Chapter Ten
Vic
Vic rolled off the bus about noon, dropped his bags at the hotel Danny texted him about, and headed straight to the venue to meet everyone and hopefully catch sound check.
Instead, he’d walked into controlled chaos.
The band was already onstage running through a few songs, so he’d slipped into the back of the venue, grabbed a Coke at the bar, and just... watched.
He wanted to see how they sounded without anyone knowing he was the new guy yet.
They sounded good. Really good. Benny looked solid behind the mic. He was present and focused, with that rock-star charisma dialed up. The new material had teeth. Vic was already mentally mapping out where he could push the rhythm when the call came.
Then, halfway through the third song, Benny went down.
It wasn’t theatrical. No big drama around the collapse. One second he was belting the chorus, and the next his knees simply buckled. He caught himself on the mic stand, tried to play it off with a crooked grin, then crumpled.
The music staggered to a stop.
Vic was moving before he even realized it, pushing through the small crowd near the bar. By the time he reached the side of the stage, road crew and a couple of venue guys were already helping Benny into the wings. No one paid Vic any attention. To them, he was just another guy in a black T-shirt.
He followed anyway.
Backstage was pure panic.
Danny Schraff was already barking orders, pale and tight-faced. The band’s manager, Benita, was moving fast—too fast—directing people to start breaking down gear and loading cases toward the exit.
Vic caught up to Mitty, the young guitarist/tech who’d been helping with sound check earlier. The kid looked shell-shocked but determined.
“Hey,” Vic said, voice low. “I’m Vic. Danny called me in. What gear belongs to Benny?”
Mitty’s eyes widened in recognition, then narrowed with purpose. “Most of it: the new guitars, half the pedals, the main rack. Benita’s trying to load everything. Looks like she’s going to bolt.”
Vic nodded once. “Then we lock it down.”
They moved together.
While Benita snapped at the crew to hurry and Danny tried to check on Benny in the green room, Vic and Mitty started quietly securing cases.
Vic taped shut the ones Mitty pointed out containing Benny’s personal mics and pedals.
Mitty slapped “Property of Benjamin Jones” stickers on everything he could find.
That was when Benita noticed.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she snarled, storming over. “We’re loading out. Now.”
Vic straightened to his full height. “Not Benny’s stuff. He owns most of this gear. We’re not touching it until we know he’s okay.”
Benita’s eyes flashed with fury. “Who the fuck are you?”
“New drummer,” Vic said calmly. “And I’m not helping you strip the band while Benny’s down.”
Danny stepped out of the green room just in time to hear the exchange. “Benita, wait—”
But she was already moving, shoving at Mitty’s shoulder to get to a case. “Move. We’re taking what we need.”
Vic stepped between them. “You’re not.”
The shove came fast. Benita wasn’t small, and she was pissed. Vic absorbed it, refusing to budge. Mitty moved to his side.
Things escalated quickly.
Voices rose. Someone from the crew grabbed Vic’s arm. Vic shook him off. Benita swung at Mitty. Vic caught her wrist—not hard, but firm enough to stop her.
That was when the motorcycle club arrived.
Later, Vic would learn that Benny’s brother was a patched officer with the Rebel Wayfarers, and their stake in the venue meant there was always a presence to keep the peace.
Five burly bikers came through the backstage door like a storm front, all of them patched members of the club.
They took in the scene in a single glance—Benny down, Benita raging, and Vic and Mitty standing guard over the gear.
The leader’s eyes locked on Vic. His nameplate said “Bear.” He asked, “You with them?” jerking his chin toward Benita.
Vic didn’t hesitate. “No, sir. I’m with Benny.”
Something shifted in the air. Another man studied him for a beat, then gave a short nod. He was Mason, per his nameplate and he wore a president patch.
“Smart answer,” Bear muttered.
The MC moved in. Not loud. Not violent. Just an undeniable wall of leather and authority that made everyone else take a step back. Even Benita’s protests died quickly under Mason’s cold stare.
Vic stayed right where he was, arms crossed, standing shoulder to shoulder with Mitty.
