Chapter Five
Vic
Vic pulled up to the nondescript warehouse on the east side of Nashville two days later, duffle in one hand and sticks in the other.
The building looked like it had once been a slaughterhouse—rust-streaked metal siding, broken windows high up near the roof, and a single rolling door half-open.
Music already spilled out; he heard heavy, dirty riffs layered over a loose, pounding bass rhythm.
He stepped inside and was hit by the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke.
“Montrose!” Jax spotted him immediately and strode over, all long limbs and cocky grin.
He was exactly the kind of pretty-boy frontman Sheri had warned him about—tall, sharp jawline, messy black hair that looked intentionally unkempt, and tattoos crawling up both arms. “Glad you made it, man. We’re a little rough around the edges right now, but we’ve got fire. ”
Vic shook his hand firmly. “Rough is fine. Fire’s better.”
Jax laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, steering him deeper into the space. “That’s what I like to hear. Come meet the misfits.”
They started with Riley Kane.
The lead guitarist was leaning against a stack of speakers with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Lean, wiry build, head shaved on the sides with a messy blond topknot, and sharp, restless eyes that sized Vic up in a single sweep.
“Riley Kane,” Jax introduced him. “Our resident axe murderer. He writes half the riffs and bitches about the other half.”
Riley gave a lazy two-finger salute. “You hit as hard as they say you do?”
“Harder,” Vic replied evenly.
Riley’s mouth twitched into something that might have been a smile. “We’ll see.”
Vic stepped behind the kit set up nearby, and Riley started running through the opening of “Bleed Out.” Riley’s guitar snarled, fast and vicious.
Vic answered with a heavy, commanding stomp on the kick, locking in tight.
On the second pass, he threw in a quick fill that made Riley glance over with raised eyebrows and a nod of approval.
Next in introductions was Trey Bishop, sprawled on a ratty couch with a bass across his lap. Bigger guy with a full beard and kind eyes. He looked like he belonged on a fishing boat more than a stage, but his fingers were long and nimble as they idly plucked strings.
“Trey Bishop,” Jax said. “Bass and moral compass—when he’s not three sheets to the wind.”
Trey grinned wide and lifted his beer in greeting. “Welcome to the shit show, brother. You any good at keeping time when these two idiots start racing each other?”
“I’ve handled worse,” Vic said, already liking the guy’s easy vibe.
He set up a steady heartbeat with the kick, and they locked in immediately. Trey’s bass sound was fat and warm, grounding everything. Vic felt the low end settle into his bones like it belonged there.
Last was Nova Reyes, perched nearby on a speaker cabinet tuning a keyboard. Vivid purple hair, multiple facial piercings, and a no-bullshit expression. She looked younger than the rest—maybe mid-twenties—but carried herself like she’d already survived three lifetimes in the industry.
“And that’s Nova Reyes,” Jax said, voice softening just a fraction. “Keys, backing vocals, and the only reason we haven’t killed each other yet.”
Nova looked Vic over coolly. “You’re the session guy Meg keeps raving about. Please God don’t suck.”
Vic chuckled. “I’ll do my best.”
When they finally ran the full song, the chemistry wasn’t perfect—they were still feeling each other out—but there was power here. Real power. The kind that came from four people who didn’t give a fuck about being polished, only about being loud and honest and alive.
By the end of the first rehearsal, Vic was grinning behind the kit, sweat dripping down his back. The itch under his skin had quieted.
For now.
***
The next two weeks were a blur of sweaty clubs, long drives, and the kind of raw energy Vic had been craving.
Their first gig together was in a dive bar in Murfreesboro.
The crowd was small but rowdy. Vic drove the set like a freight train, pushing the band harder than they’d expected.
During the bridge of “Graveyard Shift,” he threw in a massive tom fill that made Jax spin around mid-verse with a wild grin. The place erupted.
After the show, in the cramped green room that smelled like old beer and victory, Nova bumped her shoulder against his.
“Not bad, Montrose.”
Trey handed him a beer. “You made us sound better than we are.”
Jax just laughed and slung an arm around Vic’s neck. “Told you we got fire.”
The second gig was bigger—a college town outside Knoxville.
The room was packed with kids who knew every word to the songs.
Vic felt the shift happening in real time.
His playing was getting tighter with theirs, more instinctive.
During the final song, he stood up behind the kit for the last chorus, sticks flying, feeding the crowd everything he had.
The roar that came back nearly knocked him over.
That night, lying in another cheap motel bed, Vic stared at the ceiling and felt the familiar itch stir again. Not strong yet—just a whisper.
This is good. But is it enough?
***
Fifty shows.
Vic stood behind the kit as the house lights dropped, the roar of the Louisville crowd hitting him like a physical wave.
Klatmatch Ends was finally hitting their stride. Bigger rooms, better money, radio starting to bite at their offerings. Jax had been on fire tonight. Riley’s guitar work had been vicious. Nova’s keys gave the whole set that dangerous shimmer. Even Trey looked happy.
