been there, but it had felt like survival instead of salvation.
Now?
He had OY, finally a band that felt like home.Benny was solid again, the new material had real teeth, and the crowds were growing every week.He had Bear’s guest room that had slowly started to feel less like temporary housing and more like a place he could put down roots.He had the club—rough, loyal, complicated as hell, but real.Men who had his back even when he’d overstepped.Chase, who looked at him like a big brother instead of just another musician passing through.
He had purpose.
Even without Bonnie—and God, that still hurt like a bruise he kept pressing—his life was so much better than it had been twelve months ago.He wasn’t running anymore.He wasn’t just filling in.He waspartof something.The “grace in motion” he’d always chased on the drums was starting to take shape off the stage too—in the way he showed up for rehearsals, for Chase, for the club, for himself.
He still wanted her.The ache of her silence was a constant companion.
But for the first time in his life, Vic could look at where he stood and feel proud of the man looking back at him in the mirror.He wasn’t his father’s ghost anymore.He wasn’t drifting.
He was building.
And maybe—just maybe—that was enough to keep him steady until Bonnie figured out whether she could let herself want the same thing.
***
He was sitting on theback porch of Bear’s house, absently spinning a drumstick between his fingers, when his phone rang.
Meg.
He answered on the second ring.
“Hey, Meg.”
“Montrose.”Her voice was warm, the familiar mix of business and affection that always made him feel seen.“I’ve got a solid three-month block of session work starting in two weeks.High-profile stuff.Good money, steady hours, and a chance to work with some real players.You interested?”