He’d only been with the band for a few hours, but he already knew where his loyalty lay.
***
The next forty-eight hours passed in a strange kind of limbo.
Benny was stable but out of commission—doctors said alcohol, exhaustion, dehydration, and the lingering effects of pushing too hard too soon.
The band had canceled the rest of the weekend’s shows, and everyone was lying low at the hotel while the dust settled.
Danny had thrown his lot in with Benita, so he was persona non grata around the hotel and clubhouse.
Vic found himself with nothing but time on his hands and no real place to be.
He spent most of the first day hanging around the hotel, which was also owned by the Rebels, helping Mitty and a couple of the crew reorganize the gear storage so Benita couldn’t try anything sneaky. By the second afternoon, he was restless.
That was when Hurley found him.
The big, quiet Rebel with the easy smile and scarred knuckles clapped a massive hand on Vic’s shoulder outside the hotel. “You look like a man who needs something to do. Come on. We’re grilling.”
That was how Vic ended up in the backyard of a sprawling house on the edge of town, surrounded by leather cuts and the smell of charcoal and cooking meat.
Hurley introduced him around like he’d been known to the club for years. Pinto, a wiry, sharp-eyed member with a quick tongue, immediately started giving him shit about being “the new drummer who already picked a side in a fight.”
Vic just grinned and took the beer Hurley handed him. “Seemed like the right side.”
Pinto laughed. “Smart man.”
They spent the afternoon talking bikes, music, and the kind of trouble that came with both.
Hurley turned out to be a surprisingly good cook.
Pinto told wild stories about past runs that had Vic laughing harder than he had in months.
For the first time since he’d rolled into Fort Wayne, the tension in his shoulders started to ease.
Later that evening, after most of the crowd had drifted off, Bear wandered over carrying two guitars—one acoustic, one a beat-up electric.
“You any good on six strings when you’re not behind the kit?” Bear asked, offering him the acoustic.
Vic took it with a raised eyebrow. “I get by.”
They ended up on the back porch for almost two hours.
Bear played with a loose, soulful style that surprised Vic.
They traded licks, worked through a few covers, then started messing around with original ideas.
Vic found himself sinking into the music, letting the day’s leftover stress bleed out through his fingers.
When they finally set the guitars down, Bear studied him for a long moment.
“You got a place to stay while Benny’s sorting his shit?” he asked.
Vic shrugged. “Hotel for now. Figured I’d wait and see what happens first.”
Bear nodded once. “Hotel’s fine, but if you want something quieter, I’ve got spare rooms you and Mitty are welcome to.
You’d have your own space, and Eddie, my wife, and I wouldn’t mind the adult company.
The guest room, and Lucia’s old room. Our girl is with Benny most nights anyway.
” He laughed. “We do have the boys, so don’t think it’ll be anything close to serene around there. ”
Vic blinked, caught off guard by the casual offer. He knew Lucia was Bear’s adopted daughter, because she and Benny were a couple now. The kindness of the offer meant everything.
Bear shrugged like it was nothing. “Figured a man who stood up for Benny the way you did might be worth having around. Plus, I got a decent drum kit in the garage if you need to blow off steam.”
Vic let out a slow breath and felt something tight in his chest loosen.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’d appreciate that. Thanks, Bear.”
Bear clapped him on the shoulder, the same heavy, reassuring grip Hurley had used earlier. “Good. Pack any shit you’ve got here. We’ll swing by the hotel in the morning and pick up the rest.”
As Vic sat there on the quiet back porch, the low hum of crickets filling the night air, he realized he’d gone from sleeping on Sheri’s couch to crashing with a patched Rebel in the span of months.
And for the first time in longer than he could remember...it felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
***
Bonnie
Bonnie slammed the cargo door of her van so hard the whole frame rocked.
The parking lot behind The Hot Hearth was nearly empty now, just a couple of roadies loading the last of the gear and her bassist, Leo, leaning against the bumper smoking a cigarette like he hadn’t just played the sloppiest set of his life.
“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.