Vic let the number settle in his bones. Fifty nights with Klatmatch Ends, and tonight they weren’t just another opener—they were the final band before the headliner. The last chance for the audience to lose their minds.
He rolled his shoulders once, feeling the familiar burn of muscle memory, then brought the sticks down on the snare. Hard. Sharp. Deliberate.
One...two...three...four...
The bass drum followed with a thunderous stomp that vibrated through the stage floor and into the chests of the first three rows. The crowd answered instantly—hands in the air, a hundred bodies already moving. Vic grinned behind the kit, feeding off it like oxygen.
Jax strutted to the edge of the stage, mic in hand, voice raw and hungry. “How we doing tonight, Louisville?”
The response was deafening.
Riley’s guitar growled into the opening riff of “Graveyard Shift,” and Trey locked in on the low end like they’d been playing together for years. Nova layered shimmering keys underneath, giving the song that eerie, dangerous edge that had been getting them radio play in three markets now.
Vic drove the whole thing.
He was in the pocket—deep, relentless, unstoppable.
Every fill was tighter than the last, every transition seamless.
The power he’d always chased was here in full force, flowing back and forth between him and the sweating, screaming mass of bodies pressed against the rail.
A girl with bright green hair at the front caught his eye and threw up devil horns with both hands.
He answered with a wicked grin and doubled the intensity on the toms.
This was what he lived for.
The set flew by in a blur of sweat, crashing cymbals, and Jax’s snarling vocals. They closed with their biggest song to date—“Bleed Out”—and when Vic brought the final beat down, the entire venue seemed to shake. The roar that followed was primal.
Jax spun toward him, sweat dripping off his face, eyes wild with the same high Vic felt. “Montrose, you beautiful bastard!” he shouted into the mic. “We are Klatmatch Ends—we thank you, Louisville! We’ll see you again real soon!”
They came offstage riding pure adrenaline. Backstage was a chaotic mess of high fives, soaked towels, and someone already cracking open celebratory beers. Nova bumped her shoulder against Vic’s.
“Fifty shows and you still haven’t missed a beat,” she said, a rare smile tugging at her pierced lip. “We’re lucky we found you.”
He wiped sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt and laughed. “Feeling’s mutual.”
But as the adrenaline ebbed, that familiar itch crawled under Vic’s skin again.
He wandered over to the side of the stage to watch as the headliner made final tweaks to their setup. His body was still buzzing as his gaze drifted across the venue floor.
Occupy Yourself had played here last weekend.
He’d slipped into the crowd that night like just another fan—hood up, anonymous. Vic didn’t understand it, but he’d needed to see them. Needed to know how Benny was holding up.
What he’d seen had been...good. Really good. Benny looked solid, clear-eyed, and fully present. The new material they’d debuted was strong. The whole band had chemistry.
Except for one glaring problem.
They’d added yet another new drummer.
Vic had watched the guy struggle through the set.
He was technically competent but stiff, never quite locking in with the rest of them.
The fills were safe, restricted from flying wide.
The groove was there, but the soul was missing.
He could see it in Benny’s face during the slower songs, that tiny flicker of frustration he tried to hide.
Tonight, Vic leaned against a speaker stack, arms crossed, still catching his breath from their own set. Things were clicking better than they ever had. The crowds were bigger, the paychecks were fatter, the music was raw and honest and working.
But watching OY last weekend had watered those seeds planted in his head months ago that he couldn’t quite shake.
Benny Jones was building something real. Something worth believing in. And they kept burning through drummers like they were disposable.
Vic spun one of his sticks through his fingers, the wood still warm from the set.
They need someone who can actually keep up with them.
The thought lingered longer than it should have as the headliner took the stage and the crowd roared again.
He pushed it down—for now.
But it didn’t disappear.
***
Fuck.
He knew this feeling too well. The same one that had hit him right before he walked away from a losing option. The same one that had whispered this isn’t enough while he was crashing on Sheri’s couch.
It wasn’t the music. The band’s music was still magic.
It was everything else.
The endless partying. The egos. The way Jax treated every night like it was his personal victory lap. The way money disappeared faster than it came in. The slow realization that this band, for all its fire, was burning in the wrong direction.
Vic wiped sweat from his face and watched his bandmates laughing and slapping backs in the green room. They looked like they were on top of the world.
He felt like he was watching the beginning of the end.
Later that night, after the party had died down and he was lying on yet another lumpy hotel mattress, Vic pulled out his phone and opened a new note.
What do I actually want?
He typed slowly:
Music that matters
People worth fighting for
Somewhere I don’t have to keep proving I belong
He stared at the list for a long time, weighing every word against the effort he’d already put in to make it happen.
Then he added one more line:
A woman who doesn’t run when things get real
Vic deleted that last line almost immediately. Some things were too out of reach to put into words.
He closed his eyes, but sleep didn’t come easily.
The itch was getting louder.